A Day in the Life: The Northwest Voice

A Day In The Life: My Sister Tried to Kill Me!

I’ve been told that on the day my parents brought me home from the hospital, my older sister took one look at me and said, “Get that thing out of here!” Of course, our parents thought it was cute, but little did they know that I would soon be locked in a life & death struggle with their darling daughter. Later that day, my mother heard me screaming. When she walked into the nursery, I was hanging upside down by my diaper, caught, thankfully, on the corner of my crib. And so began my childhood, and a time when I learned to sleep with one eye open.

As soon as I could walk my sister embarked on a career in the culinary arts. That is, she became adept at making mud pies, and who was forced to eat them? You got it—me. Regardless of the fact that the topping was White King “D” laundry detergent, I always had to clean my plate. This went on for some time then ended abruptly. Either she was caught, or simply got bored with me complaining about a stomach ache.

I still bear the scar of her most dramatic attempt on my life. I guess I should lay partial fault on our 1947 Studebaker, but the car wasn’t to blame. My sister is the one who slammed the door on my finger, severing it from the rest of my hand. In the early 50’s microsurgery was definitely in its infancy, but still, the emergency room doctors were able to reattach my rather gnarled-looking finger. Good thing they did, as it is the same finger I may need someday to point to her in a lineup.

You may have noticed that I omitted any hint of my sister’s name. Well, there’s a reason for that. In light of the fact that I “mysteriously” fell as a child and ended up in a coma, I’m still a little edgy around her. When I mentioned that I was working on this tale, she warned me she’d get even. Believe me, with the history of her attempts to kill me; it’s in my best interests to keep mum as to her identity. And yet, she is pretty devious, so if you never again read any thing written by me, rest assured I have entered the “Secret Witness Program,” and living incognito in some place like Shafter.

A Day In The Life: Vain? Who, Me?

Okay, okay, I'll be the first to admit it. I am vain. I know, you wouldn't think that of a person who fits the description of "fat, balding, and forty (plus nearly a decade)" is vain, but it's true. I am so self-conscious of how I look that I avoid looking into the glass storefronts as I walk by. I just don't want to see how much weight I've put on. So, I recently joined a nationally known weight loss organization. Goaded on by the success of Sarah Ferguson, and my inability to comfortably tie my shoes, I joined.

Now, you have to understand one thing, these weight loss centers are totally geared to women. Oh, they may try to slip in one photo of a man in the weekly pamphlets, but, no matter how you slice it, the programs are run by women and designed to fit women. Of course, the group leaders are great and I have felt nothing but welcome since I joined. However there are times that require a sense of humor. Probably the best example is when the group was discussing the Points Calculator. The leader promptly said, "This will fit nicely into your purse." Of course I had to ask, "Purse? What if I don't own a purse?" That brought the house down, and while I know I'm not being excluded, I have to chuckle to myself. And, by the way, under no circumstance am I belittling the Points Calculator, because for someone trying to maintain a halfway normal lifestyle, and at the same time follow the program, it is invaluable. And, I'm proud to say, I can count points with the best of them. So, I guess you could say that while I don't own a purse, the calculator fits nicely into my lifestyle.

It's now been four weeks since I started and already I have had some success — I have lost over 8 pounds. That's right, the same old 8 pounds I've lost a thousand times over, but I feel better nonetheless. In my attempt to not feel deprived I've taken the advice of the leaders and gotten creative. For the umpteenth time I've purchased fat-free this, and fat-free that (Haven't I been down this road before?). The other night my daughter called me delusional because I have said I prefer fat-free sour cream to the real thing. I guess I've psyched myself into believing that if this is all I can have, I'm going to enjoy it! The same goes for those mini-cakelettes that are no more than a healthy bite. They're OK, but I'd really love to raid the closest at Smith's Bakery (aren't their iced cookies the best?), but I have to use all the restraint I can muster. This time around, my goal is to stick with it, but unlike my fellow classmates I don't have that pair of Size 6 jeans I'm trying to fit back into, or a certain poundage I'd like to reach. Nope, I just want to feel better, and although I refer to my weekly meetings as Fat Camp, I know that I have come to the right place for guidance and support. Besides, I'd like to be able to look into a full-length mirror, sometime in the not-too-distant future. Wish me luck!

