Year-end meme

Everybody's doing it, and I'm still feeling too lazy to come up with my own stuff. So:

FOUR JOBS YOU'VE HAD IN YOUR LIFE
Actually, I've only had three. I was lucky enough to get the one I really wanted rather young:
-- File clerk in a collection agency (the agency was owned by my uncle; my role basically was to be The Boss's Nephew. People were much nicer to me at that job than at any of my subsequent jobs. Go figure.)
-- Journalist
-- Software guy

FOUR MOVIES YOU COULD WATCH REPEATEDLY
I'm not a big movie fan; I've probably seen fewer than 50 movies all the way through in my entire life. Short attention span, or something. Anyway:
-- Stripes ("Someday, one of these men might save your life." "Then again, we might not.")
-- The Lion King (I'm a sucker for triumphant-return stories, I guess)
-- Bull Durham ("Don't think, Meat. You'll hurt the ballclub.")
-- The Incredibles (or, really, any Pixar movie.)

FOUR PLACES YOU'VE LIVED
I spent the first 25 years of my life in my hometown, Anytown, USA. The places I've called home since then:
-- Cincinnati
-- Orlando
-- Dallas
-- Tampa

FOUR TV SHOWS YOU LOVE TO WATCH
This will be a struggle; I watch very little TV. Let's try:
-- Monday Night Football
-- M*A*S*H
-- Law and Order (the original, not SVU or CI or any of the other initialed ones)
-- Sheesh. I can't come up with a fourth.

FOUR PLACES YOU'VE BEEN ON VACATION
Exotic locales such as:
-- Houston
-- Washington, D.C.
-- St. Louis
-- Charleston, S.C.
I didn't get out much.

FOUR WEB SITES YOU VISIT DAILY
-- msnbc.com
-- nytimes.com
-- poynter.org/medianews
-- blogs.silconvalley.com/gmsv, the best tech news site out there.

FOUR OF YOUR FAVORITE FOODS
-- Ribeye steak, medium
-- Crab legs
-- Anything Mexican
-- A viciously hot stir-fry that The Wife makes, with beef, chicken or shrimp. Bad for the digestive system, good for the soul.

FOUR PLACES YOU'D RATHER BE
I'll limit this to places that I've never been:
-- Australia
-- Hawaii
-- Italy
-- Somewhere up in the mountains, say, Colorado or Wyoming

OK. I think I'm the last one to have done this, but if you haven't, well, you should.

iChristmas

Among the family's Christmas haul: a 12-inch iBook G4 (for The Wife; welcome to the Mac side!), an iPod Nano 4 GB (also for The Wife) and an iPod Shuffle (for the Old Daughter.)

Steve Jobs owes me a Christmas card.

Merry Christmas, from the archives

While I recharge the batteries and get ready for another Christmas Eve, I present to you this forum's first-ever Christmas post, from (unbelievably) four years ago, when life was a lot different. We never got a chance to do that "one last time" gathering; Grandma went on to her much-deserved rest in 2004, and the little house in Anytown is on the market, if not already sold. A reminder that while the holidays are wonderful, they sometimes make me wistful.

All the best to you and yours, and enjoy this blast from the not-so-recent past.

Christmas, Anytown style

Here's how it was: Christmas Eve, any year in the 1970s. Eight adult siblings (including my dad) and their spouses, probably 20 cousins (including me) ranging in age from 10 to just-born, a few ex-wives of the aforementioned siblings, and my grandparents, all packed into their house, which seated maybe six comfortably. Big, thick cloud of smoke hanging over the proceedings (apparently, back in the 1970s, secondhand smoke wasn't bad for kids). Somebody's dressed as Santa; one of my uncles, but I'm not sure who, and I certainly wasn't going to make my way through the crowd to figure it out. Not much food around, and certainly nothing I liked. We're supposed to start opening presents at 5:00, but it's 5:20, and one aunt-uncle-cousins bloc isn't here yet. They're always late. There's a Christmas tree in the corner, but you can hardly see it because it's covered with those shiny silver icicles. Small flashing lights on the tree inside, big flashing lights on the evergreen in the front yard, big flashbulb going off every once in a while on someone's Polaroid. If it's not snowing and it's above 20 degrees, a few of us will venture outside every once in a while to get away from the smoke and the noise. Back inside, the late arrivals have showed up. Wrapping paper is flying, cousins are hollering, and toys are piling up to the ceiling. If you have a cousin of the same gender and in the same basic age group, you got the same gift as he did. Conflict avoidance, of course. You can't play with anything, though; there's no room to play with anything. The family wasn't well-off, by any means; my dad and two of his brothers worked in the same factory, and they were on strike that winter. Or sitting out a temporary layoff. Didn't matter; none of the kids would have ever known the difference.

