My first clue should have been that this 800-page book only cost a buck.  Wow, what a bargain.  It was about English history in the 1600’s and I thought that might be interesting.  The cover said it was a national best seller.  I should have asked myself which nation.  I guarantee it wasn’t on this side of the pond.

The book was entitled, “Cromwell, The Lord Protector.”  I knew during the 1600’s, the king had been overthrown and that England had been ruled without a monarch.  This book would give me the incite I wanted.

Let me say that I have a policy that once I start reading a book, I finish it.  And I’ve read some pretty deadly books.  Until this Cromwell book, I can only remember refusing to read to conclusion once.  It was a situation where I went to the window, opened it and screamed, “I’m as mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.”  The book was Ludlum’s Borne Ultimatum.  I read Borne’s Identity and Supremacy.  But in Ultimatum, the master villain kept escaping all the way across Europe.  Then, somewhere in Poland or Russia, the good guys had him surrounded in a warehouse with no possibility of escape.  And for the 27th repetitious time, he escaped.  So, I went to the window.  Don’t tell me how it ends.  I may go to the movie.

I didn’t read books in high school and only that which was required in college.  In high school, being a good student, I was interviewed to compete for a book award.   Three teachers sat as an evaluation committee and inquired as to what books I had recently read.  I told them I hadn’t read any books because I was too busy and that outside reading wasn’t necessary.  When I reflect back on that meeting, I am amazed that I have gotten as far as I have in life.  Can you imagine me telling a book evaluation committee that reading books isn’t necessary?  Oh, I didn’t win the book award.  But my experience leads me to conclude that there might be hope for some of those idiotic seventeen year old’s out there.

The Cromwell book was published in 1973.  That’s close to 40 years ago, but, hey, Cromwell lived 400 years ago; so 40 years seemed to me contemporary.  I expected the book to have 17th century quotes that were difficult to read and understand.  Back then, no one said they had been “disrespected.”  But their idea of mischief was a whole lot worse than what we think of as mischief today.  Difficult quotes I expected, but the author’s style of writing put her back in the 1600’s and it was just too tedious.

I did learn that back in that period everything revolved around religion.  Their idea of a mixed marriage would be a Presbyterian marrying an Episcopalian.  Of course, the way marriages were arranged, such a dastardly thing couldn’t happen.  I am satisfied that more people have been killed to further religious ideals than any other reason.

So, after 300 tedious pages, I decided to go to Wikipedia and find out what became of Charles I.  They lopped his head off.  In that period, that was real mischief.  I feel that I am a better person for struggling through the 300 pages.  I am completely convinced that putting the book down was good for my emotional well being.  Let’s face it, I guess I am more of a Louis L’Amour guy.

Written by PJ Rice at www.ricequips.com

I’m not a big New Year’s Resolution guy.  This year, I didn’t give it any thought at all.  A couple down the street threw a New Year’s Day reception.  I told some neighbors present that I hadn’t done anything about New Year’s resolutions.  A woman said, “It’s not too late.  You can make New Year’s resolutions anytime.”

This really got me thinking.  I always thought you had to make them before the year started.  I realized that I didn’t know the rules for New Year’s resolutions.  I needed to find the rules and study them.  Maybe it wasn’t too late.  In fact, the longer you wait in the year, the better your chances are at being successful.

So I Googled “New Year’s Resolution Rules.”  Of course Google has something on everything.  I found one article entitled the Seven Rules of New Year’s Resolutions.  Rule one and two were exactly the same.  “Do not talk about New Year’s resolutions.”  I think the idea was, if you don’t talk about it, you won’t have a “falsely inflated self image” (whatever that means).  Sounds pretty hokey.  I doubt if many people spend time bragging about New Year’s resolutions.  But, again, I’m not a NYR guy.  Then, rules number 5 & 6 were “commit your New Year’s resolution to a friend” and  “have the friend hold you accountable.”  I am struggling with not talking about it but telling a friend.  Wouldn’t telling a friend falsely inflate something or other?  I was grateful to learn that none of the rules demand penalties.  That’s because I think breaking New Year’s resolutions is right up there with death and taxes.