A Day in the Life: Driving Mr. Crazy

I have been driving for the past 42 years and consider myself to be a pretty good driver. Having driven on California freeways my

entire life, and on a dare, drove a motor home down San Francisco’s Lombard Street, qualifies me as a decent driver. But, in spite of my experiences I think that some of my best driving takes place in the back seat. That’s right, I am a back-seat driver extraordinaire and proud of it!

I’m not really certain at what point I stopped being the principal driver, but when my daughter and son-in-law are around, they do the driving. According to my wife it takes nerves of steel to drive with me in the passenger seat. In fact, Debbie has now implemented her version of the “three strikes” law. That is, upon my third complaint, Debbie pulls the car to the curb and hands the keys to me.

Now, while I am an experienced driver, as I have gotten older a few things began to bother me. These are, driving in the mountains, especially on the edge of a cliff, and driving across a bridge. The latter makes a trip to San Francisco interesting, but we have managed. One very good friend drove me to Kernville, and after what was referred to as “hysterical rantings and ravings,” she has nicknamed me the Mountain Goat. Simply put, I don’t do mountains and cliffs.

Which brings me to the most recent trip I took to Morro Bay. Since my wife was already there, and I wasn’t feeling up to par, my son-in-law volunteered to drive me to Morro Bay. I was very appreciative, in spite of the fact that normally, Daniel (son-in-law) drives like he’s piloting some experimental stealth fighter. The few times I’d ridden with him driving had caused me to quote Scriptures, or as my aunt used to say, “Get Religion.” I must have really wanted to go to the beach to have gone on what I felt would be a risky venture, but I did.

Since Daniel’s friend rode with us, I was moved from shotgun to the rear seat. This was not a big problem because my Dodge is a boat. Besides, I was just as happy not to be riding in the suicide seat. When we started out, the trip went smoothly. After all, we were driving on Interstate 5. I do extremely well on flat land. Then we came to Highway 46, sometimes called “Blood Alley.” This is when things began to get interesting.

You have to understand one thing - like most people under the age of 30, Daniel is a risk-taker. (after all, he did choose me for a father-in-law, didn’t he?) As the Dodge began to speed along that two-lane highway we began to encounter trucks. No problem, because Daniel would simply pass. At first I began making comments like, “Well, that was close,” or, “Phew, I never pass on this highway!” or, my personal favorite, “Do you realize how many people die passing on this road?” These comments became more numerous, and yet Daniel didn’t respond. I finally gave up and began to tell myself that he wouldn’t put himself in any danger, so I was safe. Right? Well, at least that thinking worked for a time being.

Then came the mountains. By now it was dusk, and I’m not sure if I mentioned that I don’t “do” dusk, especially combined with mountains. And yet, here I was, sitting in the back seat and holding onto the “Oh, Lord!” handle for all I was worth. And all the while, we raced through the mountains and along the cliffs on Highway 43. I normally have to psych myself up to drive through there, and almost never ride down that canyon with someone else driving. And yet, here I was, eyes wide and babbling, “Slow down…didn’t you see that speed limit sign…just remember that your wife will be really angry if you kill her father!” On and on, and I have to give him credit, but Daniel just took it in stride. When we finally got into town, he pulled over and turned around, saying, “I’m not being rude, but have you ever thought of asking the doctor to prescribe some kind of pill to calm you down? You know, especially for times like this. You get really worked up.” Before I could respond I thought of the time we’d taken our dog to the vet, just to get something to calm her down on car trips. It worked for her. I smiled. Maybe he had found the solution. “Good idea,” I answered.

At this point I haven’t asked for a prescription of Valium, but it’s not out of the realm of possibilities. However, the trip has had one effect on me - now I’m very conscious of just how much I “help” others drive and have made a serious effort to cool it. At the end of a trip to town, or the grocery story, it’s almost humorous to be told, “You did really well, Dad.” Sad, isn’t it? Well, I’m still working on traveling with my mouth shut, and in spite of my vast improvements, a trip with me in the car is now referred to as, “Driving Mr. Crazy.” Guess I’ve earned it.

Did you say, color?

With plasma televisions and high definition channels, it’s no wonder we spend so much time in front of the screen.

Now, I happen to be in that category referred as “seniors” and I do watch the boob tube quite often. Anyway, for those of my generation who were children when television was in its infancy, we had the opportunity to witness many firsts.

