The Candy Corn Conspiracy

Let's be honest. Not all candy is created equal.

Trick-or-treaters know this. And at the end of the night what is left in the candy bowl when all the goblins, Jedi's, princesses and superhero's have gone?

That's right. Candy Corn.

According to some in depth research, done just now, there is 20 million pounds of candy corn sold annually in the United States. That is enough candy corn to circle the globe 4.25 times if it was laid end to end. A single serving of candy corn is nineteen individual pieces and has 120 calories and the shelf life of a bag of candy corn is roughly 100 years, enabling the confection to stay on store shelves indefinitely. (That last fact was mine.)

Candy corn is shaped like those orange road construction cones, and coincidentally, if you were to shrink a road construction cone down to candy corn size, they would taste the same.

There has got to be some sort of government/big business conspiracy going on here to keep the candy corn manufactures in business, because I cannot conceive that this candy is making anyone any money.

If you walk the discount candy aisle the day after Halloween, it's all bushel bags of candy corn. They might as well call this the candy corn aisle.

So how are these candy makers still in business?

Kids are the ultimate demographic for taste testing candy, and they have no qualms about taking the candy they want out of the bowl and leaving the rest for the unfortunate souls who would follow.

And what would that left-over candy be?

Candy corn of course.

You remember what it was like to trick or treat don't you?

If you were like me you planned your costume right after you finished your back to school shopping. (Thanks for all those pencil boxes and corduroy pants mom - and for that killer Transformers Trapper Keeper.) You had your costume picked out by late September and your trick or treating route planned out a few weeks before October 31st. (And of course adjusting for ambient air temperature and maximum moonlight exposure on those back woods paths).

I grew up in the greatest small town for Halloween activities, because it was spooky even in bright sunlight.

If the town you live in had it's hay day about one hundred years before you were born, then it probably was like mine, filled with beautiful old falling down houses and those creepy wrought iron fences and gargoyles that were en vogue at the turn of the last century. And on your map you would mark out all those spooky houses that had the best candy, and plan your route accordingly. You knew the houses that gave you apples and pencils and that wonderful old lady on your street that gave out nickels and bags of candy corn and who could not tell Darth Vader from Tinkerbell.

And when you returned home after your wild adventures you would do that candy triage thing on your bedroom floor where you spread the candy out and arrange it in "most edible to least edible" order for consumption. And inevitably candy corn would be at the end of the row, right next to squirrel nut zippers. (If you have not had the pleasure of eating this rock hard, tooth shattering Depression era candy then stop what you are doing right now and fish the time machine out of the closet.)

Of course candy corn is not the only questionable candy on the block.

The runner up for awful Halloween candy would have to be Circus Peanuts, those inedible peanut shaped marshmallow lumps that though they look like peanuts, taste like a mutant banana and can also be used as a door stop or for insulating your house in the wintertime.

We must be a wildly nostalgic buying public, because we continue purchasing fruitcake at Christmas time, "Peeps" marshmallow chicks at Easter and candy corn and Circus Peanuts at Halloween even though no one actually eats any of these items.

So next year, when you find yourself in the candy aisle a few days before Halloween ask yourself this all important question: "Did anyone eat these when I bought them last year?"

And if the honest answer is "no" then put that bag down and slowly back away.

The Kit Kats are just a shelf away.

Local Man's Facebook Political Comment Changes Everything

A one sentence, poorly spelled political comment made by Manly, Iowa resident Gary Lufkin on his Facebook page has gone viral and changed the nature of the 2012 Presidential political race.

The comment, which overnight made its way onto t-shirts and bumper stickers, was so galvanizing and ground breaking that both major candidates for our nation's highest office, incumbent President Barak Obama and Republican challenger, former Massachusetts Governor Mitt Romney, have suspended their campaigns and agreed to form a coalition, "English Parliament" style unity government with both candidates agreeing to share power 50-50.

At a joint press conference held in the town of Antlers, Virginia (a spot chosen because of its swing-state status) President Obama and Mitt Romney appeared together to answer questions from the press core following the two candidates. When asked who would actually occupy the Oval Office Romney stated "Co-President Obama and I have decided to put our desks side by side in the office, that way communication will be ideal, and if we clear our desks we can play a killer game of table tennis when we can't agree on policy."

Added Co-president Obama, "Michele and I have also decided to give Co-president Romney and Ann the Lincoln Bedroom so that they can come over to the residence at night and play couples Scrabble and Monopoly, which of course Co-President Romney will win every time!"

This joke lightened the mood among the press core, who up until that point had been in total disbelief of the ongoing turn of events.

"It's a totally unprecedented historical event" says Princeton history professor Dr. Thomas Wells. "It is right up there with Lincoln's Gettysburg Address and Patrick Henry's 'Give me liberty or give me death' comments before the Revolutionary War." Wells went on to say "It's ironic that a comment, that from one angle could be seen as thoughtless and unbelievably insensitive, has actually served to bring our nation together in the way it was after the attack on Pearl Harbor."