WinSoft is holding a contest for people to submit (on their software) the most funny or crazy resolution.  What’s exciting about this is that the contest deadline is on January 16, 2012 at Midnight in Paris, France.  This is exceedingly important because it proves that New Year’s resolutions don’t have to be made before the start of the year.

So I think I still have time.  I’m having trouble coming up with a resolution.  I would like to discover a full proof remedy for stopping hiccups or building an invisible teleprompter, but I’m not qualified.  I thought about saying, “I resolve to be a better person this year.”  That sounds lofty.  But better than what?  Better than I was last year?  Better than somebody else?  That seems vain.  There are some people that it would be impossible to be better than, like Superman.  Faster that a speeding bullet, more powerful that a locomotive.  Not bad for a mild mannered reporter.  If I were better than President Obama, the media wouldn’t tell you.  Fox News might.  You know – fair and balanced.

Speaking of politics, I could resolve to get my man elected.  If I do everything I can and my man loses, where does that leave my resolution?  I think there should be a Federal advisory board to answer such questions.  We could call it the New Year’s Resolution Resolution Board.

So where does that leave me?  I clearly have until January 16th.  I could pass or have a stealth resolution.  Stealth resolutions are not subject to the Resolution Resolution Board.  I think I will make a resolution to publish more blogs this year.  It is obvious that I don’t put much emphasis on substance.  Go Daddy, my web meister, keeps all kind of stats for me.  So far I publish .76 blogs per week.  That comes to three and a third per month.  I should be able to do better.  When you write the junk I write about, you don’t have to worry about writer’s block.  I think I will resolve to publish a blog a week.  I have a few subjects lined up and think I can rock right along until late January!

Written by PJ Rice at www.ricequips.com

Yesterday caused me to pause and reflect.  When you get to be “senior,” everything that goes wrong is attributed to your seniorness.  Well, I did something pretty dumb yesterday and it got me thinking.  It’s too easy and unfair to blame everything that goes wrong on being “senior.”

This day had been a long one, but enjoyable.  I had had a good round of golf, which has been happening less frequently.  We turned the TV off at 11 o’clock and were starting the migration upstairs.  As I walked into the kitchen, four little blue lights belonging to the dishwasher were glowing at me.  We had forgotten to empty the dishwasher.

Carole came into the kitchen and started wiping off the water that gathers on the upside down glasses and cups.  Then she started emptying the dishwasher, placing things on the counter.  I would grab the dishes and glasses off of the counter and tuck them into their assigned places in the cabinets.  Everything has its place.

I started with the glasses and cups.  Sitting on the counter next to the clean glasses was Carole’s ice water glass which was over half full.  I grabbed it by its handle and turned it over to fit it into its spot.  All hell broke loose.  Water and ice hit the counter, the floor and me.  I suspect I was holding the glass kind of high when I turned it over.  The water went everywhere.  Some of our corner cabinets come all the way down to the counter.  I am told they are called garages.  Well, I parked water and ice all over the inside of the garage.  I’m glad she wasn’t drinking a Dr. Pepper.

Fifteen minutes later everything was back to normal.  While such situations require a grave apologetic mood, I couldn’t help but be amused at such a stupid stunt.  I really wanted to laugh, but, of course, you can’t when you are seeking forgiveness.

Later, I started thinking how easy it is to blame such screw ups on being “senior.”  “He’s an old fuddy-duddy.”  Well, I want you to know that I’ve been pulling stunts like this for years.  It is unfair to blame mishaps on seniorities.

In my early twenties, I went to work without a belt on.  I guess that’s no big deal if you work for IBM or the telephone company, but I was in the Army.  And with no belt, I was out of uniform.  God bless the sergeant major who took me aside and told me so I could remedy the problem.  The rest of the office was having a good time at my expense.