At the age of seven, I had only experienced color at the movies, but color television? Never! Then that one magical time -- our neighbors got a color television set, and the first any of us had ever seen.

So, the night the television was unveiled to the neighborhood, everyone crowded into that one small living room and waited. The cabinet looked like any other we’d seen, but it all changed when Mr. B. proudly twisted the many knobs on the set. We waited until the screen came into focus. Everyone moaned -- it was in black and white!

“Just wait,” Mr. B. said, “not all stations broadcast in color but something will happen soon.”

And it did. When the multicolored NBC peacock filled the screen there was a universal gasp, and while the bird unfurled its feathers to amaze us we were stunned. True, it was color, glorious color, and by today’s standards it was awful but we didn’t care.

Then came Bonanza, nearly every 50’s household’s favorite show. Never mind that Hoss’s cheeks were an odd hue of orange and the Ponderosa’s trees were a weird shade of green, we didn’t care. It was color!

Those of us who had been fortunate to have crammed into that living room were entranced and never spoke during the entire broadcast.

In the middle of the show was a commercial and we were all invited to “See The U.S.A. In A Chevrolet!” When you’re seven one car is like any other, but those heavily finned, turquoise and yellow sedans will forever live on in my memory.

Of course, after that, the rest of the evening was broadcast in black and white. The show was over and the stunned throng filed out of the living room.

At home, my sister and I began haranguing our father to purchase a color television set, but we were given, what would become his stock answer to end all arguments, “No, it will give you cancer! ”

Cancer? We weren’t sure what it was but we certainly didn’t want any of it, so our argument died.

Later, when I was in high school, I came home to find he had purchased a color television. I was excited and immediately plopped down to watch Star Trek, but was told to move back. You see, there was an invisible line drawn halfway across our living room and we weren’t permitted to get any closer to the set. I obediently sat across the living room while our father explained that sitting too close would cause cancer. Of course!

Honestly, I don’t know of anyone who died of television cancer, or eating red M & M’s, for that matter, but our father’s excuse never fails to bring chuckles at family gatherings. He probably knew that once he left we were right on top of the screen, but he never let on that he knew.

We will never forget that first color television set we saw, but more importantly how, in his own way, our father tried to protect us.

Third time up to bat

While some can say that tendencies to certain medical conditions run in their family, I am beginning to think that a certain tendency runs in me. You see, it is my third time battling cancer.

Like most people, I am related to, or know someone who succumbed to cancer. I have lost one parent, several aunts, uncles and cousins, and countless friends, to that insidious disease.

Just the threat of cancer is enough to send ones life into a tailspin. It is a diagnosis with which I am all too familiar because, as mentioned earlier, I am presently dealing with my third type of cancer.

I had tumors removed from my skull when I was 22. We weren’t yet married but my wife Debbie stood by me. I remember giving her the option of backing out but she would hear nothing of it.

Luckily, the tumors never returned and Deb was finally able to stop worrying. Then, when I was 49, I was diagnosed with Primary Amyloidosis, a rare blood disease, second cousin to Multiple Myeloma but in leukemia form. It was so unique that I was told fewer than 200 people are diagnosed with P.A. each hear, and 90% of them on autopsy tables.

The only positive side to the diagnosis was that I received a tremendous amount of medical interest and actually had cancer centers vying for me. I chose The City of Hope because of its proximity to Bakersfield, mainly because our daughter, Aly, was still in high school. My treatment for P.A. was to have a stem cell transplant, immediately following high dose chemotherapy. At the end of my four month stay at The City of Hope, I was released.

Since there is no real cure for the disease, doctors were very reticent to use the word “remission” with me. However, I have had no symptoms since January of 2000. I think that qualifies as remission, don’t you?

Then came the fall of 2005 and yet another cancer. After experiencing horrible abdominal cramping, weight loss, and night sweats, I was diagnosed with stage four prostate cancer. The staging refers to the progress of the disease and mine had left the prostate, traveled to the lymph nodes and bones. That is where I am today.

Just as with the P.A. treatment it began immediately and I responded beautifully. Within 30 days my P.S.A. had dropped 39 points, which left Drs. Patel and Strategos, and myself, thrilled. The drop in points indicated that, not only was the treatment successful, but once again the progression of cancer had been slowed.

