I walked up to the bin. With my list of necessaries in hand, I couldn’t resist a quick look. Rummaging through the DVDs, I found one, then another, and another and another. The first six years were all there and at bargain-bin prices. I had to buy them. Hurrying home, I went on the web and ordered year 7 — in two parts. I have them all, all the Harry Potter movies. Now, what to do?

Watch them, of course. It doesn’t take a wizard to figure that out. Does it? Even a muggle can operate a DVD player. That’s not magic. Is it?

The first movie is “Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.” Sorry, mine reads “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone,” which is probably why it was in the bargain-bin. After viewing the film in a dark room with snacks, I challenged myself to think of one word or thing from the movie that jumped to my mind — just one. “Muggles.” That’s the word and that’s me. A muggle is a person without magical blood. All those who are not wizards or witches are muggles. The movie starts with Harry, who doesn’t know he is a wizard, living with his Aunt, Uncle and Cousin, who are definitely muggles and dreadful ones at that. I think all the stories start with Harry and his muggly relatives, which is one of the formulaic trademarks of J. K. Rowling. She is the author, and she is criticized for her formulas, which work quite well and have made her a billionaire. I don’t know for sure if J. K. is a muggle or a witch, but her bank account would indicate she has a certain magical Midas touch. No matter, after much adventure, it is time to move on to the next year.

“Year Two.” It says that on the spine of the second DVD, which is entitled “Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.” Each movie follows Harry and his friends through a school year at “Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardly.” “Sorcerer’s Stone” was “Year One.” Harry got accepted and almost killed a couple times in that first year. Hogwarts is another formulaic of J. K., and Harry is almost killed a couple more times before unraveling this second year’s hidden secrets. Almost-killed-again and this-year’s-hidden-secrets are apparently other formulaic devices of our magical authoress. My word-thing for this second year is “Dobby.” Dobby is a poorly dressed, long-eared, wide-eyed house elf who can’t stop beating his head against things and is searching for new clothes to set himself free. Dobby tries to help Harry, and Harry, at year’s end, shares an old sock with Dobby to liberate the elf from his bondage to the wrong sort of wizard. Then, it’s off to summer vacation and the next show.

“Year Three” is “Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.” My word-thing for Year Three is “hippogriff.” A hippogriff is a winged horse with the head and upper body of an eagle. This hippogriff is particularly temperamental and not willing to be ridden by many. Harry gets a ride and so does the villain-turned-good, another formulaic, at the end of the year. This third movie was the best received by the critics and the least attended in the theatres. A curiosity and uniqueness of the third film is the absence of the arch villain, Lord Voldemort. Voldemort killed Harry’s parents and was almost defeated trying to kill the baby Harry. Since then, Lord Voldemort has been trying to regain his evil strength to kill Harry, once and for all. To some extent, it is Voldemort and his evil designs that keep Harry and the books and films going. I am Lord Voldemort is the dark underpinning churning the plot and keeping the viewers on the edges of their seats. Without Voldemort’s unexpected, if formulaic, appearances, the third story does not do as well. Apparently, we, the muggles out here are in it for the formulaics. Perhaps, that is great writing. Thank you, J. K. Rowling, and who and what will we witness when wizards, witches and muggles meet again next year?

You have caught up with me. I am taking a few nights off for urgent muggle matters. Next up for “Year Four” is “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.” At the start of Year One, Harry had just turned eleven. So, in Year Four, Harry should be fourteen. In real life, he may seem older. The eight films of the seven school years (taking Harry from age 11 to age 17 and wizard adulthood) were released over a ten-year period (2001 to 2011). So, Harry on the screen may be growing slower than Harry and friends in real life. I guess that’s magic, too.

In the next and fourth show, I wonder who the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher will be? I believe there’s a new character in that role each year. Voldemort stays the same, but the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher changes. That is, I suspect, another formula for success.

It does keep me guessing.

You, too?

Grandpa Jim

“And they gave it a B minus because it had too many battle scenes. Can you believe it?”

The wonder of Tolkien is that he is believable in a fantastic sort of way. How would you say it? I guess the word is “everyday.” Yes, that’s it! Tolkien is fantasy that is everyday and believable in a child-like way.

“The Hobbit,” the book, is just that.

