Thank you Private Nuzzo: Finding meaning in June 6, 1944 and putting faith in them ... and us

I do not know the man buried here -- PFC Frank Nuzzo from Pennsylvania -- but two summers ago I stood in front of this marker inside the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial near Colleville-sur-Mer, France. That day, June 30, 2014, I was blessed with the opportunity to walk around the hallowed cemetery which overlooks Omaha Beach.

We all say it, but do we really mean it?

How many times a day? Six ... seven ... eight?
Ten?
Depending how many errands you're running or how many trips to the convenience store you're making, you could possibly hear it a dozen or more times in a single day.
"Have a nice day!"
We hear it.
We say it.

When it comes to football, God passes

He doesn't care, not about football anyway.

Although athletes have long called upon him by name (in vain and otherwise), God doesn't care who wins or loses sporting events.

Not baseball. Not basketball. Not golf, tennis, volleyball, hockey, soccer or badminton. 

Not football.

Of toothbrushes, ceramic mugs and bullies gone by

It's probably the oldest thing I own and I see it everyday.
Every ... single ... day.
Three or four times a day, actually, because I like to practice good dental health.

The little piece of tape that connects a father and son

It's been at least 20 years, but that little piece of tape is still stuck just inside the top drawer of my desk.
It's brittle and yellowish now, but somehow it's still stuck there, right where I put it years ago, sometime after my oldest son went in for surgery on his wrist.
Because I'm a father, not a mother, I can't remember when it happened, nor do I recall all the specifics of it, like how old he was or how long the surgery lasted. But I do remember him going into the hospital that day.

Do something nice for someone, evebody wins

Because I tend to watch a lot of sports on television, I see a great many commercials. Now, like many of you, I often get up to grab a snack or, um, visit the little room down the hall during those breaks in the action. Sometimes, though, I just sit there watching and waiting for the game to come back on.
Hey, I'm a guy. I'm not that complicated. If the game's on, I'm not hungry or I don't need to, you know, visit the little room down the hall, I'll just sit there with a stupid look on my face, thinking about, well, nothing in particular.
The other day I was cemented to my easy chair and saw a commercial for an insurance company (what are the chances, right?) . I'm guessing you've seen it, too. It's not the one with that goofy chick, Flo, or the one with the talking lizard (I know, I know, it's not a lizard). It was a serious one that shows a woman witnessing someone doing a good deed for her. Then she, in turn, does a good deed for someone else, who does a good deed for someone else ... and so on, and so on.
I think they call that "paying it forward."

Advice for new parents: Don't stress out over that fussing baby

As a young father, the thought of going out to dinner with my child in tow was enough to make me lose my appetite. I mean, it really made me cringe.
Of course it was a chore to haul around his extra supplies: diaper bag, the baby blue coat we used to cram him into, the hat we'd put on his head, the car seat, etc. But the most unnerving thing about taking him to a restaurant was the threat of him fussing and ultimately disrupting everybody around us.
Like most parents, we usually got a babysitter, but on those occasions when we couldn't find one, we'd bring him along with us. As I recall, he was usually a pretty good baby. But I distinctly remember a few occasions when he got upset, began crying and ruined the experience. One of us would have to take him out and the other, feeling guilty, would usually follow (because who wants to sit there and eat alone, anyway).
Okay, now you're asking, why am I broaching this subject? I mean, I'm the guy who blogs about being a middle-aged father whose kids are all but grown up, why am I writing about fussing babies in restaurants?