In law school, at an even earlier age, we lived about two miles south of the school.  I would drop Carole off downtown where she worked and then pick her up at the end of the day.  This particular day was in the dead of winter and the temperature was in the teens.  When I came out of class the wind was blowing 20 to 30 miles per hour from the north.  But I had a big parka with a fur hood.  I just pointed myself south and let the wind pound on my back and blow me home.  When it was time to pick up Carole, I grabbed my keys and started out to the car.  No car.  I had driven that day to school and the car was in the parking lot next to Tate Hall.  The wind had not died down, nor changed direction as I started my two mile trek into the icy blast.

So I think it is unfair to blame screw ups on being “senior.”  I had a real good point to close with, but it escapes me right now.  I will say that men of all ages, on occasion, forget to zip their fly.  So I put no special meaning in the fact that while playing golf with my buddies the other day, it took me 12 holes to realize that my fly was unzipped.  I am sure I would have recognized it sooner had it been colder or more windy.

Written by PJ Rice on www.ricequips.com

You probably don’t realize it, but I have self appointed myself as your consumer advisor.  I will look at products that have fortunately fallen into my hands and will report on them.  Everybody would like to make a contribution to our society and this is mine.

The product I am evaluating today is Gillette Fusion ProSeries Thermal Face Scrub.  I never buy that kind of stuff, so you can be sure that it came as a free sample when I bought the razor or some blades or something.  I know it’s a sample because it is such a tiny tube.  It’s so tiny that you can’t read the directions on the tube.  But who needs directions, especially when the name of the stuff is six words long.  It’s a face scrub and it deals with shaving and thermal means hot.

So I squirted a little on my hands.  Part of it was solid and part of it was liquid (not good).  I rubbed my hands together and it started getting hot.  Strange (I wonder if a boy scout could start a fire with this stuff).  Then I rubbed it on my face.  Face felt warm.  Good sign.  I wasn’t sure whether it was supposed to take the place of the shaving soap.  I tried to shave.  Not a good plan.  I got out a magnifying glass and the directions said to rinse it off.  Then shave as normal.

OK, I rinsed it off.  Then I applied my shaving soap.  The thermal scrub must have still been there, because as I was applying my shaving soap, something was killing my foam!  I applied twice as much shaving soap and had one-tenth of the foam.  I found out you can get by with one-tenth of the foam, but it still seemed crazy.

Then I decided that maybe my problem was that I wasn’t using a Gillette shaving soap.  I was using Medicated Noxema for sensitive skin in a red can.  The can said, “THICK RICH LATHER.”  They had never seen what a thermal face scrub could do to their thick rich lather.

I finally decided that maybe this was some ingenious plan by Gillette to ensure the use of Gillette shaving gel.  I am the proud owner of one can of Gillette Fusion Hydra Gel moisturizing shaving cream with Aloe and Cocoa Butter.  I don’t care for the gel, but the can was only $1.80 at the Commissary and Carole had a $2.00 coupon (We’ll never get rich, but what the hell).

So in my ever-vigilant quest for knowledge, I applied the Gillette gel after applying the thermal face scrub.  I am here to report that there are no devious chemists at Gillette.  Gillette’s shaving gel failed to make foam when confronted with the face scrub.

I decided to go on Google and Youtube to see if I was overlooking something by not reading the directions.  I seemed to be using the product correctly.  I watched a couple of guys on Youtube and they applied the thermal face scrub just like I did.  Of course, I didn’t see anyone apply shaving cream after the fact.  So, I am giving the product a C- because it is a foam killer.

One of the things that frosts me is when a product I am using disappears or changes its appearance so that I can’t find it.  I use a Head and Shoulders shampoo.  I think Head and Shoulders must have 40 different shampoos.  Different names, different color containers.  Sometime back, my particular shampoo went to purple writing on a white container.  That was neat.  All I had to do was scan through the H & S section until I found purple.  I wonder if they have thought about their customers who are color blind.

The last time I looked, purple had disappeared.  So I looked for the magic words.  My magic H & S words are “extra volume.”  I looked at all the bottles for the magic words.  No luck.  Fortunately, I have one more bottle stashed away, so we are not in crises mode yet.  But, I do need that extra volume!