Adds Iowa State History Chair, Dr. Sarah Chalmers, "we did a detailed analysis of Mr. Lufkin's 893 Facebook friends and found that they split roughly down the middle on political viewpoints, and that the comment had the amazing potential to offend and infuriate both sides with its inflammatory, knuckleheaded phrasing and completely thoughtless nature.

"It's pretty amazing" continued Dr. Chalmers, "that these eight words" might go down in history as the single most important words ever said this side of Moses' "let my people go." Because if you take away the historical nature of the comment and view the sentence in a vacuum, it's actually one of the dumbest, most simpleton comments I've ever read. That it did so much good is akin to those two hundred monkeys typing on keyboards and producing the full text of Hamlet."

When reached for comment at his residence in his parent's basement in Manly (a picturesque town overlooking the Mississippi River in Iowa), former short-order cook Lufkin (he has just today agreed to a 21 Million dollar book deal with Pendant Publishing) reflected on his role in American history.

"Well, the comment (which can't be reprinted for this story due to the ongoing copyright and branding process) just kind of came to me. I had just knocked off work at 11 PM and I was just logging in on my parent's computer to see pictures of my friend John's new ATV that he had posted, and for some reason that comment just came out. I think it had something to do with the political slogan on the t-shirt John was wearing in the photos."

When asked about the screenplay he is writing for the inevitable Hollywood movie that will be developed around the story, Lufkin commented "I just flew into LA last week and had an all day meeting with both Rush Limbaugh and Michael Moore at Dennys. Over cheesy waffle fries they agreed to co-produce and direct the film and we got both Charlton Heston and George Cloony to star." When informed that former NRA president Heston had passed away a few years ago Lufkin responded "yeah Rush brought that up, but he and Michael agreed to do one of those hologram things to work Heston into the film."

One group of people not yet on board with this newfound political good will is Congress. "It's one thing for two presidential candidates to get along so well" said Pennsylvania Senator Bill Winston, "it's quite another for the 535 members of the House and Senate to drop their differences. I mean, I just spent 10 million dollars in advertising for my campaign to get half of my state to despise the other half in an effort to win an extra 2% of the vote, and this guy's Facebook comment is changing all that?"

One House member, Rep. Paul Singer (Republican) from North Dakota has used the thawing of tensions in Congress to finally ask out Michigan Senator Cindy Lewis (Democrat) on a date. "I've had a crush on Senator Lewis for almost two years now, ever since they sent us on that fact finding mission to The Ukraine in the summer of 2010. But up until now my constituents back home would have set my downtown Bismark offices ablaze if I was seen eating out with the lovely Senator Lewis."

When informed of his status as a matchmaker in Congress, comment originator Lufkin got reflective.

"I'm sure glad I stopped for an energy drink on my way home from work that night. I think that started it all."

Gravel Smoothie

It's been estimated that Facebook is almost 90% cute pictures of people's children, 5% cute things that these children say, 4 % political diatribes and 1% "Farmville" requests. (Why don't all these folks plant actual gardens with all their spare time? Instead of poor posture and eyesight you get poor posture and tomatoes!)

As one of the 90% who post pictures of my wonderful daughters in comical situations or adorable moments around the town ("Look girls, a 'men working' sign; go pick up those shovels and pose for a picture!") I fully apologize to all those who don't understand the big deal.

The big deal is this: We are desperately trying to document something that has a limited shelf life. Like a National Geographic photographer who spots a rare jungle bird at sunset and has three minutes to get a good shot, the parents of our land are taking pictures like a paparazi following Brad Pitt around.

Because there is a clock ticking down.

In one way it's quite literal. My daughters are getting bigger every day, and "horsey rides" around the living room are rapidly descending into my lovely wife saying "let your father up girls, I think he's hurt his back. Help him to the couch and go fetch him the ice pack in the freezer."

There are also cute outfits that the girls wear that we want to get pictures of them in. But, occasionally they grow out of said outfit before we get a chance to get a photo. Sometimes we have held on to an outfit too long because we liked it so much, and the girls have to put a foot down. ("Mom, I can't breathe or raise my hands in this dress! Can we wear something else please!")

Sometimes I think that this also leads to our friends and family thinking that we are more financially hard off that we actually are. ("Son, your mom and I have noticed that the girls are wearing clothing that is three sizes too small for them. Here is $100 dollars. Why don't you guys go buy something nice and size appropriate for them to wear.")

With Halloween around the corner, brace yourself for another onslaught of cute children dressed as Captain America, a scarecrow or in the case of my girls, Batgirl and Spidergirl. (They share their dad's love of superheroes.)

And then there are the great things your children say.

For Christmas last year my parents gave me a notebook that was just for documenting the comic pearls that come out of my girls mouth on a daily basis.

For instance, this tidbit from my oldest daughter said in February of this year: "Dad, I really like Star Wars, especially that Tobacco (Chewbacca) character! He's so funny with his howls and growls."