So, here I am, third time dealing with cancer and while the forms have been different each time, my response has been the same. Ask anyone who has dealt with a chronic illness and they will tell you that attitude is an extremely important part in coping with disease.

I have found that my positive attitude has helped me through some pretty difficult times but there are other elements to successfully fighting cancer – support and faith.

I’m very fortunate to have the support I do, especially when I see fellow patients at the C.B.C.C. who never have visitors. I always wonder how they can handle it.

Of course, the all-important aspect of having a positive outlook is essential. I have been accused of being goofy, but you know, it has served me well many times.

And then, we come to faith. Guess you can say I saved the best for last. I am not standing on a soap box, but I would if asked to do so because faith that has made all the difference.

Once I was diagnosed for the third time I had my pity party then regrouped, found my sense of humor, gathered my family and friends for their love and support, then spent some very important time with the Almighty.

I am not certain why I am still here, especially since this is “C” number three, but one thing is certain, I have a drastically changed appreciation for life.

The only reason I have written about my experience is to give hope to others that have found themselves in equally tragic situations, so, keep smiling, draw your loved ones close, and hold onto your faith, whatever that may be.

Thank you for not talking

The Nile theater holds many memories for me.

Not only is the place that my wife, Debbie, worked as a ticket girl, it is also the place where my mouth nearly caused me to lose my front teeth.

I recall that it was probably early in the 1980’s and we had gone to watch a newly released science fiction movie. My brother, Jim and his wife, Tina, had accompanied Debbie and I to the show.

Believe me when I say we love science fiction. Apparently, so did half the population of Bakersfield, because we had to wait in a very long line.

By the time we finally purchased our tickets the auditorium was nearly full and the only four seats we could find together were in the third row. The third row? Yeah, we had to slouch way back in our seats to watch the towering figures march across our field of vision.

I hate having to sit in this position, but as I said, “I love science fiction,” and I wasn’t going to let a potential sore neck keep me from watching Dennis Quaid’s thrilling performance.

When the movie began it seemed to be a signal to a group in front of us, that it was okay to talk. Directly in front was a group of at least eight big men. As I was trying to focus on a thrilling space battle they started joking and laughing, oblivious to the fact that they were in a theater, they laughed and yelled down the line until I had had it.

This is he part where common sense vanished, only to be replaced the feeling of teacher invincibility! When I took all I could I stuck my head between a couple of them. Now, I should have asked nicely, but I was a teacher and was used to demanding quiet in a room.

So, without even thinking of possible consequences, I said, “I didn’t pay money to listen to you talk!” Suddenly, it was quiet as a tomb.

My brother, who was scrawnier than me, leaned over and said, “You’ve done it now, idiot.” From that point on, time seemed to stand still. Before I could come back with an equally derogative comment, the two men stood.

Talk about towering over us. These guys were big, heavily muscled, and, at the time, were apparently considering tearing me limb from limb. I gulped but didn’t raise to my 5'10", 150 pound height.

I shivered when my wife took my arm. Wasn’t I supposed to protect her? I swear I heard growling as one of the men began rubbing his baseball mitt hands together. Then, to my horror, one of them reached for me. I swallowed my heart as I watched the mammoth fist snake across the seat.

Suddenly, a voice from the other end of the line said, “Sit down you guys. He was in the right.”

Saved!! I was saved!

“Oh, alright," the reaching giant muttered and the turned and began watching the movie. We had sat there for approximately another twenty minutes when one of them turned to me.

In his most polite voice, he said, “I’m sorry sir. You were right. We should never have disturbed others.”

”That’s okay," I said, finally but could think of nothing else to stay.

”Well, it won’t happen again,” he added and turned his enormous head to face the screen.

Once again leaning in my direction, Jim hissed, “Doesn’t matter because when the movie is done they’ll kill us and take our women hostage.” I managed a wan smile and did my best to watch the movie.

Toward the end, I whispered, “pass it down, don’t watch the credits…let’s bolt out of the theater. Nice plan, but it didn’t work, because a bunch from the first row immediately blocked the aisle. Trapped and doomed!

I was doing my best to pull myself up taller, especially when standing beside a group whose shortest member was probably six foot two inches, when one of the young men said, “I’m their captain, I apologize for any inconvenience.” I smiled and nodded then watched as they filed by.

I exhaled and turned to Debbie who said, “Next time leave your whistle at home, Mr. Tomasi.”