I’ve used Old Spice stick deodorant forever.  It too has gone through a number of iterations.  I think I was around when stick deodorant first came on the market.  I was a little kid and my eccentric Aunt Marie showed up at our house with a stick deodorant.  She had me and my brother unbutton our shirts and she rubbed the stick deodorant on our chests.  I thought it stunk.  I was eight years old and I decided that Aunt Marie wasn’t eccentric, she was crazy.  She drove around in a big new Cadillac and her license plate was attached with chicken wire.  She also was convinced that fluoride in the drinking water was a Communist plot.  I thought it was stick deodorant.

Anyway, the last time I looked for my Old Spice High Endurance deodorant, they had changed the label.  But, when I found what I thought was the right one, it said at the top of the container (I’m serious), “High Endurance.  SAME STUFF! DIFFERENT LABEL.”  Now there’s a company after my heart.

Written by PJ Rice on www.ricequips.com

We are dog people.  So we have had the yappers and the chewers.  Replacing furniture is no fun, especially when you are just starting out and money is tight.  Then there was the time when the two leather straps on my briefcase disappeared.  They were there when we went out to eat.  Ah yes, the adolescent years.

We lost Holly, our lovable Sheltie, at the age of 12.  She could identify a dozen of her toys and when I would ask her to go get a particular one, she would race to the hall closet and come back with the requested toy.  She had all kinds of energy and when I would raise the weights on the grandfather clock, would come tearing to assist.  The weights would end up with nose prints on them.  They were brass and I would have to polish out the nose prints.  We finally negotiated a deal where she could chew on the end of the chains, but hands (nose) off the weights.

Holly ended up with kidney problems and died in 2005.  At that time we were over 65 and unwilling to replace our beloved Holly.  With no children or pets at home, we were free to do something spontaneous (not that we ever did).  But after about two years we weighed the pros and cons and decided to find another Sheltie.  One of the cons was did we have the energy to keep up with a puppy, especially a Sheltie?

We located the woman up in Colesville, Maryland where we had purchased Holly, but she was no longer breeding dogs.  She recommended a woman near Clifton, Virginia.  The woman had one puppy that was going to be too big to show and she would sell it to us if we didn’t mind an oversize Sheltie.  It turned out that Holly had also been too big to show, so that was fine with us.  We saw Nikki in the pen with her two sisters.  She was already a lot bigger than them.  A gigantic ball of fluff.

From the time we brought her home, she very seldom barked and never in the house.  I’m not sure she had any accidents in the house, but that may be more to our credit than hers.  There were certain rooms she was not permitted to enter.  One time when I caught her in the living room, I shouted at her.  She leaped sideways and then scampered out of the room.  Shelties can leap sideways back and forth to control the direction of sheep.  We have no sheep.  She did it because she was startled, but she never returned to the living room.

One of the remarkable things about Nikki is her understanding of things around her.  She is a quiet, friendly dog that is not demanding.  When it is time  for her meal or evening treat, she will appear and start staring at us.  She usually starts 15 minutes early.  Daylight savings time will screw her up for a short time.  But she seems to understand that she has entered a subdued environment and does nothing to change it.

I like to putt on the family room rug, but I couldn’t do it with Holly in the house.  As soon as the white ball started rolling, Holly had it in her mouth.  Nikki, however, understands that the ball in not one of her toys (it was never given to her with much ceremony).  So she gets comfortable and watches me putt.  I can putt with in an inch of her nose and she never moves it.  I wish I didn’t move my nose when I putt.

A few blogs back (“A Summer on the Road”), I mentioned that this summer was going to be an ordeal.  We were traveling for 45 days in a three-month period.  Well, it was even worse for Nikki.  She was boarded five separate times for a total of 52 days.  It never phased her.  Each time when I picked her up and brought her home, she would come in the house, look around and then look around the fenced-in back yard.  With that done, everything was back to normal.  No pouting, no destructive gestures, like making my briefcase straps disappear.  Just back to her comfortable routine.

Maybe other dogs do this, but this is our first.  Nikki sleeps on her back with all four legs in the air.  With her hind legs spread apart I would start humming, “Some day my prince with come.”  Carole would stare daggers at me.

