Danny Mac's Blog
April 2, 2026
A New Short Story
Last Will and Testament
By Danny Mac
I walked into the law offices of Bennett & Associates. A young brunette woman greeted me with a smile, “Mr. Carver?” she asked.
I nodded, and she asked me to follow her to a large conference room. There sat Mom and my half-sister Rachel on one side of the table. I smiled at Mom’s Aunt Mable and her husband, Uncle Todd, who sat opposite them while ignoring my mother. Along the back wall were two men I didn’t know.
Mom grimaced at me, “What are you doing here?
“I received an invite, and it was signed by Trevor Bennett himself,” was my confident reply. I looked for a place to sit, but there was only one chair at each end. Trevor walked into the room with a mission. He sat at the head of the table and pointed for me to sit at the other end. He placed a recording device in the middle of the table.
Without emotion or introductions, he began, “This is the last will and testament of Daniel J. Murphey. It was his wish that everyone named in his will be present for this meeting. Those who would not or could not attend would not be penalized. However, there are clauses for anyone challenging this meeting.” He stared at Mom for just a moment.
Trevor read the legal prelude as directed by my grandfather. Along with the notarization, and registration with the county clerk, there was a certificate signed by his family doctor, his oncologist, and a licensed psychiatrist, properly documenting that his mental health was in good standing at the time he signed his will.
Trevor continued without asking for questions, “My sixty-nine Mustang was sold to Melvin Harrison. Harold Dixon bought the seventy-three GTO. My 1977 black Trans-Am was bought by my grandson, Garrett Carver. They agreed to leave them in my garage until after my death.” Trevor rose from his chair, handed the keys to each of the new owners, and said, “We arranged a pickup time this Saturday at ten a.m.” All three of us said we could be there. Trevor assured us the paperwork was complete.
As he sat down, he regained the spot he had left off in the will. “I owned three rental properties with a valuation of 6.5 million dollars. I sold these properties when the doctor told me about the cancer. I helped Garrett by paying his tuition at university because his mother wasted his college fund on her self-righteous daughter. I realized there are other deserving kids needing help with tuition and set up a trust fund so they may go to college.”
Mom's nails scraped across the table, and she started to speak when Trevor held up his hand, “Ten years ago, I started a reverse mortgage on my house. This modest home served Tammy and me for forty years before I lost her to cancer. I gave all my savings and investments, except for a small sum of money, to cancer research in her name. Hopefully, my grandson Bennett will have more options if he faces this when he is older.”
Mom’s face burned with rage, for she wanted the house for Rachel. “To my sister Mable Willoughby, I leave our mother’s jewelry. It has more sentimental value than retail price, but you have always wanted it. That is why I gave it to you when I went into hospice for safekeeping. As of my death, full ownership transfers to you.”
Mom’s mouth opened as if to say something. Still, Trevor cut her off again, “To my entitled daughter, Elizabeth Browning, formerly Chisum, Calhoun, Miller, Carver, and Murphey, I leave the balance on my house not paid by the reverse mortgage.”
“How much is that?” she blurted out.
Trevor reached for another piece of paper, “After, title and other fees, there is $10,255.26 in equity left on the property.”
“That’s it!” she screamed.
Trevor didn’t flinch. “To my granddaughter, Rachel Miller, I leave the remaining cash in my checking account after all my medical bills are paid.”
Mom, still outraged, “How much is there!”
Picking up his notes, “$1074.36.”
Mom’s eyes darted around the room looking for help, and then she remembered, “What about the Bentley?”
“That was signed over to me six months ago to cover my cost of handling his estate. If I were able to ensure that your share of his inheritance was less than $25,000, it would be mine, free and clear. If not, I would have to pay his estate the difference over that amount.”
“My father hated me that much?” she questioned defeatedly.
I spoke up, “You haven’t seen him in twenty years. The last time you talked at him, you yelled that he was a greedy, pathetic loser who would die alone. He didn’t die alone. He had me, the son you disown for not following your rules, and Aunt Mable, whom you have never liked, by his side. You festered disdain for all of us because we wouldn’t submit to your overbearing presence. His funeral had several hundred people pass through to say their goodbyes, but you wouldn’t have known that because you were vacationing in the Bahamas.” These were the first words I spoke to Mom in ten years and hopefully the last ever.
“But I took out loans thinking I would inherit his money,” she cried.
“Twenty years ago, when I asked you how I was going to pay for college, you told me, and I quote, ‘it’s not my problem.’”
The small room went quiet. The two strangers against the wall were clearly uncomfortable seeing the wreck of the woman who gave birth to me.
“I can fight the will,” Mom stated with false confidence.
Trevor shook his head, “You will lose. The will is legally solid, and you forfeit the small amount left to you by the terms of the will.”
I rose from my chair to leave, but stopped and added, “You are a controlling woman who has to be in charge of everything. Your unwillingness to cooperate with the people who tried to love you cost you five husbands, your only son, your father, and now the large inheritance you hoped would set you up for life.”
I left the room, turning my back on the woman I called Mom for thirty-seven years. My wife and two girls, whom my mom had never met, were waiting for me when I arrived home. They hugged me, knowing the loss I felt of the only family I had left, my grandfather and mentor, Daniel J. Murphey.
By Danny Mac
I walked into the law offices of Bennett & Associates. A young brunette woman greeted me with a smile, “Mr. Carver?” she asked.
I nodded, and she asked me to follow her to a large conference room. There sat Mom and my half-sister Rachel on one side of the table. I smiled at Mom’s Aunt Mable and her husband, Uncle Todd, who sat opposite them while ignoring my mother. Along the back wall were two men I didn’t know.
Mom grimaced at me, “What are you doing here?
“I received an invite, and it was signed by Trevor Bennett himself,” was my confident reply. I looked for a place to sit, but there was only one chair at each end. Trevor walked into the room with a mission. He sat at the head of the table and pointed for me to sit at the other end. He placed a recording device in the middle of the table.
Without emotion or introductions, he began, “This is the last will and testament of Daniel J. Murphey. It was his wish that everyone named in his will be present for this meeting. Those who would not or could not attend would not be penalized. However, there are clauses for anyone challenging this meeting.” He stared at Mom for just a moment.