Here's what it became: Christmas Eve, sometime in the late 1980s. Same family, same gathering, although in the slightly larger house of the Uncle Who Made Good. Some of the cousins, such as myself, are in their late teens or early 20s. We're bringing girlfriends or boyfriends to the gathering, and we're not staying very long. We're getting gifts we really don't have a lot of use for, in complete honesty. And I can only stay until 6, because I have to go to work. There's more food around, but I've already been to one of the few places in Anytown that's open on Christmas Eve, probably the Waffle House. I leave, not particularly filled with Christmas spirit, but more relieved that I've made my appearance.

Here's how it is: Christmas Eve, 2001. The siblings are getting older; all the cousins are grown and many have kids of their own. Some are in Texas, some in Colorado, some in South Carolina, one in medical school. A few are still bumming around Anytown, doing the best they can with what they have. The Christmas gathering is a much smaller affair in a much bigger place, at the palatial estate of the Uncle Who Made Good. It'll probably be the only time my grandparents get out of their house all year. Phone rings a few times; it's the cousin from Texas or Colorado or South Carolina calling to wish the gathering a merry Christmas. The same aunt-uncle-cousins bloc, minus the cousins, will be late. Or they won't show up at all, which'll make Grandma sad, but probably nobody else will miss them. My own kids wouldn't have a clue how to conduct themselves in a large, loud group like the one I grew up with. It would just freak them out. We'll have our own gathering here in Texas; wrapping paper will fly, toys will pile to the ceiling; it'll have everything but the cloud of smoke.

Maybe soon we'll get that whole group together one last time. Maybe we'll do it at my grandparents' little house in Anytown. Until then, I'll count the memory as one of my best gifts of this or any year.

Cheap space-filler

A meme, via largelypro.com, basically just so I can say that I have a December post.

A is for Age: 37. The same age my Dad was when one second of inattention behind the wheel changed our lives forever.
B is for Booze: Macallan, 12 year. Disposable income is fun.
C is for Career: Software guy. Install it, teach it, document it. But I still think of myself as a journalist.
D is for Dad?s name: Same as mine, which explains how my credit report once showed a Sears account that "I" opened in 1978, when I was 10.
E is for Essential items to bring to a party: A four-pack of Grolsch swing-tops. Great conversation starters.
F is for Favorite song or music: I have a different favorite song every day, but one sticks in my head more than most. On June 1, 1986, the day I graduated from high school, I had the house to myself for a few minutes before I had to leave for the ceremony. I turned on the stereo and Boston's "Don't Look Back" was on. I closed my eyes and listened to it ... then, during the bridge, for reasons, I still can't understand, I jumped as high as I possibly could and let out a yell, because finally, my life was going to go forward. It's not even that band's best song, but whenever I hear it, I always remember that moment.
G is for Goof off thing to do: Not much time for that, but when I do, it usually involves idly surfing the Web.
H is for Hometown: Springfield, Mo., aka Anytown USA. Haven't been there since my grandmother's funeral in 2004.
I is for Instrument you play: For the last 25 years, it's been guitar. At times in my life, I have also publicly played violin, viola, cello and bass.
J is for Jam or Jelly you like: Welch's grape jelly. Accept no substitutes.
K is for Kids: Three, 11, 6 and 5, girl, boy, girl, respectively.
L is for Living arrangement: Plastic white suburbia, wife, her four dogs, the kids, and a cat who we can't persuade to leave.
M is for Mom?s name: Stephanie. Named for her father's political hero, Stephen Douglas. Explains a lot about her father.
N is for Name of best friend: Natalie. Thankfully, I'm also married to her.
Overnight Stay in a Hospital: Three days after getting smacked down with the flu last February in New Hampshire.
P is for Phobias: I'm afraid of water, and dogs, which explains why I have a house with a large swimming pool and four golden retrievers.
Q is for Quote you like: "Two elephants for a quarter is only a good deal if you need two elephants and you have a quarter."
R is for Relationship that lasted longest: The Wife and I began Year 16 in October.
S is for Siblings: A younger sister.
T is for Texas, ever been? Lived there for three years. Many things to love about that place. Many things to hate. It's a land of extremes.
U is for Unique trait: What makes me unique? Hell, I don't have a clue. I'm a pretty average guy.
V if for vegetable you love: Will eat just about any vegetable cold, or steamed. Once they lose their crunch, though, they lose me.
W is for Worst traits: Procrastination, and a tendency to shut down when I get frustrated.
X- is for X-rays you?ve had: I have a fuzzy memory of that hospital stay mentioned earlier involving X-rays, but I'm not sure. The source for this meme points out that this is a rather desperate attempt to come up with something for X. I agree.
Y is for Yummy food you make: I'm not much of a cook, but I can grill a steak as well as anybody and better than most.
Z is for Zodiac sign: Cancer.