Years ago in Middle Earth, there was an Englishman by the name of J. R. R. Tolkien, a very odd name, who himself had some very odd ideas. In 1937, he published some of those in a small book, entitled “The Hobbit.” Hobbits are themselves small, resourceful and fond of food, but not seeking of travel or adventure, unless prompted by a Wizard, which his exactly what happened.

At the time, the folks in New York considered the story “juvenile fiction.”

It was hardly that, never has been.

“The Hobbit” is the most modern of adventures with little of the modern trappings to weigh it down.

Always a thoughtful sigh and quiet sit to be found on the well-traveled pages, it never was the action than kept things going, it was and always will be the little people.

A shame, we lost those in the most recent cinematic presentation. We lost the small friends. They slipped away in the action of Hollywood. A shame, really, that was the whole purpose of the book and the true stuff of the story.

For years, no one really knew what it was all about. The book was always successful, but it took years for the book to actually be read. Passed hand-to-hand in schools and offices, ordinary folk, businessmen and school kids, looked up from its pages across at each other and dreamed dreams that brought them together.

I read “The Hobbit” and the following three volumes of “The Lord of the Ring,” every single word of them, to my children at night as their eyes closed and they marched off to adventure.

They are books with words that walk.

I love the movies. I’ve seen all the films of “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings.” They are fantastic, great, wonderful – in their ways and appreciated for what they are.

The last installment, “The Hobbit, Part 3 – The Battle of Five Armies,” is an action thriller that should make Tinsel Town glow with pride. For battles battling, armies armying and fighters fighting, the picture deserves an A plus.

“Can you believe it got just a B minus?”

For the GI Joes among us, “The Battle of Five Armies” is a winner.

For the silent ones of us not so much seeking adventure as being found by it and wishing all along to be back in the Shire propped before a fire with a good book, the last installment of the film maker’s art is a great leap-crash-bang with few of the well recognized words that drew us back again and again to the pages of the little book.

In that little book near its end, the battle of five armies is a matter of only a few carefully chosen words. Early in that epic conflict, Bilbo himself is knocked quite cold. He rests on the ground, eyes closed, while the action swirls, ebbs and passes from view. When the hobbit wakes, it is to the sad scenes at war’s end. Bilbo stands with the other survivors beside the litter of Thorin, King under the Mountain. Thorin is dying from the wounds of his own greed. On death’s door, he is a wiser and gentler king. Thorin recognizes the value and gift of his burglar, and, with the simple parting of friends, the King under the Mountain wishes Bilbo well. It is the last of the small kindnesses that make “The Hobbit” the book it is.

Tolkien is fantastic, everyday, believable and child-like.

With that, he has earned his grade.

Grandpa Jim

“Build it and they will come.” That is the commonly remembered paraphrase of the most famous line from the 1989 movie “A Field of Dreams.” An Iowa farmer hears a voice telling him to build a baseball field in the corn. He does and they come. Shoeless Joe Jackson and other great players of the past arrive to do again what they did so well for so many. Then, the rest of us, waiting in long lines to find our seats, arrive to watch the show.

I know I said we probably we wouldn’t do it, be we did. We ventured forth to watch an Oscar nominee. We didn’t even know it was opening weekend. Finding two seats too far up front, we sat and wondered why the theatre was so crowded. It was packed.

At the end, the theatre was so quiet. No recorded sound followed the scrolling credits. No one spoke. We lingered, wiped a tear, stood and walked back to the real world and its sounds.

“American Sniper” is a movie of sounds and sights, the scopes of two rifles and two worlds.

One sniper is American. The other is not. They both have families. They both do their jobs. One dies doing his. The other dies later, doing his.

Hollywood was surprised.

They came and waited and filled the theaters.

They came to watch a young man who believed what he was doing was right.

They came to see a man whose life was torn and broken by conflict.

They came to find a soldier who was not destroyed by war.

They came to see a man able to come home and start a new life.

They came to watch a young man who gave his life for what he believed.

Hollywood was surprised.

They came and waited and filled the theaters.

With them, we were there, standing beside the road, waving and wiping a tear.

Grandpa Jim

It started in 1928 with a silent film. Eighty-seven years ago, the silent picture “Wings” won the first Academy Award for Best Picture. I have not watched that movie — yet. “Wings” was the only silent film to win until 2011 and “The Artist,” a surprising accomplishment for a work without words filmed in the 21^st Century, the modern era. I have watched and enjoyed “The Artist.”