Later, as we walked toward our car, Jim said, “Nice, Joe, you were going to take on the entire Taft football team.”

I imagine my gulp could be heard all the way to Taft.

So, a lesson to think before speaking had been learned.

Sadly, this was the last time we went to the Nile, but every time we get together with Jim and Tina, the story is told and retold. In one such version I am picked up and, but the basic story remains pretty much as I have related.

And, my whistle? I’m not even sure in which archive my whistle is stored, but I learned my lesson to self-monitor my conversations. It works.

Well, most of the time!

A Day In The Life: Plate mania

If you watch much television you get the impression that the entire nation is addicted to something: drugs, food, gambling, the Internet — even sex and shopping. I have to admit I’m as afflicted as the next person — I’m a major caffeine addict. And I don’t discriminate: cokes, coffee, tea, anything to give me that charge.

Honestly, though, I’m not concerned about my own addiction. I’ve stopped before and I can do it again. Actually, I’m concerned for my wife, Debbie. I’ve never seen her particular addiction listed anywhere, because Debbie is addicted to purchasing dishes. That’s right, dishes — from china to stoneware, she can’t ignore the call of a clearance sale.

If an addiction is characterized by a loss of control, then Debbie’s “plate-a-holism ” is a true addiction. To better illustrate my point, I need to tell you about the past five years in our household.

I first noticed Debbie had a problem when she decided that the multi-colored "Fiesta" that we’d used from 2000 to 2002 had to go. Yes, in the summer of 2002 I was shocked to find those vintage dishes being replaced by a new trend: mix-and-match china. I guess the adventure of buying single plates is a lot like Easter, but I was never behind that trend.

Luckily, the good old mix and match only lasted until the fall of 2002, and it was replaced by all-white Corelle — sturdy, dependable, neutral.

Good choice? Well, apparently not. The Corelle had a very short run because in the spring of 2003 it was replaced by botanical-print dishes. Good old botanical. It lasted one complete year, well into 2004. I’d just about gotten used to it, but all good things must come to an end. In April of 2005, botanical had to bow out to a set of Coca Cola dishes. Now, I liked the look and logo on the dishes, but it had the shortest life of all. Poor Coca Cola only lasted three months because Debbie inherited a floral set of dishes from her mother that “reminded her of home.” I thought I was home free.

Now, I’d hoped sentiment would have cemented that relationship, but I was wrong again. Just two weeks ago, what began as an innocent enough mall walk brought us to the Gottschalk’s housewares department. Before I knew it, we were the proud owners of a new service for 12 of elegant white china. The argument was that “anything goes with white.” Wait a minute; hadn’t we said that of the Corelle in 2002? I’ve never seen so many dishes. I’m hoping that owning the mother of all china sets will appease her.

So, where so many fail at relationships, Debbie has failed in attachments to china. Except, of course for the blue willow, which only comes out at Thanksgiving, and the Christmas set, which is out for only two weeks. What can I do? While our society offers nicotine patches, diet pills, and even the Betty Ford Center, where is the help for the plate-a-holic? Come on now, if 50 million Americans can quit smoking, surely something can keep her from buying dishes.

But I guess I should at least be thankful that she doesn’t want to change spouses as often as the set of dishes, or I’d have been boxed up and sent to Goodwill in 1975.

I am presently looking for a support group for spouses.

A Day in the Life: My New Year's resolutions

Guess what, folks –– it’s that time of year again. It’s time for the New Year’s resolutions, and what an odd custom it is.

As I pondered what I would vow to do or not do, I decided to go to the Internet and find out some history. You know, for some reason I’d always thought that the resolutions had something to do with the Pilgrims. Once again I was wrong, for it seems that New Year’s Resolutions go all the way back to ancient Babylon. This custom also occurred at the start of a new year, but the most common resolution had nothing at all to do with dieting, budgeting or self deprivation. Nope, the most common Babylonian New Year’s resolution was to return borrowed farm equipment.

I don’t know how good Babylonians were about returning that equipment, but today around 30 percent of those who make resolutions don’t even make it to February. Sadly, only 20 percent of those who make resolutions will last six months.

So here’s the question: If you know it’s going to fail, why not set a realistic goal that has some substance? And please, make it original. I have thought long and hard about this, and here is my list of resolutions. (Keep in mind that these are promises made only to myself. If I fail, the only person who’s disappointed will be me.)