I just reread this blog and I am not sure how convincing a case I have made that Nikki is so remarkable.  I guess it is the day to day things like when I’m putting on my socks and she is putting the sock and my foot in her mouth.  And doing it so gently that is doesn’t cause any discomfort.

Written by PJ Rice on www.ricequips.com

Branson, Missouri?  Sure, I know Branson.  My parents took me there on vacation when I was a kid.  It was 1948, 49 & 50.  Sure, I know Branson.

The downtown area was one block long.  It was just on one side of the street, because there was a miniature golf course on the other side of the street.  What was really neat was that there were large speakers on the two end buildings and they broadcasted the St. Louis Cardinal baseball games.  So you could be putting on the putt-putt course and listening to Harry Carey and Gabby Street.  “Holy Cow, Gabby!”

It’s all gone – the putt-putt course and, of course, Harry and Gabby.  The Sammy Lane Resort where we stayed has vanished.  They used to drain the pool every Monday and then fill it with ice cold spring water.  You couldn’t get in the pool until Wednesday.  I’m sure that today there are health codes that prohibit water that cold.

Well, the woman at the Visitor’s Center that said I didn’t know Branson was correct.  Nothing looked familiar.  I had suggested Branson for our family reunion because it was centrally located.  Everybody had to drive forever to get there!

Our three children, son-in-law and four grandchildren joined us.  Two other grandchildren were tied up with college summer courses.  What a different world we now live in.  First, we found the place we stayed at on line.  You say “Duh,” but it was a first for us.  It was a big house in a gated community that slept 16.  So the 10 of us did well.  Next, the house had to have Wi-Fi.  Say what?  I don’t understand, but fortunately the house did have Wi-Fi and the kids and grandkids were busy on their computers and smart phones.  Cowboys and indians have been captured by Angry Birds.

We were  there over the 4th of July, so my son, Paul and grandson, Jack, ran in Branson’s Firecracker 5000.  I held the camera.  Jack is not quite 12 years old and seemed to finish 1st or 2nd among kids his size.  When the results were posed, he finished 8th in his group.  It turned out that his group was ages 14 and under.  And some of the 14 year olds were bigger than most adults.  This was a good life lesson for Jack.  What lesson you ask?  That life is not always fair.  Paul and Jack both had good times for them and Paul finished third in his age  group (he didn’t have to compete with those 14 year olds).  I finished first in the grandpa bragging competition.

Silver Dollar City was right outside our gate.  Most of the clan enjoyed the ruckus – many for two days.  That is where the Flying Wallendas were performing; at least the ones who are still around.  I’ll bet they have trouble getting life insurance.  “And what do you do for a living Mr. Wallenda?”  “Did you say, no net?”

Paul, Terry and I played golf on the Ledgestone Country Club course.  I may have been only 12 when I was last in the Ozarks, but it didn’t take long to remember that nothing is flat.  Well, Legdestone is in the Ozarks.  Ergo, the damn course was hilly!  We had the option of using golf carts or mountain goats.  The goats were cheaper, but they didn’t come with GPS.  The course was beautiful and exciting and a good time was (eventually) had by all.

Paul and I spent two hours looking for a Super WalMart that was 15 minutes from our house.  My MapQuest had sent me in the wrong direction and Paul’s TomTom wasn’t sending up the right smoke signals.  Being two macho male guys, we refused to ask for directions.  The only good thing that MapQuest did was provide me with was a phone number.  I must not have been the first who couldn’t find them.  The little gal on the phone gave me great directions.  After we found it, we realized it was visible from the main drag.  Not our brightest hour.

The reunion served its purpose.  It got the family together.  When families are spread out over many far reaching states, it’s a little bit of a struggle to all of a sudden becoming one again – probably impossible.  When the clock struck twelve and the reunion was over, we all eagerly headed home to return to our normal lives.  But, as time passes, the fond memories will be there.

Writted by PJ Rice on www.ricequips.com

I’m too old for this.  This is the summer from Hell.  Everytime we turn around we are packing or unpacking.  The retirement years are supposed to be relaxing.  But it seems like all the good times are somewhere we have to travel to.