It's just a number

It just occurred to me that people who went to high school with me are turning 40 this year.

And Madonna is 47.

Random stray thought

I find myself at 1:48 a.m. suddenly needing to know the Danish word for "fortuitous."

The new "normal"

The Young Daughter came home from the hospital Friday afternoon, none the worse for wear. After a few hours to get re-oriented, she was back up to full speed. She was in rare form at dinner, making up for lost time by applying a week's worth of torture on her big brother. (He's an easy target.) In short, all is well.

What they didn't come home with Friday afternoon was answers. These "episodes" she has are not common with her malady. We've rung up a doctor back in Texas, who originally diagnosed the Young Daughter back in 2001. This doctor is now in possession of all the records and is presenting the case to her colleagues next week. We expect to have an answer then, and we expect the answer to be low-dose chemotherapy to attack a couple of small lesions on her cerebellum. In the process, hopefully, it might zap a couple of optic gliomas, too.

This is not at all the worst-case scenario. Chemotherapy is no walk in the park, but I'm assured it's not near as bad as it used to be. The problem here is, though, as I write this, nobody's sure it's going to work. It might be a situation where we're "trying" chemo, the same way you'd "try taking a Motrin" if you had a headache.

But sometimes, all you can do is try. We're trying now to take this one step at a time. Right now, everybody's home. The Wife is two hours away at a dog show, her first time out of the Young Daughter's sight in a week. This is a good thing, for all involved. At 10:16 a.m. on Saturday, Nov. 5, we're having a "normal" day. That's all that matters right now.

Hey you! The one with the black cloud over your head

I haven't been happy the last few days, and I'm perfectly justified. You don't like it? Screw you. My kid has been in the hospital all week tethered to some machine that's measuring her brain waves, testing for a condition nobody thinks she has. My wife is sleeping on a "bed" that a homeless person would turn down, with a blue light shining on her all night so they can film my daughter not having seizures. Neither of them signed up for that duty. And there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

So yeah. I've been a little testy.

Driving to work today, my grim countenance firmly installed, I find myself stopped at a light behind a little Toyota truck.

Its license plate: MO FAITH.

Deep breath. Awright. I'll give that a try.

Thanks for the message, whoever you are. And thanks for making me muster a smile.

When you learn that, can you teach me?

Direct quote:

"Well, if I want to do computer animation, which I do, I'm going to need to learn Flash. So I'm going to put the Adobe project on hold for a while and concetrate on Flash."

I did not hear this at the software company at which I work.

I heard it from the back seat of my car, from the Old Daughter. She's in sixth grade. She has a dual-processor Mac G4 (and is the only kid on the block who not only has a dual-processor G4, but knows she has a dual-processor G4 and thinks it's cool that she has a dual-processor G4.) She was teaching herself Illustrator and Photoshop, but apparently something else has grabbed her attention. It's nice to see some sign that she's actually 11.

That little woman fascinates me.

Pepto. Bismol.

It's early, early in the morning on Nov. 1, and somebody in my house is rushing to the commode after gorging on too much junk food.

Not the Old Daughter. Not The Boy. They have the advantage of having a parent around who tells them "no" to the second piece of candy.

Nope, the one chugging indigestion medicine in the pre-dawn hours of Nov. 1 was me. Junk food is not a cure for anxiety and depression, but it sure as hell is a good treatment, at least right until it wakes you up in the middle of the night.

In our next episode, all my teeth fall out and I can't find them because my gut obscures my view of the ground. Stay tuned.

Today

She passed out at her party.

This would be reasonably acceptable behavior, of course, for a college sophomore who had one Red-Bull-and-Vodka too many while celebrating her birthday. However, it's much less so for somebody who's turning 5 at Gymboree.