1. I will stop mentioning the fact that I was thin when I was younger. ALL of us were thin once. This is the body I have now, and it’s here to stay.

2. I will sell my skis. I haven’t been on them in over 15 years. Besides, who can afford the price of lift tickets?

3. I will stop grimacing every time I hear the word “in-laws.”

4. I will make a concerted effort to control my road rage, or at least modify my Road Rage Vocabulary. (I thought of adding "please" and "thank you," but I don’t think it would be enough.)

5. I will not renew my gym membership. Mall walking is much, much cheaper. Besides, there’s little fear of comparison in the mall. And let’s not forget the added bonus of the food court.

6. I will take my wife to the movies, and, although it’s tempting, I will try so hard not to fall asleep. (She’s unimpressed when I ask if it isn’t just cheaper to sleep at home.)

7. I will stop calling a certain sibling of mine "Gordita." For years I’ve told her it means pretty woman, but lately she’s stopped smiling. By golly, I think she’s learned some Spanish!

8. I will give strong consideration to cleaning out the garage. I only say this because of group pressure. I honestly enjoy the adventure of trying to find something.

9. I will make an effort to be more creative in the way I dress, in spite of the fact that I feel just about anything goes well with blue sweat pants.

10. I will carefully label Christmas boxes so that next year I can find those stupid bubble lights and save my marriage.

My fingers are crossed! Happy New Year!

E-mail Joe at jtomasi@bak.rr.com.

A Day in the Life: The Christmas Letter

Don’t you just hate getting generic Christmas letters? Of course, I’m referring to those letters that are just too good to be true. You know what I’m talking about –– those "Father Knows Best"/"Little House on the Prairie" letters that are more creative writing than newsy, and the second you begin reading it sets that old gag reflex in motion.

What is it, a competition to make families feel superior? I mean, really, wouldn’t we all like to have a child who is a member of the House of Representatives, or is premed? Well, it’s never going to happen. If that was the case, then they wouldn’t have cancelled “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”

I realize I’m probably going to be ostracized and some of our friends and family may get back at me by writing a “Joey Dearest” letter, but here goes.

The Perfect Letter

Dearest Family and Friends,

Greetings on this wonderful holiday morning! As I look out on the pristine, snow-covered neighborhood, I realize just how truly fortunate we are.

This year has been momentous. I finally received that advanced degree I’ve been pursuing. Now, I can enter the working world with a little more clout. My goal, of course, is in the business world. Keep your fingers crossed!

George has taken a sabbatical in order to work on his novel. I expect Oprah will be having him on her show any day now. This summer, George and I took a cruise. There was never a dull moment and I know we’d go back in a minute. This quality time underscored the reasons we’re together.

Because the children are nearly grown, we had, what will probably be, our last true family trip. Having all of us together in the Lexis brought back so many fond memories. We all decided to spend Thanksgiving visiting the girls’ grandmother. We didn’t get to see enough of Grandma, but the time we had together was wonderful. And, who can forget that fantastic meal at the country club? I’ll just leave the details to your imagination.

Our dear, sweet girls never fail to make us proud. Here are the highlights of the past year:
Katie graduated with honors from college and is now a chemist. She also just became engaged to someone in the medical profession. We had never thought we’d have a “doctor” in the family. Lucky us!

Emily, our little over-achiever, was the first to make us grandparents. And it seems like yesterday that she was in kindergarten! Her new son looks just like his father. Now we can say our lives have truly come full circle.

Laurie, dear, dear Laurie. What can I say, but our family artist has done it again! Her paintings have been displayed downtown. I guess you can see she’s a local celebrity. With the attention she’s been getting, I imagine her work will be making headlines for years to come.

Well, dear friends, as I bring this letter to a close, I reflect on how dear you all are to us.

Happy Holidays!
Sharon, George, and Family

The Real Letter

Ho, Ho, Ho, and all that stuff!

We’re snowed in again! The snowplow never comes into the trailer park so we just have to live with it.

What a year this has been! Well, one good thing happened to me. I finally got that G.E.D. certificate. Now I hope Wal-Mart will hire me as a checker.

That no-count husband of mine has lost another job. Lazy bum sits all day working crossword puzzles. I wrote to Montel, asking him to help find George a job, but so far I haven’t heard a thing.