Early this month we went to Myrtle Beach so I could participate in the Retired Military Golf Classic.  This was my first time.  It’s been going on for many years and limits itself to 800 men and 200 women.  That constitutes a gaggle.  Four days of golf on a different course each day with three new partners.

Before I started I distinctly marked four balls; one for each day (Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday).  On my first shot on my first day,  I hit Wednesday’s ball into a lake on the 8th hole at Long Bay (Shotgun start).  Thursday’s ball only lasted for about six more holes.  As a matter of principle, I refused to play Friday’s ball on Wednesday.  I dug out an old, well-used ball and played the rest of the day with it.  In fact, I started the next day with the same old ball.

In a scramble, once the team decides which ball they are playing, we pick up the rest of the balls.  Consequently, my team mates would pick up my ball.  Because of its shabby condition and 18 carefully located black dots, the ball became known as “Black Death.”  I refused to take a hint.  But halfway through the round, Black Death took a bath.  One of my partners, Tom, offered to fish it out of the lake, but I told him to forget about it.

Shortly after that, Tom came up to me and handed me a ball marked just like mine.  Same brand, same style and markings.  It was my ball!  Finally I said, “Tom, this is my ball.  Where did you find it?”  He told me he had fished it out of the lake on the 8th hole at Long Bay yesterday.  Wednesday’s ball had arisen from its watery grave.

The tournament gave out prizes to the top 50 in each flight, but my total score was quite a bit short of being unremarkable.

We got home from Myrtle Beach, unpacked, picked up our dog, Nikki, and washed our clothes.  Then we packed, dropped off Nikki and headed for Charlottesville, Virginia.  The Retired Army Judge Advocates were holding their annual reunion in Charlottesville, “The Home of the Army Lawyer.”  Our JAG School is located on the grounds of the University of Virginia.

What a crowd.  We had about 250 people attending.  That’s 100 more than we have ever had before.  And the Rice theory on RAJA is that once we get JAGs to attend the reunion, they will have such a great time, they will return.  So if my theory is correct, we should have a big crowd next year in Fort Worth, Texas.  Howdy partner.

Every living former Army Judge Advocate General was in attendance.  We actually held our business meeting in one of the School’s classrooms.  Then, after the meeting, they took a picture of all the TJAGs.  Tim Naccarato called their names for the picture, just in case, because of their senior age they might have forgotten they were the TJAG.  They also took a picture of all the former Commandants of the School.  There were 11 of us.

We got home, unpacked, picked up Nikki and now we are packing for a family reunion in Branson, Missouri.  Nikki is standing around staring at us.  She gets that look every time the suitcases come out.  This summer, they never get put away.  I am getting tired just writing about this.

After Branson comes a 14 day cruise to Kodiak, Alaska with Ron and Judy Holdaway.  We have been trying to get together for about four years.  This year it worked out.

Then, my double-nickel (55th) high school class reunion get pushed from September to the end of August.  We can do it, but it is going to be tight.  We may just leave Nikki in the kennel.  But don’t tell her.  She’s just getting over Charlottesville.

In June, July and August, we will be traveling 45 days.  That’s cruel and unusual.  My golf team is putting me on probation.  The only good news is I don’t have to buy camera film and there’s no luau.

Written by PJ Rice at www.ricequips.com

I don’t ever remember a Christmas without a Christmas Tree.  But things weren’t working out this year.  First, we were hoping that our son and his family would come up from Roanoke.  That would have been great, but they couldn’t work it out.  So, no visitors to prepare for.  Second, it was early December and we were leaving on a cruise from December 10 to 21.  Not much time to put up a tree and decorate.  And for what?  An empty house?

I remember one year when we were stationed in Germany and all hell broke out right before Christmas.  There were all kinds of criminal investigations being conducted in the 4th Armored Division and I was ordered to go to Nuernberg and represent these alleged wrongdoers.  That meant that I would spend the week before Christmas 100 miles away from Cooke Barracks where we lived.

I went home and told Carole to pack up the kids, because if we wanted to spend Christmas together, it was going to be in Nuernberg.  It turned out to be a memorable Christmas.  In Nuernberg, we discovered the Christkindlmarkt with its excitement, bratwuerst and massive crowds.  The thought of being crushed definitely crossed our minds.  You only moved in the direction the crowd was moving.  And, choke points lived up to their name.