The Young Daughter's having "episodes," as we call them. They look kind of like seizures, but we're pretty sure they're not. The usual progression: Young Daughter is playing at full speed, then she starts to look kind of out of it, then she goes all pale, then she wants to go to sleep right there, wherever "right there" is. Then, usually, she throws up.

Mercifully, that last part didn't happen Sunday. But the rest of it did, right up to falling asleep on her mom's shoulder while 20 screaming kids ran around jumping on things and throwing balls and dancing and stuff.

It's hard, really, to pin down what she does during these "episodes." The simplest way to put it would be that she's just not herself. Pretty much all of the behavior related to these incidents is 180 degrees out of character for her.

The hospital trip to diagnose these things was scheduled last week, before yesterday's occurrence. She'll stay until they can figure out what it is. So far, they've set aside five days. That's a long damn time, when you're 5 years old.

--------

This forum is almost exactly one year younger than the Young Daughter. The first post is dated Oct. 21, 2001, two days before her first birthday. It was at a "well-baby checkup" two days later that we found out that she might be somewhat less than well.

Up until the last few months, the impact of what I used to somewhat lightly call the dread disease was pretty minimal. She had some spots on her skin. She had to go to elongated doctor's appointments every few months. She had to undergo MRIs under general anesthesia. Turns out one of those, back in 2003, almost killed her. In the course of trying to track the neurofibromatosis, we discovered that she also has a condition known as malignant hyperthermia, where general anesthesia causes her to run fevers well into triple digits.

Even after that scare, we slipped back into something resembling a routine. In the back of my mind, though, ever since I learned how to spell neurofibromatosis, I thought that 2005 was going to be a rough ride. The disease flares up in tandem with hormonal activity -- it usually starts to get really bad around puberty, but you also start seeing effects around age 4.

My original fear was that she'd regress developmentally. That hasn't seemed to happen, at least not in the cognitive sense. She ALSO has a hormonal deficiency which has put her in the single-digiteth percentile on height and weight for her age. She's not a dwarf; she looks like a perfectly proportioned 3-year-old.

After the brain tumors (which sounds a whole lot more direct than "optic gliomas") were discovered, things changed a bit. We needed to do more tracking, because if those tumors -- which are otherwise benign -- start to grow in her head, there's a chance they'll get in the way of stuff that actually needs the room more. So, more MRIs. More eye exams.

Then, the "episodes." Rare at first, then more frequent, then noticeable to even the casual observer.

-------

Normalcy, now, is not an option. The Wife and the Young Daughter will spend the next several days in the hospital while people who spent lots and lots and lots of money on their educations rub their chins and squint a lot and say, in Doctor Voice, "Well, we don't know what's going on." The treatment could be chemotherapy; 18 months of hell punctuated by the occasional really bad day. The treatment could be surgery, where somebody opens the hood on my kid's head and rearranges some wires, which might or might not fix the problem. The treatment could be, "Well, these things are going to happen every once in a while; they're not causing any permanent damage and they're not really a sign of anything; you just have to keep a close eye, keep her comfortable and accept this as your new "normal."

All of those choices pretty much suck.

Meanwhile, the palms of my hands are scorched from the friction caused by my attempt to stop the world from turning for a few days. Everything's on hold right now. It's all on hold. The other two kids have to have Halloween tonight; you can't begin to guess the depths of my lack of enthusiasm for taking them around the neighborhood begging for candy while everyone asks "Where's your other one?" or, for those who know, "How's your other one?"

The Wife spent almost 40 minutes this morning rattling off the list of responsibilities for which I need to be responsible over the course of the coming week, while she sits in the incredibly uncomfortable accommodations offered by our local children's hospital. Her job is damn hard, much harder than mine, and requires greater organizational skill than I posess (and my organizational skills, frankly, are quite good.)

And oh, yeah, I need to figure out a way to hold down my job, too, to pretend to care that somebody's database is down or that the software is behaving funny or that they really wish their problem would move to the front of my line. I've been doing a pretty good job of feigning interest for the last month. One major project was completed last week, and another is starting to build steam. Several minor projects also are calling for my attention. For today, anyway, they're just hearing it ring, or hearing "please leave a message after the tone and I'll get back to you after I find out whether they're going to drill holes in my daughter's head."

For today, anyway. At some point, I pull my hands back and let it all start spinning again.

---------

I have no desire for anyone's sympathy. Neither does The Wife, nor the Young Daughter. Yeah, it's a crappy way to spend the day, in the hospital, but sympathy isn't going to help anything. Many are in far, far, far worse situations than we are.