Trevor read the legal prelude as directed by my grandfather. Along with the notarization, and registration with the county clerk, there was a certificate signed by his family doctor, his oncologist, and a licensed psychiatrist, properly documenting that his mental health was in good standing at the time he signed his will.
Trevor continued without asking for questions, “My sixty-nine Mustang was sold to Melvin Harrison. Harold Dixon bought the seventy-three GTO. My 1977 black Trans-Am was bought by my grandson, Garrett Carver. They agreed to leave them in my garage until after my death.” Trevor rose from his chair, handed the keys to each of the new owners, and said, “We arranged a pickup time this Saturday at ten a.m.” All three of us said we could be there. Trevor assured us the paperwork was complete.
As he sat down, he regained the spot he had left off in the will. “I owned three rental properties with a valuation of 6.5 million dollars. I sold these properties when the doctor told me about the cancer. I helped Garrett by paying his tuition at university because his mother wasted his college fund on her self-righteous daughter. I realized there are other deserving kids needing help with tuition and set up a trust fund so they may go to college.”
Mom's nails scraped across the table, and she started to speak when Trevor held up his hand, “Ten years ago, I started a reverse mortgage on my house. This modest home served Tammy and me for forty years before I lost her to cancer. I gave all my savings and investments, except for a small sum of money, to cancer research in her name. Hopefully, my grandson Bennett will have more options if he faces this when he is older.”
Mom’s face burned with rage, for she wanted the house for Rachel. “To my sister Mable Willoughby, I leave our mother’s jewelry. It has more sentimental value than retail price, but you have always wanted it. That is why I gave it to you when I went into hospice for safekeeping. As of my death, full ownership transfers to you.”
Mom’s mouth opened as if to say something. Still, Trevor cut her off again, “To my entitled daughter, Elizabeth Browning, formerly Chisum, Calhoun, Miller, Carver, and Murphey, I leave the balance on my house not paid by the reverse mortgage.”
“How much is that?” she blurted out.
Trevor reached for another piece of paper, “After, title and other fees, there is $10,255.26 in equity left on the property.”
“That’s it!” she screamed.
Trevor didn’t flinch. “To my granddaughter, Rachel Miller, I leave the remaining cash in my checking account after all my medical bills are paid.”
Mom, still outraged, “How much is there!”
Picking up his notes, “$1074.36.”
Mom’s eyes darted around the room looking for help, and then she remembered, “What about the Bentley?”
“That was signed over to me six months ago to cover my cost of handling his estate. If I were able to ensure that your share of his inheritance was less than $25,000, it would be mine, free and clear. If not, I would have to pay his estate the difference over that amount.”
“My father hated me that much?” she questioned defeatedly.
I spoke up, “You haven’t seen him in twenty years. The last time you talked at him, you yelled that he was a greedy, pathetic loser who would die alone. He didn’t die alone. He had me, the son you disown for not following your rules, and Aunt Mable, whom you have never liked, by his side. You festered disdain for all of us because we wouldn’t submit to your overbearing presence. His funeral had several hundred people pass through to say their goodbyes, but you wouldn’t have known that because you were vacationing in the Bahamas.” These were the first words I spoke to Mom in ten years and hopefully the last ever.
“But I took out loans thinking I would inherit his money,” she cried.
“Twenty years ago, when I asked you how I was going to pay for college, you told me, and I quote, ‘it’s not my problem.’”
The small room went quiet. The two strangers against the wall were clearly uncomfortable seeing the wreck of the woman who gave birth to me.
“I can fight the will,” Mom stated with false confidence.
Trevor shook his head, “You will lose. The will is legally solid, and you forfeit the small amount left to you by the terms of the will.”
I rose from my chair to leave, but stopped and added, “You are a controlling woman who has to be in charge of everything. Your unwillingness to cooperate with the people who tried to love you cost you five husbands, your only son, your father, and now the large inheritance you hoped would set you up for life.”
I left the room, turning my back on the woman I called Mom for thirty-seven years. My wife and two girls, whom my mom had never met, were waiting for me when I arrived home. They hugged me, knowing the loss I felt of the only family I had left, my grandfather and mentor, Daniel J. Murphey.
March 8, 2026
Broken Dreams and Reality
Jake’s long blink opened to a flash of blinding light, and then red taillights whirled in front of him. The sound of metal crumbling scared his ears as a final bright light blinded him, and then everything went dark as death.
In the blackness, faint beeps and mummers echoed in his dreams, sounding like a life no longer his reality. He awoke to a stark white room with no walls, floors, or ceiling. A man appeared next to him without distinction or purpose.
The soft baritone voice spoke calmly, “So Jake, you want to know what your life would be like if you followed your dreams of becoming a professional football player over being an engineer with a loving family. Despite having a wife who has loved you for twenty-five years, a son already established in his IT career, admiring his old man, and a daughter who cannot find a man as good as her dad. You want to know how your life would have turned out if you hadn’t completed your engineering degree and pursued football as a career.”
Jake stood in silence as the man changed the scenery to his college gym. He could see himself at age twenty running laps around the basketball court early on a frosty winter morning. Then he skipped class to focus on weightlifting, which increased his strength. The final scene saw him doing wind sprints, improving his speed with every run.
The next scene saw him walking into a tryout for his hometown team. After two grueling weeks of cardio-staining workouts, hours of playbook studies, and intense teamwork activities, he received a contract for the upcoming preseason. He was one of ninety players who could call themselves a Cleveland Brown.
The next scene saw him marrying Gail, whom he met the month before in Las Vegas. As they settled into married life, his workdays went from six in the morning until eight at night as he struggled to comprehend all that it took to play football at the highest level. His love for the game kept him pushing through all the difficulties despite the growing turmoil at home.
Happiness filled his heart when he received another contract to join the fifty-three-man roster. The team listed him as a third-string safety and a first-string special teams member. He ran as a gunner on punts and kickoffs, while blocking for returns. In his first season, he recorded twenty-five tackles and one pass breakup. The season ended the first week of January. His marriage lasted until the second week before she filed for divorce and moved back to Las Vegas.