That couple’s retreat that everybody was talking about was a waste of time. I told Preacher Ryan it was a mistake to send us, but George said, “Why not? It’s a free ferry ride to Catalina Island.” George and I haven’t spent this much time together in a long time, now I know why. So much for the couple’s retreat!

This Thanksgiving we crammed the family into the old Dodge van and set out for the prison to see Grandma. She was lucky to get second degree murder, so she’ll be up for parole in three years. You know, I warned Grandpa not to mess with that woman down at the Bingo hall. He wouldn’t stop, and look what it cost him. Oh yeah, the prison served a Thanksgiving dinner for all the families. It was real nice. The meat even tasted like real turkey.

Here’s what our girls have been up to:
Our Katie graduated first in her class at the beauty college. (I guess she takes after my side of the family) She got hired at the Cut ‘N Curl and spends her day mixing different colors of hair dye. Not only is she working, but Katie found herself a man. Billy works nights cleaning up at the hospital.

Well, we’re finally Grandpa and Grandma. I don’t know if I like the thought of being called "Granny," but our Emily is such a good mother. We only hope that little Louie will outgrow his father’s big ears.

Will our Laurie ever learn? Since she found new friends, she’s been downtown spray painting almost every night. She even got herself jailed for tagging the new museum. That sure got her picture on the front page! Come to think of it, Laurie is the first one in our family to make the headlines.

Well, I need to close. "General Hospital" is about to start and I haven’t missed it since Luke and Laura got married.

Merry Christmas,
The Maxwell Clan

So, now that you’ve read both letters, I’d like you to keep in mind that my family would fall somewhere in between the two. I don’t come from a cream cheese family and our year doesn’t read like a Hallmark card. Don’t worry, I’m not sending out Christmas letters this year, but what I would like to say is this: Like most families, we’ve had our share of trials, but they are far outweighed by the blessings we’ve received.

Merry Christmas,
Joe Tomasi

Meet Your Neighborhood Contributor
Name: Stephen "Joe" Tomasi
Age: 55
Occupation: "Retired history teacher of 33 years. Presently a freelance
writer (working on several Great American Novels) and a couch ornament."
Hobbies: "I don't really think of it as a hobby, but writing consumes the
majority of my time. As I have been selling my work I've come to look on it
as an occupation. I read quite a lot, in several different genres. I oil
paint and water color –– just about anything creative. I like to keep busy
and always have a project. We're still restoring an old house and that eats
into my time (move over HGTV)."
What have you submitted to The Northwest Voice? "Quite a bit actually. I have
submitted a number of articles under the heading 'A Day in the Life,' which
are about day-to-day living with a humorous slant. Laughter is good for the
soul. If you'd rather not laugh, watch the news."
Why do you contribute to the paper? "I love writing and The Northwest Voice
offers a tremendous opportunity for me to explore different types of
writing. The staff of the Voice are very supportive, and frankly, I just
like working with them."
What kind of feedback do you get? "I get e-mails from people all of the time.
I have also been able to reconnect with old friends, former neighbors,
former students and former teachers who read the paper. That is a special
bonus. I actually got a freelance writing assignment because an editor read
something I'd written in the Voice. While I'm not ready for the red carpet,
I have been recognized in public as 'that guy who writes for the Voice.' I'm
still getting used to that."
Why should other people contribute? "Not only is the Voice a great
opportunity to express yourself, but it is a unique experiment which
requires community support to be successful. This is real news about real
people we know –– a grassroots paper."

“Meet Your Neighborhood Contributor” is a way for you, or readers, to get to
know the people submit stories and take pictures on a volunteer basis for
the Voice. Our community contributors both make the news and write the news!
If they do it, so can you. The more content the better! To submit, go to
www.northwestvoice.com, click the “Share Your Voice” icon and follow the
easy steps from there.

A Day in the Life: Comfort food

As the holidays rapidly approach, the added stress makes preparation for those happy times sometimes difficult.

The scurrying around with last-minute preparations are some of the most stressful times. Tracking down discounts, then purchasing and wrapping gifts is hard work. It’s sad, but the commercial aspect of the holiday season has only multiplied our stress tenfold.

Probably one of the hardest things I have dealt with is that first holiday following the death of a loved one. We’ve all been there.

Losses can be especially difficult, so at this time, many Americans turn to comfort food. To put it plainly, holidays lead to stress and stress leads to comfort food.