The good news is we made it home on the 23d of December.  Now, I had to find a tree.   Christmas trees are not foreign to Germany, but on the day before Christmas, the selection was almost nonexistent.  What I brought home, in the most generic sense, constituted a Christmas tree.  It was four feet tall and eight feet wide.  There weren’t many branches (Carole says there were six, I say at least twice that many), but at least they were long.  It was an ugly tree, but once the presents were placed underneath it, no one noticed.

When I was growing up, we had a tree that rotated.  Oh yea?  It was a big deal.  Keep in mind we are talking about the late 1940’s.  I don’t know how Dad did it, but he hooked up a washing machine motor and the stand rotated slowly.  No, it did not agitate.

The stand was about two feet high and covered like a round table top.  Since the rotating stand was tall, the tree could only be about five feet tall.  But it had to be full on all sides.  If a tree just stands there, you can put the bad side to the wall.  That’s what walls are for.  But a rotating tree can’t have a bad side.  So Dad would drill holes in the trunk of the tree and stick in extra branches.  These would be tied up with black thread.  It was an arduous process.

One of the advantages to decorating a rotating tree in you can stand in one spot and put the ornaments on.  It was mandated that we had to put the tinsel on one strand at a time.  What a pain.  I think that is why when our generation grew up, we did away with tinsel.

When the kids were young, we would find a place where we could select our tree and cut it.  One day a year was dedicated to cutting our tree.  For some reason, it was always exciting.  There was a certain risk/reward aspect to it.  Would we find the right tree?  Could we get it home without it falling off the car or damaging the car?  We paid by the foot.  The taller the tree, the more expensive.  Then, when we got the thing home, we would realize it was too tall and cut off about two feet or $20.

So was this going to be the year with no tree?  No way!  Our tree was packed away in two oversize boxes in the basement.  It was just a matter of lugging them upstairs and figuring out which one goes on top of the other.  After two consecutive years of putting the wrong piece on the bottom, I had idiot proofed them with markings so there would be no threepeat.

We have three enormous boxes of ornaments.  They won’t all fit on the tree.  But it is a joy to dig out the ornaments.  They have been accumulated through many years in many countries.  Many are like old friends; like the Rathaus in Frankfurt and the many Mickey Mouses from Disney World.  I must have a half-a-dozen nutcrackers and chimney sweeps.  They have been waiting all year to say Hello.

So I finished decorating the tree, then we packed our bags and flew down to Miami to meet our cruise.  When we got back on the 21st, the tree was waiting for us.  I probably need to start thinking about taking it down.

When we are born, we are given a name.  We are not in a position to consult on the matter.  We are concentrating on more fundamental issues.  And, most of us have that name the rest of our lives.

I envy those people who step forward and change their name.  I wouldn’t ever do that.  But, wouldn’t it be great to be a Rock or a Brick?  Solid.  I don’t know about Rock Rice.  Maybe Rockland Rice and I could go by Rock.

My birth certificate reads “Jack Paul Rice.”  Then there’s an addendum that says “Paul Jack Rice.”  Hand written on the addendum after the word “Jack” is the word “son.”  If I were the oldest child, I would wonder about my legitimacy (not that that matters anymore).  I decided that the answer is that you don’t wake a mother up after child birth and ask for a name.

It had been decided that I would be called Jack.  And that worked out reasonably well.  There was a time in Kindergarten when upperclassmen (1st and 2nd graders) would tease me at recess with chants of “Jacky Rice eats mice.”  Except for a couple bloody noses, I survived those episodes.

Until I got to college, very few people even knew my name was Paul Jackson Rice.  In college, a number of my friends called me “PJ.”  I liked that.  It wasn’t Rock, but it had a friendly ring.  “Hey PJ, what’s happening.”  I didn’t hang around with a very intellectual group.  We were mostly jocks and we concentrated on living up to our image.