Jake played for five years before wrenching his knee, which ended his career as a backup and third-string safety. He kept a video compilation of moments when the TV announcers mentioned his name. Through his playing years, he bought a lovely home in the suburbs, a Cadillac Escalade, and enjoyed the finer things in life. He saved five million in a portfolio for future needs.
After football, his life went empty: no wife, no family, no camaraderie with other players, coaches, and behind-the-scenes personnel. Single malt scotch became his best friend as those lingering on his coattails left for current players. He married Angela, who liked the bottle as much as he did. They remained married long enough to have a son, whom they named David after her father. One day, Angela was gone.
Jake tried to divorce the bottle, but depression settled into his life each time he tried. His trim physique slowly morphed into a 250-pound alcoholic. He met Carol at a bar one night. She was slightly older but seemed to have a good heart. They married after a short romance. She stayed for two years, raising David, while Jake went out drinking every night. After two years of neglect, she filed for divorce, taking David with her. He gave up his son with a large settlement to go back into his bottle.
The drunken years passed by, and Jake supplemented the scotch with pills to keep him steady. Then, he started taking other drugs to help him sleep at night. His colonial home was mortgaged for cash when his savings ran out. He called old teammates, hoping to get another loan, but they turned their backs on him. LeGarrette offered to pay for a clinic where he could get off the booze and pills, but Jake cussed at him and ended the call.
Then the news came that David was graduating from high school. This gave Jake hope of reconnecting with his long-lost son. He showed up at the ceremony in a rented Mustang he couldn’t afford. David agreed to a ride, and they drove through the town like teenagers in a binder. Jake brought out a flask of the cheapest swill he could afford and shared it with his newly connected son.
At eight, they stopped and bought another bottle of whiskey that David shelled out twenty dollars for to keep the party going. It was just after midnight when the overpowered Mustang reached its full RPMs. They wanted the car to make the quarter mile under six seconds.
At the five-second mark, a car with teenage girls pulled into the street in front of the racing Mustang. The unsuspecting car spun around in front of the Mustang after the collision. The Mustang just veered into a tree when everything went silent.
Stuttering, “Is this the life of a professional football player?” Jake asked with a trembling heart.
“No,” the man quietly announced. “This is how your life turned out by choosing football over engineering. Other players did quite well for themselves. You turned your life into this nightmare.”
“How do I get back to my wife and kids?” as tears ran down Jake's face. “Will I ever see them again?”
The man tilted his head and then disappeared.
The room without walls went dark as the beeping got louder—a steady beep, and then a second later, another beep. A light orange-red glow appeared in the distance and grew brighter as he woke. Jake woke up to a doctor’s lamp shining down on him. His left arm felt numb, and he reached with his right hand to block the blinding light. A clank stopped his hand from reaching up. He tried again, only to realize it was a handcuff holding him to the hospital bed.
A police officer leaned over him and asked, “Jake, are you awake?”
Jake tried to speak, but the tubes running down his throat stopped him from speaking.
The officer continued with authority, “You have the right to remain silent,” and Jake’s mind went blank.
“Don’t try to speak, and don't say anything until you speak with your lawyer. You are under arrest for driving while intoxicated, contributing to a minor, and vehicular homicide of three people. Both girls in the car you hit died when you crashed into them. Your son, David, died instantly when you hit the tree while going over a hundred miles per hour. You never touch the brakes.”
The beeping was the only thing that interrupted the silence. Then the officer added, “I was in high school when you played for the Browns. I looked up to you as a hero for playing professional football from a small town. What happened to you?”
It was then that Jake realized his true dream was a loving family. He pictured it when he was eighteen, and he thought about it over the past few months. His reality chained him to the bed.
In the blackness, faint beeps and mummers echoed in his dreams, sounding like a life no longer his reality. He awoke to a stark white room with no walls, floors, or ceiling. A man appeared next to him without distinction or purpose.
The soft baritone voice spoke calmly, “So Jake, you want to know what your life would be like if you followed your dreams of becoming a professional football player over being an engineer with a loving family. Despite having a wife who has loved you for twenty-five years, a son already established in his IT career, admiring his old man, and a daughter who cannot find a man as good as her dad. You want to know how your life would have turned out if you hadn’t completed your engineering degree and pursued football as a career.”
Jake stood in silence as the man changed the scenery to his college gym. He could see himself at age twenty running laps around the basketball court early on a frosty winter morning. Then he skipped class to focus on weightlifting, which increased his strength. The final scene saw him doing wind sprints, improving his speed with every run.
The next scene saw him walking into a tryout for his hometown team. After two grueling weeks of cardio-staining workouts, hours of playbook studies, and intense teamwork activities, he received a contract for the upcoming preseason. He was one of ninety players who could call themselves a Cleveland Brown.
The next scene saw him marrying Gail, whom he met the month before in Las Vegas. As they settled into married life, his workdays went from six in the morning until eight at night as he struggled to comprehend all that it took to play football at the highest level. His love for the game kept him pushing through all the difficulties despite the growing turmoil at home.
Happiness filled his heart when he received another contract to join the fifty-three-man roster. The team listed him as a third-string safety and a first-string special teams member. He ran as a gunner on punts and kickoffs, while blocking for returns. In his first season, he recorded twenty-five tackles and one pass breakup. The season ended the first week of January. His marriage lasted until the second week before she filed for divorce and moved back to Las Vegas.
Jake played for five years before wrenching his knee, which ended his career as a backup and third-string safety. He kept a video compilation of moments when the TV announcers mentioned his name. Through his playing years, he bought a lovely home in the suburbs, a Cadillac Escalade, and enjoyed the finer things in life. He saved five million in a portfolio for future needs.
After football, his life went empty: no wife, no family, no camaraderie with other players, coaches, and behind-the-scenes personnel. Single malt scotch became his best friend as those lingering on his coattails left for current players. He married Angela, who liked the bottle as much as he did. They remained married long enough to have a son, whom they named David after her father. One day, Angela was gone.
Jake tried to divorce the bottle, but depression settled into his life each time he tried. His trim physique slowly morphed into a 250-pound alcoholic. He met Carol at a bar one night. She was slightly older but seemed to have a good heart. They married after a short romance. She stayed for two years, raising David, while Jake went out drinking every night. After two years of neglect, she filed for divorce, taking David with her. He gave up his son with a large settlement to go back into his bottle.