In a closet in a bedroom, the DVDs of all 86 Academy Award winners are neatly stacked on narrow shelves. Well, almost all, the 1933 winner, “Cavalcade,” has been a particularly difficult flick to find. It seems not all best pictures are as popular as others, and some apparently fall from attention and appreciation.

The newest winner, the Best Picture for the year 2014, will be added as #87 on the the list the evening of February 22, 2015 in Hollywood, California.

We have not viewed the nominees for the 2014 Best Picture. A friend suggested we start. In the time remaining, it would be a race to the finish. Whatever happens, we will view the winner of that race.

The other evening, I watched the 1930 pick, “All Quiet on the Western Front.” Ranked by watchers as the best of the World War 1 movies and by critics as one of the best military movies ever made, it is nonetheless a war movie and an odd one at that. The soldiers are German in proper German uniforms, speaking English in accents from the States. It is not a funny show, not for a moment. It is a very serious picture that directly displays the personal anguish of combat from the perspective of the warrior in the ditch. The final scene walking to the credits is sweet and haunting with a simple direction not found in many films today.

Still, after watching, I worried. Did people really like the movie? Did the critics really think well of the film’s making? Going to Google, I discovered that, of all the 86 Best Pictures to date, viewers placed the old war film at #13, #25, #29, #35 and #36 on their lists of the very best Oscar-winning movies. The average of those five sites is 27.6, inducting the 1930 winner into the top third of all Best Pictures. I was surprised, pleased, amused and sad — in that order. Ejecting the film, I walked to the other room, opened the closet, and placed the quiet picture on the top shelf with the oldest of the Oscars from the 20’s and the 30’s. As the door shut, I wondered who would see it next?

Tastes change, but not good taste.

Perhaps, we’ll plan an Oscar night. Invite folks over for a movie. Pick a best flick to view, with microwave popcorn and sodas and ice. Perhaps, we’ll do it again and again, and watch another and another of the eighty-six, soon to be eighty-seven. People like comedies. They love to laugh. We’ll do that. We’ll choose those. But, one night, I’ll pull out that old movie from the top shelf, turn the lights down and watch their faces.

It’s never too late, for an old friend.

Grandpa Jim

Where do people visit when people decide to visit some place else?

In 2014, the ten most visited countries, starting with the land with the highest recorded count of passport stampings, were the following:

1. France (Who can resist Paris in the spring and a stroll along the Seine?)
2. United States (This land is your land! This land is my land!)
3. Spain (A peninsula from top plateau to bottom rock – the way is here.)
4. China (That Great Wall is up there on any bucket list.)
5. Italy (I’ll have a gelato at the Trevi, please – toss the coins in the fountain.)
6. Turkey (Visit the unexpected and enjoy the sight of a new site.)
7. Germany (Munich and Oktoberfest, fun festivities from flag to finish.)
8. United Kingdom (London is the most-visited metropolis on the planet.)
9. Russia (I’m seeing stars already – don’t be late for the parade.)
10. Thailand (Bangkok is #2 on the most popular city list.)

That’s where folks on leave went in 2014 to spend the most of their travel time.

Where did they go the least?

For those after a unique stamp in the passport, the ten least visited 2014 locations, starting with the fewest tourists, are reported to be these:

1. Nauru (A tiny Pacific island nation, no capital, few people, great beaches)
2. Somalia (At the Horn of Africa — on the road again but far from Willie Nelson.)
3. Tuvalu (Between Hawaii and Australia, a very flat place with rising seas.)
4. Kiribati (33 coral rings in the Pacific, few flights, great snorkeling.)
5. Marshall Islands (A Pacific country, no crime, outstanding diving.)
6. Equatorial Guinea (Central Africa and oil with plenty of asphalt for roads.)
7. Turkmenistan (On the Silk Road in Asia, natural gas and desert sands.)
8. Sao Tome & Principe (Remote islands off the west coast of Africa.)
9. Comoros (Islands off East Africa, friendly people, vibrating markets.)
10. Afghanistan (Land-locked South Asia, wild and beautiful mountains.)