But, what, exactly, is comfort food?

Well, I think of comfort food as something people eat to fill a void. If I remember my college days correctly, the need to eat high-energy food increased when our ancestors dealt with the stress of day-to-day survival.

I’m not certain what they ate, probably roasted mammoth, but some of the modern comfort foods that come to mind are greasy cheeseburgers or chocolate. Of course, my personal favorite is a cookie, and I don’t discriminate –– any cookie will do.

Obviously, constantly eating such foods could bring the carbohydrate police knocking on your door, but the holidays are different. They’re all about comfort food. During this season, we give ourselves permission to indulge. Things we can avoid during the rest of the year are no longer taboo. Pecan pies, eggnog, turkey, dressing, gravy, cakes and candy –– it’s a veritable feeding frenzy!

All of this we can justify by blaming it on the added stress of the holidays.

How about pets? Are the animals in our lives affected by the holiday season? Probably, when you consider that any change in routine is upsetting to animals.

But how about loss?

Until last week, I had never considered that loss would affect other species as it does humans. Apparently it does, at least in the Tomasi household. Rachel is our spoiled 9-year-old Dachshund. Last June we had to put down Bodie, Rachel’s 13-year-old partner. We definitely were aware of our own sadness, and knew that Rachel was grieving, but didn’t consider how deeply she would be affected. Bodie was all she knew and ever since his death, we’d noticed how Rachel moped around, but that was it.

One day last week my wife and I came home from a shopping marathon only to find that Rachel had chewed on a throw pillow. Now, this has never, ever happened. Even when she was a pup, Rachel confined her “chewing” to her toys. We were upset but more perplexed than anything else.

When our daughter, Allison, stopped by, I showed her the pillow. Allison grinned, shrugged and said, “Hey, it’s only comfort food! I don’t blame her. Rachel gets lonely.”

When I stopped laughing, I realized that she was probably right. Rachel is grieving and the pillow filled a void. But, you know, as much as I’d like to believe that, I also have to consider the possibility that the gnawed pillow was retribution for leaving her alone.

In either case, it’s apparent the pillow was chewed because of loneliness. We are now prompted to do something we’ve been discussing –– we have decided to get another dog to keep Rachel company. This may take some time because our doggie door is miniature Dachshund height.

Of course, the added stress of selecting a new pet, and then introducing it to Rachel, can only lead to one thing –– a midnight raid on the pantry. I think I’d better stock up on cookies!

E-mail Joe Tomasi at jtomasi@bak.rr.com.

Mrs. Walters, this one's for you!

When I opened The Californian this morning, I saw a photograph of children saluting the flag. This took me back to my own school years, not as a teacher, but as a student.

I was 6 when we moved to Bakersfield and I was enrolled in the first grade at Fruitvale Elementary School, then located on Rosedale Highway. Because we had come from an area where kindergarten was unheard of, this was my first classroom experience.

Now, I have always been a person who loves to talk, and in the first grade I excelled. The idea of sitting all day at a desk and working did not appeal to me. However, the chance to talk to a room full of new friends was more than I could resist.

By the second day of school, my teacher, Mrs. Walters, had had it. She took me from the room and marched me down the hall to the kindergarten classroom, telling me all the while if I was going to act like a baby, I'd be better off in kindergarten.

One look at this colorful classroom had me wondering, "And this is punishment?"

The grandmotherly kindergarten teacher just treated me as one of her students. We didn't sit in rigid rows and do class work, we finger painted and played games.

After a recess in the separate playground, it was time for a snack. This wasn't just any snack, but graham crackers and milk.

I definitely liked kindergarten more than the first grade!

After the snack, the teacher settled us on our individual pads on the floor. This room had a fireplace, and even though there was no fire, the teacher's rocking chair made it seem like home.

As I lay on the pad, dozing, I realized this was heaven.

At that point, I made the connection -- all I had to do was act up and I'd get to come back.

You know, it worked -- at least for a week.

Now, I used to think I'd really pulled one over on poor, unsuspecting Mrs. Walters, but after my years as a classroom teacher, I'm sure she relished the time as much as I.

I guess she was much smarter than I'd thought, but for that brief time I got to experience kindergarten.

So, Mrs. Walters, while I guess I should apologize for being a pain, I want to thank you -- kindergarten was a special treat!