The drunken years passed by, and Jake supplemented the scotch with pills to keep him steady. Then, he started taking other drugs to help him sleep at night. His colonial home was mortgaged for cash when his savings ran out. He called old teammates, hoping to get another loan, but they turned their backs on him. LeGarrette offered to pay for a clinic where he could get off the booze and pills, but Jake cussed at him and ended the call.
Then the news came that David was graduating from high school. This gave Jake hope of reconnecting with his long-lost son. He showed up at the ceremony in a rented Mustang he couldn’t afford. David agreed to a ride, and they drove through the town like teenagers in a binder. Jake brought out a flask of the cheapest swill he could afford and shared it with his newly connected son.
At eight, they stopped and bought another bottle of whiskey that David shelled out twenty dollars for to keep the party going. It was just after midnight when the overpowered Mustang reached its full RPMs. They wanted the car to make the quarter mile under six seconds.
At the five-second mark, a car with teenage girls pulled into the street in front of the racing Mustang. The unsuspecting car spun around in front of the Mustang after the collision. The Mustang just veered into a tree when everything went silent.
Stuttering, “Is this the life of a professional football player?” Jake asked with a trembling heart.
“No,” the man quietly announced. “This is how your life turned out by choosing football over engineering. Other players did quite well for themselves. You turned your life into this nightmare.”
“How do I get back to my wife and kids?” as tears ran down Jake's face. “Will I ever see them again?”
The man tilted his head and then disappeared.
The room without walls went dark as the beeping got louder—a steady beep, and then a second later, another beep. A light orange-red glow appeared in the distance and grew brighter as he woke. Jake woke up to a doctor’s lamp shining down on him. His left arm felt numb, and he reached with his right hand to block the blinding light. A clank stopped his hand from reaching up. He tried again, only to realize it was a handcuff holding him to the hospital bed.
A police officer leaned over him and asked, “Jake, are you awake?”
Jake tried to speak, but the tubes running down his throat stopped him from speaking.
The officer continued with authority, “You have the right to remain silent,” and Jake’s mind went blank.
“Don’t try to speak, and don't say anything until you speak with your lawyer. You are under arrest for driving while intoxicated, contributing to a minor, and vehicular homicide of three people. Both girls in the car you hit died when you crashed into them. Your son, David, died instantly when you hit the tree while going over a hundred miles per hour. You never touch the brakes.”
The beeping was the only thing that interrupted the silence. Then the officer added, “I was in high school when you played for the Browns. I looked up to you as a hero for playing professional football from a small town. What happened to you?”
It was then that Jake realized his true dream was a loving family. He pictured it when he was eighteen, and he thought about it over the past few months. His reality chained him to the bed.
October 17, 2025
Comfortable
Hello to all,
There have been many commentaries, writings, and books on the differences between men and women. If the differences had to be summed up in one word, I believe it would be “comfortable.” No other word in the English language has a broader connotation between the sexes. To a man, comfortable is something special and desirable. To a woman, comfortable is something ordinary and not worth having.
Men seek comfort in every endeavor they undertake. Whether it is shoes or a car, a man has to feel comfortable. How much a man likes a vehicle depends on how comfortable he is behind the wheel. Some men do not like to feel boxed in, so they buy SUVs. Other men want cars that fit like a glove and buy sporty ones. Rarely do you see a man who owns both. A man goes shoe shopping, one of the most essential requirements of the shoes is that they have to be comfortable. What man has not owned a pair of everyday shoes and lamented the fact that they wore out? Most men have an old shirt in the closet. It is a little tattered; the color has faded, but it feels just right when you put it on. Then there is our chair. It is usually a recliner, and our butts fit just right in the cushion.
Women have little or no comfort requirements when shopping. This is very apparent in the shoes they own. High heels, pointy toes, and sore feet when they take them off are the norm. Comfort often takes a back seat when matching an ensemble. What comfortable clothes they do own are for days one does not leave the house. They are much too dull to be in public. I heard tell that a woman will dress up to go shopping, water the plants, empty the trash, answer the phone, read a book, and get the mail.
Men feel that if something is comfortable, it is worth keeping for a long time. When a man says he is comfortable in a relationship with his wife, that means he can see spending the rest of his life with her and not calling her an old shoe. Men do not easily give up easily on things they find comfortable. Whether it is a shoe, a car, or a wife, if a man is comfortable, he tries to keep them forever. Comfortable shoes have a lifespan of 2 to 3 years. A comfortable car has a lifespan of 4 to 10 years. A comfortable wife has a lifespan, oh, an entire life.
To a man, the word “comfortable” does not mean boring, outdated, worn out, lifeless, colorless, odorless, tasteless, weak, ordinary, plain, mediocre, unappealing, featureless, second-rate, commonplace, or stuck in a rut. It is the place we most want to be. So when your man says he is comfortable with you, please remember that he is saying he would like to spend the rest of his life with you.
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
There have been many commentaries, writings, and books on the differences between men and women. If the differences had to be summed up in one word, I believe it would be “comfortable.” No other word in the English language has a broader connotation between the sexes. To a man, comfortable is something special and desirable. To a woman, comfortable is something ordinary and not worth having.
Men seek comfort in every endeavor they undertake. Whether it is shoes or a car, a man has to feel comfortable. How much a man likes a vehicle depends on how comfortable he is behind the wheel. Some men do not like to feel boxed in, so they buy SUVs. Other men want cars that fit like a glove and buy sporty ones. Rarely do you see a man who owns both. A man goes shoe shopping, one of the most essential requirements of the shoes is that they have to be comfortable. What man has not owned a pair of everyday shoes and lamented the fact that they wore out? Most men have an old shirt in the closet. It is a little tattered; the color has faded, but it feels just right when you put it on. Then there is our chair. It is usually a recliner, and our butts fit just right in the cushion.
Women have little or no comfort requirements when shopping. This is very apparent in the shoes they own. High heels, pointy toes, and sore feet when they take them off are the norm. Comfort often takes a back seat when matching an ensemble. What comfortable clothes they do own are for days one does not leave the house. They are much too dull to be in public. I heard tell that a woman will dress up to go shopping, water the plants, empty the trash, answer the phone, read a book, and get the mail.