I do care that you care. I appreciate the well wishes and the kind thoughts and all the people who are interrupting their lives to help us while ours are being interrupted. I appreciate it more than my facility with the language will allow me to express.

It's time now to spin the globe. Gotta jump back on.

Where the path leads next

The Young Daughter has taken a turn. It hasn't been a good turn. A bunch of doctors tell us what they think it is. Nobody is willing to commit. Nobody is willing to offer a course of treatment.

The Young Daughter goes into the hospital on Monday, length of stay undetermined. The mission: Find out what it is that is going on, and get some answers.

The disease is neurofibromatosis type 1, for those of you just joining us. The Wife is recording events and news here. Just send up some good wishes. Right now, those help more than anything.

Rosa Parks, 1913-2005

"I am leaving this legacy to all of you ... to bring peace, justice, equality, love and a fulfillment of what our lives should be. Without vision, the people will perish, and without courage and inspiration, dreams will die -- the dream of freedom and peace."

Others have gained more fame and fortune and notoriety during the struggle, but it all started that day in 1955, when that driver said, "I'm going to have you arrested," and she gently replied, "You may do that."

It had nothing to do with a seat on the bus, people. It had to do with teaching us how to be human beings, to treat each other with the respect all of us deserve -- and to stand up (or stay seated, in her case) for what is right.

The lesson hasn't been learned yet, but thanks to her, we're well on our way. Those of us born after 1964 will never know how much courage it took for her to say, "You may do that." We have Mrs. Parks to thank.

Baa

Last night in Tampa, 22,120 sheep flocked to the St. Pete Times Forum (why is the arena in Tampa named after the newspaper in St. Petersburg? Do you think the City of Dallas would have allowed the Fort Worth Star-Telegram to swoop in and do such a thing? But I digress) ... anyway, 22,120 sheep flocked to the big arena in downtown Tampa to welcome back the NHL and their Stanley Cup Champion Lightning.

This, of course, being the same NHL that decided NOT TO PLAY AT ALL LAST YEAR rather than figure out an equitable way to divide its multi-billions among its members.

And no fans of the Stanley Cup Champion Lightning are even the slightest bit angry about this? That it was Oct. 5, 2005, and they were hoisting a banner that read "2004 STANLEY CUP CHAMPIONS"? Nobody thought it was the slightest bit ridiculous?

Sheep. Baa. This is why the professional sports moguls are the leading geniuses of the Western world. Nobody takes more money and gives back less. Wish I had thought of it first.

It must stop. Now.

She is just another one of more than 1,900 so far, just another dead soldier. She's the first woman from Palm Beach County to die in Iraq. She was 21. Born in 1984, the year I got my driver's license.

I should insert a political comment about how f---ing stupid war is in general and this war is specifically. I'm not going to do that. I'm going to send up a wish for peace for this woman and all those who believed in her, and leave it, because that's all I can do.

Random stray thought

If I'm going to work at home, I need a more comfortable chair.

Hey kid: Shut up

From a story in today's Cincinnati Enquirer exploring a phenomenon it calls "premature affluence":

What makes parents do it, experts say, are motives that range from sheer financial ability to "guilt giving" to make up for an absence of parental time or attention. And then there's simple convenience - a 16-year-old with his own car, for example, can haul younger siblings to soccer practice. Worse still, some parents give out of dread of what happens if they don't. "I've had parents tell me they're scared to come home from the store without a certain toy," said psychologist Buffone.

Scared? Scared?

A fellow parent once gave me his No. 1 Rule of Parenting, and we stick with it: "Never take shit from your kids."

Scared. Give me a break.

Thing is, if parents have already created this expectation in children old enough to cause that fear, they've already lost. It's too late to undo that.

And don't even get me started on the "guilt giving" thing.

Quick breather

Today, for the first time in several days, I didn't spend every waking moment thinking about, talking aobut, using, testing, and cursing at software. Here's what I did instead:

-- Slept like a baby on an Airbus A320, not worried for a second that the landing gear might go sideways ...
-- Went to a birthday party. The guest of honor was turning 5. About 30 of her friends were there to share the joy, including my three children. Talked football and airplanes with the guest of honor's dad, who is an Air Force pilot. On Nov. 11, he's leaving for Turkey for 15 months.
-- Hung out with the kids after coming home from the birthday party. We watched Shark Tale for the 23rd time. The animated Robert De Niro is pretty funny.
-- Played guitar and sang. Did neither very well, of course, but my audience of zero didn't care.
-- Monitored the Young Daughter after a CAT scan this afternoon. She had two seizure episodes earlier this week. Anxiously awaiting the results to determine what the next step is.
-- Standing watch at home tonight while The Wife takes a night off. God, she's earned it. She's been dealing with pretty much everything while I've been holding the hand of the software I'm installing. Everything, of course, ranging from dealing with normal life plus seizures plus bad news from the extended family.

