Danny Mac's Blog

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hello to all,

Everyone has experienced someone giving them the cold shoulder. It comes after a felt affront, whether real or imaginary. A coworker, sibling, or even a lifelong partner has a bout of anger, and instead of speaking up while their ire is burning, they choose to remain silent. Despite your cheerful demeanor, they remain unemotional and distant until the resentment melts away. However, this pales in comparison to the cold until your dog is mad at you. You have never felt so icy until you experienced the cold furry shoulder.

Tammy slices a banana onto her cereal in the morning. The potassium helps her through the day. Accidentally and on purpose, a hunk of banana feeds our spoiled and entitled dog, Ginger. It started with an insincere oops as a piece fell on the floor. Through the years, it has become a morning ritual with Ginger racing up the stairs for her morning treat.

I didn't pick up bananas on my trip to the grocery store, and we ran out on Sunday. Tammy claimed she told Ginger it was her fault for not putting bananas on the list, but Ginger still blamed me for it, since it is Tammy who spoiled her with bananas, blueberries, and whipped cream.

As I tried to pet her that afternoon, she turned away from showing me her butt. She then walked away with disgust radiating out as each paw touched the floor. There was a long side-eye before escalating the stairs to mom’s craft room. I call this behavior the cold furry shoulder.

Ginger remained cold and distant until Thursday, as we had bought more bananas on Wednesday. Thursday morning breakfast had the required hunk of banana. Just as our relationship warmed up, the visiting nurse came, and we locked her in the bedroom. Of course, the entire blame was placed directly on me, and I spent the rest of the day receiving the cold furry shoulder.

Huffs of discontent, sighs of resentment, and moans of annoyance filled the afternoon. While she was power napping in the living room, I made the mistake of entering the room. The groan of umbrage stopped me in my tracks. She slinked off the couch and turned her cold, furry shoulder to me before joining Mom in the craft room.

Grace to all,

Danny Mac

Hello to all,

I need your help this week. A friend told me some disturbing news this past week. He claimed that when my wife says, “Can you be any more annoying?” she isn’t asking, requesting, or challenging me to be more annoying.

For over thirty-one years, I assumed she liked my dad jokes, flirtatious touching, and off-color comments. Every time I heard her urgent appeal, I would think up new ways to be more annoying. New and improved ways of annoying my wife were easy in the first year. However, by year twenty, it became a real challenge to conceive of a new way to be more annoying.

The first time she announced, “Can you be any more annoying?” was six months into our marriage. I didn’t even have to think about it; it came naturally to me. Every year, she said those words to me, and I would fulfill her request, only to become more annoying. I thought I reached the pinnacle of annoyance when she was giving birth to our daughter, and the doctor and I were telling jokes to each other. A month later, the pressure was on to find more ways of annoying her when she asked again while feeding our baby.

The last ten years have presented me with the hardship of becoming more annoying. There are still times when a new annoyance greater than any before appears out of nothing. Then, there are nights I lie in bed trying to think up a new way to annoy her. It is harder to be more annoying than I was in our first year of marriage. There were so many opportunities that had not yet been discovered. As gray hair has settled into our lives, it is almost impossible to find new and improved ways of annoying my wife.

This week, someone told me it is unnecessary to find new ways to annoy my wife. A lifetime of arduous planning is all for nothing. Women reading this blog, if your man finds new ways to annoy you after saying, “Can you be any more annoying?” perhaps you should explain to him that you are requesting him to be less, not more annoying.

There are many husbands, boyfriends, and brothers taking your comment, “Can you be any more annoying?” as a challenge to be more annoying.

Grace to all,

Danny Mac

Hello to all,

A boy mom is a woman fortunate enough to raise only boys. There are many videos of these mothers celebrating the joys of raising boys. This includes, but is not limited to, jokes about bodily functions, constantly fighting, and rarely bathing. When pushed to their limits, the boy hugs his mom and tells her how wonderful she is, and all the anger melts away.

Recently, while grocery shopping, I spotted a man wearing a T-shirt that read, “Pray for me, I’m a girl dad.” Standing near him were a seven-year-old and a four-year-old girl, accompanied by a third girl in a stroller. I felt compelled to hug this man in solidarity for raising three girls with all their heartache and joys.

I explained that I, too, was a girl dad. There are my daughter, wife, and mother-in-law living in our house. Then I remembered that even the dog is female. He smiled and mentioned his dog was also female. I hugged him again.

I told him about the time I was watching a baseball game when, in the middle of the second inning, the game went blank. The next thing I remember is feeling a brush gently rubbing my fingernails. My right eye opened first to see my daughter, maybe five at the time, painting my nails her favorite color. Lucky for me, she only had pretend nail polish. He lived through a very similar experience.

We had a friend during her early life who had three boys about the same age. She complained one day about their rambunctious behavior. I offered to trade one daughter for three boys for a day, maybe a weekend. He laughed at the notion, but still the thought intrigued him. His wife laughed at the thought.

I didn’t think of it at the time, but I was a member of D.A.D.D., Dads Against Daughters Dating. This group had rules for boys dating our daughters, to which my teenage daughter rolled her eyes at. I hope this stranger can find a support group to help him cope with the realities of raising girls into strong, independent women.

Perhaps, us girl dads should make some videos of the joys and frustrations of raising girls.

Grace to all,
Danny Mac