Men feel that if something is comfortable, it is worth keeping for a long time. When a man says he is comfortable in a relationship with his wife, that means he can see spending the rest of his life with her and not calling her an old shoe. Men do not easily give up easily on things they find comfortable. Whether it is a shoe, a car, or a wife, if a man is comfortable, he tries to keep them forever. Comfortable shoes have a lifespan of 2 to 3 years. A comfortable car has a lifespan of 4 to 10 years. A comfortable wife has a lifespan, oh, an entire life.
To a man, the word “comfortable” does not mean boring, outdated, worn out, lifeless, colorless, odorless, tasteless, weak, ordinary, plain, mediocre, unappealing, featureless, second-rate, commonplace, or stuck in a rut. It is the place we most want to be. So when your man says he is comfortable with you, please remember that he is saying he would like to spend the rest of his life with you.
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
October 10, 2025
October chill
Hello to all,
October has settled into northern Ohio and brought cool, dry air from Canada. It is the time of year when I shine as a husband and the great spider killer of the house because the spiders seek relief from the colder nights in our warm house. Ants fail to traverse the side yard to forage for food and drink within the confines of our home.
October starts sucking the humidity from the bones of our home, making the cooler nights feel colder. Tammy and Sarah don the sweaters and hoodies to stay off the chill in the drying house. Then there is the old gal of our abode. The queen herself is feeling the effects of October in her old bones.
This means spurts of energy as she shakes off the chill. It also means hogging the sunlight beaming through the patio door. There, she allows the sun to roast her body, restoring the heat lost to time on this Earth. Her royal gray face reveals the years of guarding us from the delivery vehicles, neighbors, and that evil Bentley next door.
Time has taken the ability to generate heat on her own. It might be her metabolism slowing down, or her more sedentary lifestyle decreasing the blood flow, leaving her more chilled than in her puppy years. I think it is just old age catching up to her. There is something in the gray on her face that makes winters feel colder. I know because I feel it too.
October is the prelude to winter days. The weather people increasingly talk of frost advisories and freeze warnings throughout the month. The warm, humid temperatures of summer yield to the cooler winds of October, and everything feels a little colder each day.
I see Ginger basking in the sunshine, and I feel a little jealous seeing the contentment on her face. I would join her if my old bones could handle lying on the hard floor. October brings many beautiful things, including fall colors, magnificent sunsets, and pumpkin spice everything. It also brings the first tremors of winter, chilling old dogs and men alike.
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
October has settled into northern Ohio and brought cool, dry air from Canada. It is the time of year when I shine as a husband and the great spider killer of the house because the spiders seek relief from the colder nights in our warm house. Ants fail to traverse the side yard to forage for food and drink within the confines of our home.
October starts sucking the humidity from the bones of our home, making the cooler nights feel colder. Tammy and Sarah don the sweaters and hoodies to stay off the chill in the drying house. Then there is the old gal of our abode. The queen herself is feeling the effects of October in her old bones.
This means spurts of energy as she shakes off the chill. It also means hogging the sunlight beaming through the patio door. There, she allows the sun to roast her body, restoring the heat lost to time on this Earth. Her royal gray face reveals the years of guarding us from the delivery vehicles, neighbors, and that evil Bentley next door.
Time has taken the ability to generate heat on her own. It might be her metabolism slowing down, or her more sedentary lifestyle decreasing the blood flow, leaving her more chilled than in her puppy years. I think it is just old age catching up to her. There is something in the gray on her face that makes winters feel colder. I know because I feel it too.
October is the prelude to winter days. The weather people increasingly talk of frost advisories and freeze warnings throughout the month. The warm, humid temperatures of summer yield to the cooler winds of October, and everything feels a little colder each day.
I see Ginger basking in the sunshine, and I feel a little jealous seeing the contentment on her face. I would join her if my old bones could handle lying on the hard floor. October brings many beautiful things, including fall colors, magnificent sunsets, and pumpkin spice everything. It also brings the first tremors of winter, chilling old dogs and men alike.
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
October 3, 2025
Shameless Hussy
Hello to all,
Ginger, our dog, the self-proclaimed queen of the house, raged against a subject under her authority. For once, it wasn’t me. Instead, she came to me for comfort and acknowledgment of her righteous anger over an affront so egregious that it deserved her condemnation.
This week has been the picture of beautiful weather. The temperatures hovered in the mid-seventies during the day and cooled into the fifties at night. The northern breezes brought very comfortable humidity to northern Ohio. Tammy decided to tend to the gardens.
That day, she noticed the front flowerbed needed attention and left Ginger in the house since the front porch does not have a gate. Ginger saw Mom’s action as a slight to her authority and moaned quietly through the front window with displeasure.
Then, that old nemesis Bentley appeared at the border of our yard. He is the soft-spoken dog from next door that Ginger is convinced is out to kill us all. Mom took off her gloves and strolled over to say hi.
This did not go over well with the monarch of the house, who was watching the betrayal. She howled, “Stop, you shameless hussy,” watching the most trusted person in our home disrespect her crown. Ginger watched in horror as Mom bent down to pet the archnemesis of all that is holy. In a complete fit of rage, she raced from room to room trying to stop the cheating woman petting another dog in her sight.
Aaaarrrroooo, iiirrrrrrr, and roooroooo (cheater, Jezebel, unfaithful) filtered out the windows, trying to regain control over the shameless hussy flirting with another dog. Eventually, Mom returned to our house without being eaten by the dog next door. Ginger groaned out a stinging rebuke of having to see the betrayal of her most trusted Mom. She turned the cold, furry shoulder to her and walked away muttering, “Shameless hussy,” under her breath.
They made up at a quarter to four when Mom served her supper as usual. All was well, after a full belly of kibbles eased the pain of seeing Mom petting another dog.
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
Ginger, our dog, the self-proclaimed queen of the house, raged against a subject under her authority. For once, it wasn’t me. Instead, she came to me for comfort and acknowledgment of her righteous anger over an affront so egregious that it deserved her condemnation.