It's been a long damn 168 hours for both of us. I plan to be unreachable for the next 12. Then it's time to get up and do it all again.

We can help

Their dog crapped in our yard. Usually, that's not a good way to get to know someone.

But my wife, of course, is a Dog Person. When the very apologetic woman with the black lab and the 7-year-old boy in tow stopped to apologize -- "I don't have a bag, I'm so sorry" -- The Wife assured her that it was OK, and that it certainly was not the first or last dog turd that would find a home in our yard.

I must point out that nobody gets out of our yard without getting to know The Wife. This is a woman who met one of her best friends in the checkout line at Kroger, and another in a random outing to the park three days after we moved to Florida the first time. When you and she cross paths, you will get to know her, and in minutes, you'll be giving her information you wouldn't just give any stranger. She's irresistable that way.

This stranger, with the kid and the dog, somehow let slip that she was visiting from New Orleans. Well, not "visiting," exactly. They got out of their East New Orleans neighborhood just before Hurricane Katrina dropped in with its 125-mph shredder.

She and 10 of her relatives are staying with relatives in our neighborhood. They don't know how long they'll be staying. They don't know if they have a home to go back to. They only know what they see on CNN, and what they see on CNN doesn't exactly make them optimistic.

The 10 range in age from 7 to 87. The black lab is one of four dogs who made the involuntary trip east on Interstate 10. They got out alive, but with only enough to get them through a few days. The "few days," of course, has turned into "indefinitely." And nothing is more indefinite than homelessness.

"Well, we'll help you," The Wife said. Understand, this was not, "oh, my gosh, you poor, poor people," or "oh my gosh, survivors in our midst!" or anything like that. Just a matter of fact: "Well, we'll help you."

And help she will. While I was in the air from Connecticut on the way home, she rallied a few of her friends in the neighborhood and made a plan.

The first thing, above all else, to take into consideration was the people's dignity. These are middle-class people, just like us, just like everyone around us, who are not used to taking handouts. They don't need a handout.

There are things they do need. Their hosts are going to see some pretty high utility bills with 10 extra people in the house. The dogs need food, and toys. The boys, ages 7 and 13, need something to stave off boredom -- and, more importantly, things to call their own, as they only carried with them what they could.

So: Her next step was to lead the coordination efforts, and to emphasize that this was not Goodwill. "I don't want them to wind up with a bunch of castoff stuff that these people will just have to move," she said. So she's serving as the neighborhood clearing house for material, making sure that each individual person's needs are filled -- from the 7-year-old's Hot Wheels to the matriarch's clip-on earrings.

Later that afternoon, she met the woman again in the park by the school. This time, the 87-year-old grandmother was with her, soaking up the sun in her wheelchair, looking little the worse for wear after two weeks of hell. The Wife shared her plans with the people, and quietly but firmly rebuffed their protestations. The old woman took my wife's hands. She looked her in the eye. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you, and bless you." She said a prayer.

"You're welcome," my wife said. But the old woman didn't let go.

"Bend down here, please," the old woman said. My wife leaned her 6-foot frame forward. The old woman made the sign of the Cross on my wife's forehead. She said a prayer in a foreign language; The Wife thinks it was Latin. The Wife, of course, is resolute. This is not sympathy she's providing; it's help. But it was hard for her to keep the tears in, and it was impossible for me as she related the story to me.

Later Friday evening, she held a meeting with the family to assess each person's specific needs.

Today, she's working with banks -- after hours -- to establish an account for them.

Tomorrow, after the logisitics get worked out, she and her two friends are going to canvass the neighborhood and get these people helped.

No sympathy. No pandering. Just help. It could be us next time.

This, folks, is what makes her The Best Woman in the World.

They're people, too

New Orleans Police Chief Eddie Compass is the latest Louisiana public official to lose it on TV. And the worst is yet to come for these people.

God help them. They have the most difficult jobs in America right now.