Of the countries of all the world in 2014, France was the most visited with 84.7 million people stopping by for a croissant and a coffee. On the other side of the bucket, Nauru is so small that one of the 200 2014 tourists took a sweaty run around the island after lunch, only to find the water switched off during the day and no shower at the hotel.

Whew.

All this virtual traveling has worn be out thinking about the places and people to be found out there beyond the front door. To paraphrase Bilbo Baggins form the book the “Hobbit” and Ned Ryerson from the 1993 movie “Ground Hog’s Day”: “Watch out for that first step. It can be a doozy.”

Whether you choose the most or least traveled path, be prepared to be surprised and amazed.

See you there – perhaps?

Grandpa Jim

An earthquake is a ground shake.

On December 30, 2014, 13 days ago, the ground shook near Irving, Texas, the site of the old Dallas Cowboys’ stadium, about ten miles from the house.

Last Sunday, January 4, 2015, my wife asked, “Did you notice the cracks?”

The cracking was odd. I have lived in a house with foundation movement and diagonal cracks around the windows and doors. These cracks weren’t like those. I have had water intrusion and cracking from water damage. These cracks weren’t like those. These were different. I could not figure out what caused them. It was odd.

On Tuesday and Wednesday, January 6 and 7, 2015, twelve (12) earthquakes trembled across North Dallas. The center was the old stadium in Irving, and some were much closer than ten miles from the house. Everyone was talking: “I felt it. Did you feel it? It woke me up last night.” The story was all over the news.

I examined the cracks again. Earthquake damage. That was it. That’s what we had. I’d never seen them before, because I’d never lived with earthquakes before.

The largest of the shakes measured 3.5 on the Richter magnitude scale. That’s a small tremor, with only minor damage anticipated, a crack or two, here or there – and here, right here at home. . . .

That’s when I remembered!

I was standing in the kitchen. All of a sudden, something large was in my left ear. It was empty and white, and it bent my head over. I was scared and I turned to my wife.  “Am I having a stroke?” My eyes were wide. Then the thing in my ear grew smaller and was gone.

It was after that we noticed the cracks. We’d had an earthquake, and I’d heard it.

It wasn’t the sound of dishes falling or furniture moving. It wasn’t the sound of wood tightening and walls splitting. It wasn’t the sound of rocks tumbling or soil shifting. It wasn’t a sound. It was something else. When I think and remember, it seemed more like a voice, a voice without words, a wide empty space that grew in my ear without color but with weight and movement.

I heard the voice of the earth quake, and it was nothing I had ever heard or felt before.

The lands of this earth hold their secrets. Perhaps, when they release some, they do speak to us.

I don’t know, but I know I did experience something.

So, I’m going to buy the T-shirt.

“I survived the 3.5”

That’s the message on the T-shirt posted on Twitter and reported in this morning’s paper. I feel it is a point well taken and worth the memory, however fleeting.

Maybe you’ll see me on the street.

Wave, as you pass by.

Grandpa Jim

The penguins are leaving! The penguins are leaving! The penguins are leaving!

The March of the Penguins has begun. Not the 2005 film — that is a wonderful, if sometimes trying, show. Those filmed emperor penguins march up to sixty miles (100 kilometers) in the middle of the Antarctic winter to find food to feed their chicks. That saga is, to me, a reflection on how easy we have it as humans and how similar in their persistence and dedication penguins can be to us. In the budding of our spring, autumn down-under, the penguins start their monumental saga of survival. No, it is not that march in March to which I refer. Here, it is just after Twelfth Night, and with the disappearing decorations, the resident penguin crews are making preparations for their annual exit. This is the march in January to which I refer.

The striding penguins in this march are our recruits. Many are emperors. They visit to help out for the Holidays. For some, I have a village prepared on a nice warm elevated shelf. Others, the wind-up and more stuffed of their kind, play on a lower reach closer to the visiting children. I think it is, for both sorts, something of a vacation. The emperors must head back south to winter the weather and hatch more of those cute little chicks to appear in even more fun-loving flicks. Hollywood has a fondness for the babes.

Here you see the main party as it queues up for the start of their trek. The march leader is in front with the guards to the back — these directors and protectors have on the Santa caps. Things can get a bit challenging between here and Antarctica, and it pays to stay organized and well equipped.

This next bunch is the mechanized and fluffed-up penguin troop. You can see, from their dress and manner, that these penguins are prepared for the weather. The Arctic cold front here in Dallas is just the kick-off these hardy penguin hikers prefer for their travels.