This week has been the picture of beautiful weather. The temperatures hovered in the mid-seventies during the day and cooled into the fifties at night. The northern breezes brought very comfortable humidity to northern Ohio. Tammy decided to tend to the gardens.
That day, she noticed the front flowerbed needed attention and left Ginger in the house since the front porch does not have a gate. Ginger saw Mom’s action as a slight to her authority and moaned quietly through the front window with displeasure.
Then, that old nemesis Bentley appeared at the border of our yard. He is the soft-spoken dog from next door that Ginger is convinced is out to kill us all. Mom took off her gloves and strolled over to say hi.
This did not go over well with the monarch of the house, who was watching the betrayal. She howled, “Stop, you shameless hussy,” watching the most trusted person in our home disrespect her crown. Ginger watched in horror as Mom bent down to pet the archnemesis of all that is holy. In a complete fit of rage, she raced from room to room trying to stop the cheating woman petting another dog in her sight.
Aaaarrrroooo, iiirrrrrrr, and roooroooo (cheater, Jezebel, unfaithful) filtered out the windows, trying to regain control over the shameless hussy flirting with another dog. Eventually, Mom returned to our house without being eaten by the dog next door. Ginger groaned out a stinging rebuke of having to see the betrayal of her most trusted Mom. She turned the cold, furry shoulder to her and walked away muttering, “Shameless hussy,” under her breath.
They made up at a quarter to four when Mom served her supper as usual. All was well, after a full belly of kibbles eased the pain of seeing Mom petting another dog.
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
September 26, 2025
Old Dog
Hello to all,
There is an old expression that goes, “Dogs used to be wild, free, and independent. Then they discovered we had couches.”
It’s my job to lock up the house at night. This starts with barring the patio door, ensuring the garage door is down, and turning off all lights, except for the hood, which acts as a security light. I check the thermostat to make sure it's ready for a good night’s sleep. My final step is to round up our dog, a thirteen-year-old dog who thinks she is the queen of the house.
Rarely, she is already upstairs in her bed for the night. Some nights, it takes me calling out to her to go to bed, and she groans like a petulant teenager at having to move. Most nights, I find myself taking the extra step of petting and jostling her to wake her and send her to bed. Disturbing the old dog queen brings moans of protest in words I will not use in my posts.
She slithers off the sofa like bread dough as her butt drags the rest of her off the couch before she regains her feet. There is the obligatory stretch with a “oorrannn,” coming from deep in her gut—a side eye glance to put me in my place before she stumbles her way up to bed.
I say goodnight to my human daughter before entering our bedroom. Our old dog moans out her discontent at me for keeping her awake and not being ready for bed. Then Tammy tells me about her day as I prepare for bed. When Ginger has had enough talking for one night, she snorts out a grumble to shut us up.
I empathize with our old dog, for I, too, dislike being disturbed after I settle in for the night. Ironically, it is Ginger who wakes us in the middle of the night, needing a late-night stroll in the yard. Tammy complains that she walks around for several minutes before doing anything. However, we cannot say anything because she is the self-proclaimed queen of our house.
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
There is an old expression that goes, “Dogs used to be wild, free, and independent. Then they discovered we had couches.”
It’s my job to lock up the house at night. This starts with barring the patio door, ensuring the garage door is down, and turning off all lights, except for the hood, which acts as a security light. I check the thermostat to make sure it's ready for a good night’s sleep. My final step is to round up our dog, a thirteen-year-old dog who thinks she is the queen of the house.
Rarely, she is already upstairs in her bed for the night. Some nights, it takes me calling out to her to go to bed, and she groans like a petulant teenager at having to move. Most nights, I find myself taking the extra step of petting and jostling her to wake her and send her to bed. Disturbing the old dog queen brings moans of protest in words I will not use in my posts.
She slithers off the sofa like bread dough as her butt drags the rest of her off the couch before she regains her feet. There is the obligatory stretch with a “oorrannn,” coming from deep in her gut—a side eye glance to put me in my place before she stumbles her way up to bed.
I say goodnight to my human daughter before entering our bedroom. Our old dog moans out her discontent at me for keeping her awake and not being ready for bed. Then Tammy tells me about her day as I prepare for bed. When Ginger has had enough talking for one night, she snorts out a grumble to shut us up.
I empathize with our old dog, for I, too, dislike being disturbed after I settle in for the night. Ironically, it is Ginger who wakes us in the middle of the night, needing a late-night stroll in the yard. Tammy complains that she walks around for several minutes before doing anything. However, we cannot say anything because she is the self-proclaimed queen of our house.
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
September 19, 2025
Flu Bug Hits Home
Hello to all,
I missed last week’s blog due to the flu bug infecting our home. It began Tuesday morning with a scratch in the back of my throat that a sip of tea cured. As the afternoon progressed, it took more and more liquid to stop the burning. My nose began to run as I cleaned the kitchen while maintaining my denial of anything wrong. The night’s sleep was not peaceful nor refreshing, for I woke barely able to breathe from the clogged nasal passages and a throat on fire. Then I tried to move while every joint in my body felt wrapped tight by an ace bandage.
It was then that I realized this was not just an ordinary summer cold, but a full-on onslaught of a flu bug hitting our home. Tammy made us tea, and mine went cold because my stomach couldn’t hold even a simple elixir of the morning brew. I went back to bed. This meant kicking our self-proclaimed queen of the house out of my bed so that I could sleep. As I dozed off to avoid the anguish of the flu bug, a whimper filtered through the door of Ginger complaining that I was in her spot. She slept in the bed from morning till evening, which was her rule for us peasants.
Tammy was worried who was going to cook that night, and our daughter stepped up and made cottage pie for dinner. Tammy offered to make me a plate, but hunger took a backseat to the flu bug symptoms. She tried to make me eat, but there was no appetite when I felt that bad. It was Sunday before a couple of pieces of toast filled my nourishment needs for the day.
Recovery came slowly as a dread of sleepiness lingered over me for the better part of a week. Ginger disapproved of my sleeping twenty hours a day. She took objection to my doing her job of sleeping the day away. At least, I didn’t bark at delivery trucks, strange cars, and neighbors walking out of their house.
