RaisingDad

My brother likes to take his grandson hiking and camping, and occasionally he'll send me pictures of the two of them together on their adventures.      I like to repay his kindness with trash talk.      Hence, the following email: Can't get over how big your grandson looks in those pictures you sent me, but who's that old  geezer who’s in a couple of pictures with him?      I think I’ve seen him on the National Geographic channel.       He was telling the story of how he got his name.      “Where I'm from,” he said, “our children are named after something the father sees or does when their child is born. For example, my sister is named Moon Rises High because when she was born my father saw the moon high up in the sky. My brother is named Horse Runs Fast because my father rode his horse hard all night long to be there when he was born.”      “That’s a wonderful story,” the interviewe...

My wife and I had some friends over this past weekend.      They have a little boy our granddaughter’s age, so we had them over so she and their son could have a play date. They’ve been friends since they were three.      The dad is in the Army, is a few months away from retiring, and they’ve been stationed overseas, mainly in the Asian countries.      The reason I tell you all this is because they were telling us about the Juicy Girls in the Philippines. The Juicy Girls are women/prostitutes who hang around juice bars looking for GI husbands.       “Do they serve alcohol there?” I asked.      “No, just juice,” they said.       Before the soldiers arrive in the Philippines they get a warning to avoid these Juicy Girls and stay out of those juice bars. Some of the juice bars are even off limits to the military, just like the Mexic...

as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine desertexposure.com    My elderly father refuses to admit it, but his daily walks are taking their toll on him.      And me.      Mainly me.      He no longer walks as far, he no longer walks as long, but he's still determined to get out there and worry me to death.       "I don't feel like going," he'll sometimes say, but before I can encourage him not to torture himself, he's grumbling his way out the door. He's so stubborn, he even aggravates himself.      If it's hot, I'll tell him to wait until it's cooler. He'll refuse. Sometimes he'll even put on a light jacket. I'm positive it's just to irritate me. When it's cold, he'll head out the door in shorts and a t-shirt.      "At least put on a sweater," I told him.       "It’s not cold," he argued.  ...