Emperor penguins are the biggest of the penguins. Adult emperors can stand up to four feet tall (122 centimeters) and weigh up to 100 pounds (45 kilograms). They are very strong. In one reported case, it took six fit sailors to tackle one male penguin that weighed half as much as one of the sailors. Fantastic swimmers and divers, an emperor can average 4-6 miles (6-10 kilometers) per hour in the water, dive to up to 2,000 feet (610 meters) and stay under water up to 18 minutes. If you’re searching for pearls, these are the guys and gals to hire. Crowds are no problem. In fact, the penguins prefer large parties — you bring the fish and crustaceans. Cold is not an issue. Emperors come with their own insulation and can maintain a core temperature over an incredible range — from 100 degrees Fahrenheit (38 degrees Celsius) to -53 degrees Fahrenheit (-47 degrees Centigrade) and dropping. These are your mates in a snowstorm. Speech is amazing. A complex set of vocal calls allows parents to find their chicks in a mess and a maze. In fact, emperors are the best spoken of all the penguin species. Here are hats off to the emperors and their penguin race.

With a parting wave of farewell, we bid adieu to the annual march.

Until next year and, please, say hello to Santa for us.

When you do see him, of course.

Until then and again.

Grandpa Jim

I am at the end of my rope.

More precisely, I am at the end of my string of Christmas lightings.

The bright lights of Christmastime are officially “off.” I know because I just walked outside in the sunny cold (39 degrees Fahrenheit in Dallas) and switched the timer to the “off” position. It is with a sad joy that I report this so. Last night was Twelfth Night, and the end of my lighting season.

Twelfth Night is an old night. In ancient Celtic tradition, it was the ceremonial end of the winter festival that began with All Hallows Eve, our Halloween, and ended with the celebration of Twelfth Night. In the north of old Europe, it was the solstice time of waning sun, short days and long dark nights. “In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan, earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone; snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, in the bleak midwinter, long ago.” Those words are from the poem “In the Bleak Midwinter” by Christina Rossetti, which she penned around 1870. Christina felt the days well and records honestly why there was need to celebrate.

The ancient winter festival was a way to lift the spirits and retreat from the cold touch of days, to pretend things were upside down, to make believe a peasant could be king, a seamstress queen and the days brighter and warmer. Which is exactly what the celebrants did. They baked a cake, a King Cake. In that cake was placed a bean and a pea. The man whose slice held the bean was crowned king. The lady who felt the pea was found queen. The King Cake is a very old tradition. It is today the origin of the cakes consumed in wait for Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday, and the beginning of Lent.

The traditions of yore become the traditions of today — in their way.

Twelfth Night is also the traditional date to commemorate the arrival of three wise men at a stable in Bethlehem. Following a star two thousand years ago, the weary travelers found a baby in a manger. The magi bowed and presented gifts of myrrh, frankincense and gold. After celebrating the night, the kings woke in the morning, mounted their camels and headed back East. In western tradition, the arrival of the three kings is titled King’s Day, or Epiphany. The Epiphany is celebrated twelve days after Christmas, twelve days after the birthday of the little king the three kings found hidden in Bethlehem under a star.

I start my count of the twelve days of Christmas on the day after Christmas. In this manner, Epiphany and Twelfth Night were, for me, yesterday. Last night, January 6, 2015, marked the end of my Christmas season, and the last night I lit the house.

That night long ago, when three kings visited, I was not there, that night.

I believe it was a strange night for those royal visitors, a night when three majesties saw things turned upside down, a night when the mighty bowed to a humble peasant child, a night when, rich as their gifts were, the three magi knew in their hearts they were not enough.

There is a comfort there, as I leave this year’s decorations, a comfort that echoes in the parting words of Christina’s poem: “What can I give him, poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb. If I were a wise man, I would do my part. Yet what I can, I give him – give my heart.”

There, I wish, it always will be Christmas — and well lit.

Grandpa Jim

How much corn do cows eat when cows are eating corn?

They can eat a bushel and a peck, a barrel and a heap, or, and I’m not talking in my sleep, they can eat very little. It depends how the cows are raised and what they are fed.