Our daily routine is slowly returning to normal as our home recovers from the flu bug. I did share the flu bug with my wife and daughter. As my daughter was fond of saying, coming home from the germ factory, they called elementary school, “Sharing is Caring!”
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
I missed last week’s blog due to the flu bug infecting our home. It began Tuesday morning with a scratch in the back of my throat that a sip of tea cured. As the afternoon progressed, it took more and more liquid to stop the burning. My nose began to run as I cleaned the kitchen while maintaining my denial of anything wrong. The night’s sleep was not peaceful nor refreshing, for I woke barely able to breathe from the clogged nasal passages and a throat on fire. Then I tried to move while every joint in my body felt wrapped tight by an ace bandage.
It was then that I realized this was not just an ordinary summer cold, but a full-on onslaught of a flu bug hitting our home. Tammy made us tea, and mine went cold because my stomach couldn’t hold even a simple elixir of the morning brew. I went back to bed. This meant kicking our self-proclaimed queen of the house out of my bed so that I could sleep. As I dozed off to avoid the anguish of the flu bug, a whimper filtered through the door of Ginger complaining that I was in her spot. She slept in the bed from morning till evening, which was her rule for us peasants.
Tammy was worried who was going to cook that night, and our daughter stepped up and made cottage pie for dinner. Tammy offered to make me a plate, but hunger took a backseat to the flu bug symptoms. She tried to make me eat, but there was no appetite when I felt that bad. It was Sunday before a couple of pieces of toast filled my nourishment needs for the day.
Recovery came slowly as a dread of sleepiness lingered over me for the better part of a week. Ginger disapproved of my sleeping twenty hours a day. She took objection to my doing her job of sleeping the day away. At least, I didn’t bark at delivery trucks, strange cars, and neighbors walking out of their house.
Our daily routine is slowly returning to normal as our home recovers from the flu bug. I did share the flu bug with my wife and daughter. As my daughter was fond of saying, coming home from the germ factory, they called elementary school, “Sharing is Caring!”
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
September 5, 2025
Ginger’s Near-Death
Hello to all,
Every Friday in the summer, we make breads for the local Farmer’s Market. Tammy makes quick bread, I make Italian bread, and our daughter makes several yeast breads. Tammy ran into a glitch this past Friday, pushing her time in the kitchen into mine. Through the process of being late and trying to get back on schedule, Ginger’s dinner was served at 4:15. This is well past the deadline of four o’clock, and we all know that if we are not fifteen minutes early, we are a half hour late. Here is her terrifying testimony of Ginger’s courageous bout with death-defying starvation in her own words:
This is my story of perseverance in the most extreme conditions. At three-thirty, Mom announced she was taking a bath, while Dad fussed me out of the kitchen. I wanted to know who would be feeding me since the dinner hour was approaching. He was too busy measuring and tinkering at the dough table to notice the hunger in my eyes.
I peeked at Dad around three-forty-five to see him kneading dough, oblivious to the starving dog in the house. Mom remained out of sight, and sister was behind the closed door of her room. The hunger pangs barked from my tummy, but I stayed strong in the darkness of their uncaring hearts.
I saw the big hand reached straight up, and yet, there was no food in my dish. My knees became weak as the last of the nutrition burned up in sorrow. The big hand moved to the five mark, and my toes started to feel numb. I can barely walk due to the weakness that afflicts my body. I peered at Dad, and he was molding loaves for baking as flour covered everything.
The big hand moved to the ten, and all I could do was lie motionless, trying to conserve what little energy remained in my body. It took all my strength to let out a soft whimper, hoping my humans would hear my desperate plea for food, but it fell on deaf ears as the heartless subjects of my kingdom failed me again.
My eyes grew dim as death slowly approached, and my malnourished body began to give out as the big hand reached fifteen. I realized death, but was just a moment away. Clinging to my last hope of survival, I squeaked out another whimper with the hope someone would hear my last word before death from hunger famished me.
“Oh, crap!” broke my death march. “Did anyone feed Ginger?” Mom called out from her room. Hope burned eternally as I saw my sister running down the stairs to the closet where my food was stored. I used what little strength remaining to crawl to the food bowl. The clanging of morsels hitting the stainless steel gave my starving heart hope of avoiding a terrifying death by starvation.
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
Every Friday in the summer, we make breads for the local Farmer’s Market. Tammy makes quick bread, I make Italian bread, and our daughter makes several yeast breads. Tammy ran into a glitch this past Friday, pushing her time in the kitchen into mine. Through the process of being late and trying to get back on schedule, Ginger’s dinner was served at 4:15. This is well past the deadline of four o’clock, and we all know that if we are not fifteen minutes early, we are a half hour late. Here is her terrifying testimony of Ginger’s courageous bout with death-defying starvation in her own words:
This is my story of perseverance in the most extreme conditions. At three-thirty, Mom announced she was taking a bath, while Dad fussed me out of the kitchen. I wanted to know who would be feeding me since the dinner hour was approaching. He was too busy measuring and tinkering at the dough table to notice the hunger in my eyes.
I peeked at Dad around three-forty-five to see him kneading dough, oblivious to the starving dog in the house. Mom remained out of sight, and sister was behind the closed door of her room. The hunger pangs barked from my tummy, but I stayed strong in the darkness of their uncaring hearts.
I saw the big hand reached straight up, and yet, there was no food in my dish. My knees became weak as the last of the nutrition burned up in sorrow. The big hand moved to the five mark, and my toes started to feel numb. I can barely walk due to the weakness that afflicts my body. I peered at Dad, and he was molding loaves for baking as flour covered everything.
The big hand moved to the ten, and all I could do was lie motionless, trying to conserve what little energy remained in my body. It took all my strength to let out a soft whimper, hoping my humans would hear my desperate plea for food, but it fell on deaf ears as the heartless subjects of my kingdom failed me again.
My eyes grew dim as death slowly approached, and my malnourished body began to give out as the big hand reached fifteen. I realized death, but was just a moment away. Clinging to my last hope of survival, I squeaked out another whimper with the hope someone would hear my last word before death from hunger famished me.