It wasn’t until I got in the military that my name became a nuisance.  The Army had what they called a signature block.  First name, middle initial, last name.  There was no variance.  “Sarge, what about “P. J. Rice?”  “What, you don’t have a first name?”  So for all 28 years of my military career, I was Paul J. Rice.

When I joined the Army, you could read my signature.  But over the years, it flattened out.  The “Paul” is still somewhat legible, but the “J” has folded into the “l” in “Paul,” and the rest has ended up in a straight line.  I am not proud of this, but what are you going to do?

When I was the Commandant of the JAG School from 1985 to 1988, I signed over 10,000 diplomas and not one of them is readable.  A few hundred of them were for master of laws degrees and probably are hanging on someone’s wall.  A visitor may ask, “Whose signature is that?”  And the degree holder will say, “Beats the hell out of me.”

The only advantage in not using your first name is when the telephone rings and a friendly voice on the other end says, “Paul, how are you?”  You know immediately that the person doesn’t know you and is probably trying to sell you something.

When I retired from the Army, I became Chief Counsel at the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration.  The Administrator was named Jerry Curry and our director of government affairs was Jamie Fish.  The Agency was being run by Curry, Fish and Rice.

At NHTSA, I was permitted to change my signature block to whatever I wanted.  “P. Jackson Rice” did nothing for me.  I finally decided on Paul Jackson Rice.  The good new was that I didn’t have to change my signature.  I just made the straight line a little longer.  Since I am a stickler for details, I want you to know that even though you could not see the “i” in “Rice,” I always dotted it.
 

I quit drinking coffee about 30 years ago.  I don’t think I ever really liked coffee.  It was just a right of passage.  When you grow up, you get to drink coffee.  Since I didn’t like the taste, I used to heap sugar in the cup.  Two or three teaspoons of sugar and it tasted OK, but they had to be heaping teaspoons.

Well, I was at a Rotary meeting in Junction City, Kansas.  It was time to get some coffee so we could stay awake during the speaker.  I asked a retired general sitting across from me if he would like a cup.  For the next five minutes, I was regaled with his story about how coffee made his hand shake.  He quit drinking coffee and his hand stopped shaking.  You just got the short, less dramatic, version.  The story made quite an impact on me.  In fact, I was having trouble heaping sugar into my cup because my hand was shaking.

I know that none of this makes sense, but there it is.  Was I just reacting to a thought that had been embedded in my thick skull?  I just don’t know.  And, of course, when I stopped drinking coffee, my hand stopped shaking.  So no more coffee.  That meant I could never be the lead character in a fictional crime novel.

So, just like that, I became a tea drinker.  Some of my friends said, “But, tea has caffeine too.”  It didn’t matter because my hand no longer shook.

The good news, from a health standpoint, was that I was getting rid of those 9-15 heaping spoons full of sugar.  I could artificially sweeten my tea and be perfectly happy.

My choice back then was the pink stuff (Sweet’n Low) or the blue stuff (Equal).  I was disturbed by the label on the pink stuff.  All those lab rats  getting cancer from overdosing on saccharin.  And Sweet’n Low contained saccharin.  I didn’t know if they were feeding it to the rats or shooting it between their toes, but it was still disturbing.  The main reason I selected Equal was that the pink stuff had a sickly sweet taste.  I’m big on sweet, but not sickly sweet.

For years, I just drank Lipton tea.  It consists of black tea, orange pekoe and had become a friend.  When I would go into an upscale restaurant and ask for hot tea, the waiter would appear at the table with a large mahogany box and flip it open with a flair.  I would look inside but see nothing that looked familiar.  I used to ask if they had Lipton tea (later I would ask for orange pekoe).  The waiter would look insulted and I would become indignant.  Then, Carole would grab my leg and all would become calm.  I would pick out some celestial herbal crap and smile.

Now, Splenda is everwhere.  So my choice for sweetener is pink, blue or yellow.  I felt like Goldilocks in the house of the three bears.  This one it too sweet; this one is not sweet enough; and this one is just right.

When I am fixing my tea at home and trying to tear open the sweetener, it still spills all over the counter.  But it has nothing to do with a shaking hand.  I’m just sloppy.