Cows are natural grazers, and their natural foods are the grasses of the fields. The stomach of the cow has many parts. The first part is called the rumen. The rumen is the chopper-upper, the part of the stomach that knocks about and breaks into pieces the grasses, and there the digestive process starts. Cows are ruminants because they chew the cud, the partially digested food regurgitated from the rumen. Sheep, antelopes, deer and giraffes do the same and are related to the cow. Bacteria in the rumen help the process, and life continues for the grass-fed cows grazing in their fields.

Farmers want cows to grow faster. It takes a lot of grass to grow a cow to market to market to sell a fat cow. With corn in the diet, the cow grows faster and fatter. So home again home again market is done, but with more jingles in the pocket from the sale of that sleeker and heavier grain-fed ruminant. Care must be taken here. Cows are not natural corn eaters. There was little corn growing in the pastures of their past. Serious stomach distress can result if a cow is switched too quickly or too completely from grass to grain, from stem to corn. The rumen is adaptable, though — it just needs a little time to appreciate its newly found sweet. Corn is candy to the cow, and the cow, hey, diddle, diddle, will jump over the moon for its treat.

Corn is big business. Corn is the most widely produced U.S. feed grain. Uncle Joe plants more corn than wheat, sorghum or cotton. Corn is Joe’s #1 crop. Corn is the #1 crop in the U.S.A.

Cars love corn. As much as cows have developed a marketable taste for corn, automobiles have demonstrated an even greater demand for the corn crop. Ethanol is a gasoline additive, and ethanol is well and efficiently produced from the corn cows crave. The environmental advantages of ethanol’s chemical structure and the role the two-carbon alcohol molecule plays in improving the pace of our combustion engines have fast promoted ethanol as the fuel enhancer of choice. With its newly gained popularity, ethanol production has skyrocketed, and that production is in turn fueled by truckload after truckload of newly harvested corn.

In the 2013-14 growing season, some 37% of the U.S. corn crop was spirited away for ethanol distillation and production. The next biggest chunk, 33% of the harvest, was served up to animals for treats. The ration to our cows, beef cattle and dairy, was 15%. It is true that the leftovers of ethanol manufacturing, the DDGS or Distillers Dried Grains with Solubles are routed back to agricultural uses, including feed. Our hungry cows received some portion of that DDGS — of the leftovers. Even with that, the writing on the wall is clear: The car is now king of the field, and the cow has fallen from its leap of prominence. Hey, diddle, diddle, the auto has run away with the moon.

Hickory Dickory dock, The cow ran up the clock, The clock struck thirty-seven, The cow fell from heaven, Hickory Dickory dock.

There’s a new king in town. Enjoy the ride in your grain-fed car.

Grandpa Jim

“This isn’t a house, this is a place you are very much at home.”

I wrote that late at night. The grandkids were asleep in their beds. It was after Christmas Day and before New Year’s Eve. The missus and I were exhausted from almost five straight days of grandkiddom — ages 10 months, almost 4 years and 10 years old. Their parents were upon a much-needed vacation. The house had been broken-in good. For a born neat-nick, I should have been upset and frantic. I wasn’t. I was tired and at ease in the way children hit you when they’re asleep and look to the world like angels. I knew there was a chance I would not survive the morrow, but I was content in the reverie of a moment’s peace before the baby cried, the 4-year old jumped onto the bed and the ten-year old reported how the refrigerator could work better. Everything was okay. If I woke in heaven, that was a good thing. If I woke in bed, there was always a repairman. Right?

I did wake – right here at home.

The kitchen faucet broke as the parent’s plane landed at the airport.

With damp feet, we waved goodbye and wished all a very Happy New Year.

We cried as the car drove off.

At a friend’s house for New Year’s Eve, we played a game. Each of us wrote down on a slip of paper a New Year’s resolution for 2015. We folded the secret wishes and gave them to the host. One at a time, a paper was read. We all took turns trying to guess who wrote that one.

In an way, I was pleased when no one guessed mine.

“Spend more time with the grandkids.”

That’s my resolution for 2015.

Almost everyone else had travel resolutions.

I wonder if we’re going on vacation.

Will it be the the two of us?

There are some very nice things about cruse ships.

One, they come with their own repairmen.

And two, the last port of call is almost always close to home.

Have a good start to the New Year, don’t sweat the small stuff and have fun with the kids – whatever their ages.

Grandpa Jim