“Oh, crap!” broke my death march. “Did anyone feed Ginger?” Mom called out from her room. Hope burned eternally as I saw my sister running down the stairs to the closet where my food was stored. I used what little strength remaining to crawl to the food bowl. The clanging of morsels hitting the stainless steel gave my starving heart hope of avoiding a terrifying death by starvation.
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
August 29, 2025
Growing Old
Hello to all,
“Growing old is not for sissies,” is a comment from an old man from my youth. This observation made me chuckle, seeing the seriousness in the wrinkled face. I thought he was joking, but he kept a straight face. Fast forward forty years, and it's no longer so amusing. I, too, know the struggle and warn young people that growing old is not for sissies.
Every morning, I wake up to a series of stretches that help me get out of bed. The noisiest of these is wrangling my feet back and forth, and then side to side. Each movement of the foot resonates loud cracking and popping sounds to which our entitled dog grumbles over the disturbance. If, for some reason, I skip this daily routine, a vaper lock forms in my ankle sometime in the early morning. One or both joints freeze with pain, and I limp for ten or more steps, trying to work out the buildup of gas, which locks the tarsals. There is no other reason than proving that growing old is not for sissies is a true statement.
The second exercise before exiting the bed in the morning is raising my knees to my chest, first the left, then the right, and finally both together. This stretches the lower back, allowing it to move in the morning. Dismissing this routine causes me to lean to one side or the other, and eventually makes my back hurt during the day. Again, proving growing old is not for sissies.
It is just a short trip down memory lane to when my eyes opened, I could pop right out of bed, run around all day, and climb back in at the end of the night without any pain. The only exception to this was running into something or someone causing the pain. There is a key difference between the young and the old. There was a distinct reason for the pain when I was in my youth. Today, I am walking smoothly through the house, and one of my ankles freezes up in pain for a minute. Didn’t step on anything, didn’t twist it, it just locks up in pain for no reason at all.
Oh, wait, the reason is “Growing old is not for sissies.”
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
“Growing old is not for sissies,” is a comment from an old man from my youth. This observation made me chuckle, seeing the seriousness in the wrinkled face. I thought he was joking, but he kept a straight face. Fast forward forty years, and it's no longer so amusing. I, too, know the struggle and warn young people that growing old is not for sissies.
Every morning, I wake up to a series of stretches that help me get out of bed. The noisiest of these is wrangling my feet back and forth, and then side to side. Each movement of the foot resonates loud cracking and popping sounds to which our entitled dog grumbles over the disturbance. If, for some reason, I skip this daily routine, a vaper lock forms in my ankle sometime in the early morning. One or both joints freeze with pain, and I limp for ten or more steps, trying to work out the buildup of gas, which locks the tarsals. There is no other reason than proving that growing old is not for sissies is a true statement.
The second exercise before exiting the bed in the morning is raising my knees to my chest, first the left, then the right, and finally both together. This stretches the lower back, allowing it to move in the morning. Dismissing this routine causes me to lean to one side or the other, and eventually makes my back hurt during the day. Again, proving growing old is not for sissies.
It is just a short trip down memory lane to when my eyes opened, I could pop right out of bed, run around all day, and climb back in at the end of the night without any pain. The only exception to this was running into something or someone causing the pain. There is a key difference between the young and the old. There was a distinct reason for the pain when I was in my youth. Today, I am walking smoothly through the house, and one of my ankles freezes up in pain for a minute. Didn’t step on anything, didn’t twist it, it just locks up in pain for no reason at all.
Oh, wait, the reason is “Growing old is not for sissies.”
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
August 22, 2025
Daddy’s Little Girl
Hello to all,
A couple of weeks ago, I blogged about being a Girl Dad. There is a particular anxiety that comes with being the only testosterone in a sea of estrogen. I live with my wife, my mother-in-law, and my daughter. If that is not enough, even our dog is female.
I mentioned DADD, Dads Against Daughters Dating. This informal group of fathers came up with dating rules, and there is even an application form for the suitor to fill out. These tongue-in-cheek rules are nothing more than wishful thinking to protect Daddy’s Little Girl. I posted them in the house one day, but had to take them down because I was afraid my teenage daughter’s eyes would roll out of her head every time she saw them.
You may ask, Why are fathers so protective of their daughters? The answer dawned on me when a picture of my daughter sleeping peacefully on my chest in my recliner came up in my memories. My daughter may marry, have kids of her own, become a CEO of a Fortune 500 company, or even run for POTUS, and my chest will swell with great happiness for her. Yet, there is a part of her that will always be Daddy’s Little Girl sleeping on my chest after being baptized.
The memories of her being helpless, requiring my complete protection, stay with me after many years of raising her. My mind sees her as a competent adult able to fend for herself, but a part of my heart still feels her sleeping on my chest. It can still hear the gentle purring of her breath as she trusts her daddy to take care of her.
Wherever the future takes my daughter, there will always be a spot in my heart for Daddy’s Little Girl.
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
A couple of weeks ago, I blogged about being a Girl Dad. There is a particular anxiety that comes with being the only testosterone in a sea of estrogen. I live with my wife, my mother-in-law, and my daughter. If that is not enough, even our dog is female.
I mentioned DADD, Dads Against Daughters Dating. This informal group of fathers came up with dating rules, and there is even an application form for the suitor to fill out. These tongue-in-cheek rules are nothing more than wishful thinking to protect Daddy’s Little Girl. I posted them in the house one day, but had to take them down because I was afraid my teenage daughter’s eyes would roll out of her head every time she saw them.
You may ask, Why are fathers so protective of their daughters? The answer dawned on me when a picture of my daughter sleeping peacefully on my chest in my recliner came up in my memories. My daughter may marry, have kids of her own, become a CEO of a Fortune 500 company, or even run for POTUS, and my chest will swell with great happiness for her. Yet, there is a part of her that will always be Daddy’s Little Girl sleeping on my chest after being baptized.
The memories of her being helpless, requiring my complete protection, stay with me after many years of raising her. My mind sees her as a competent adult able to fend for herself, but a part of my heart still feels her sleeping on my chest. It can still hear the gentle purring of her breath as she trusts her daddy to take care of her.
Wherever the future takes my daughter, there will always be a spot in my heart for Daddy’s Little Girl.
Grace to all,
Danny Mac