I'll never be able to watch Star Wars again without thinking of Chewbacca as "Tobacco". I'm not sure how she mistook the immortal Chewbacca The Wookie as the material found in cigars (perhaps it's because they are the same color).

Or take for example my youngest daughter's favorite joke when she was three years old:

"Knock knock"

"Who's there?"

"Cheese!"

"Cheese who?"

"Cheese grape!"

Now the words "cheese" and "grape" are not in themselves funny at all, but said with conviction and enthusiasm my an adorable three-year-old in pigtails this joke is on par with anything Jay Leno or John Stewart can come up with on a nightly basis.

Needless to say, my notebook is bursting at the seams. Just the other day I was playing ice cream shop (the Nirvana location of all children, Heaven is basically where God keeps all the ice cream and we get to eat it for eternity without getting cavities or lactose intolerant) with my daughter in her school's sandbox and she topped off a cup of dirt with a few rocks and offered it to me through the ice cream shop window that is set up on the playground.

"What is this" I said, "a banana split?"

"No Dad! It's a gravel smoothie!"

A "gravel smoothie." Brilliant.

I then did something memorable (both for myself and the other kids on the playground). I took a swig of the gravel smoothie.

Now, it's been over 30 years since I last tasted sand in this volume (a big "thank you" goes out to my older sister for introducing me to the taste the first time) and I'd quite forgotten how difficult it is to get all of the particles out of your mouth. I'm still finding small rocks when I floss.

But in a weird way it was worth it, because my daughter (or her friends) will never forget that afternoon of playing, and it's another memory preserved.

So forgive us crazy parents of the world. Please extend us patience and grace as we talk to you about our kids and show you pictures. We are just trying desperately to capture something. We will return to our normal selves soon.

In the meantime, can I offer you a gravel smoothie?

Tattoos and other kinds of regrets

 A cold, cloudy fall day is a good time to think about regrets.

In my illustrious career as a high powered advice columnist I have yet to cover the subject of regrets and how to best manage them, and hopefully stymie any further ones.

This I regret. So allow me to pontificate on the subject now.

There are many kinds of regrets, but I like to sand them down into three categories, based on their impact and length of duration.

The first kind my lovely wife Special Sauce helped me to identify. She calls it the "Burger Regret."

Burger regret is exactly what it sounds like. A few weeks ago I made the unwise choice to eat two double cheese burgers in a sitting and about 11 PM that night I knew there was trouble brewing. The fact that I even have a bottle of Tums around indicates what the slow, cruel hands of time are doing to my stomach. As I sat there in bed, groaning and trying not to cry like a newborn my wise wife looked over from where she was slumbering and said "I think you have the burger regret sweetheart."

I knew she was right. I am no longer and iron-stomached, 18 year old college freshman who could eat greasy food with impunity. I am a 35 year old who needs to avoid the double cheeseburger.

Thankfully "Burger Regret" is only short lived and can be avoided by getting a salad instead. That is unless all the burgers in your life have given you a heart attack. That kind of Burger Regret is a little more impactful. I suggest following the two "B's" when it comes to burgers - "barbecues and birthdays". Any other time get the tofu dog.

The second category of regret is the "Haircut Regret." This regret lasts a bit longer (about a month or more depending on how drastic the change is) and should be thought out before you sit down at that salon or barber shop. If you are a female, please reconsider the Basic Training head shave or the bright green permanent die. This will not be as cool in photographs ten years from now, I guarantee you. For men, please avoid the perm or hairplugs. Vice-President Joe Biden is not fooling anyone. Those plugs he has almost ran off his head and strangled the moderator at last week's debate.

The third kind of regret is the most long lasting, and unfortunately is on the upswing among the youth of today.

When I was younger the only kind of place you could find a tattoo parlor was down by the docks in Brooklyn or at the back of a seedy juke-joint in Baton Rouge. But now even my small, quaint, wholesome New Hampshire town has a respectable one and you can find one on the main street of any American town. Your local, heavily tattooed character is now a "tattoo artist" and enjoys a bit of celebrity as he walks about town.

Tattoos coming out of the dark is all well and good, but the same problem exists; a tattoo is more or less a permanent decision, often made by tipsy college students on the Jersey shore boardwalk.

Yes young person, that Kermit the Frog neck tattoo makes quite a story back in the dorm, but in three years when you want to be taken seriously at that job interview in D.C. you are going to have to wear a turtle neck sweater in July.

Also, the names of your High School sweetheart on your shoulder will not seem like a good decision when you ask someone else to marry you ten years down the road.

Thankfully I only have to contend with the first kind of regret. I have no hair to cut and my arms are way to hairy (we're talking werewolf levels of fur here) to ever have a tattoo be visible unless it were those new, three dimensional ones I know someone somewhere is working on.

Ironically, the only place a tattoo would find space on my body is right on top of my ample forehead. Perhaps the names of my children tattooed right there would let my girls know just how much I love them.

I think when It was time to drop them off at their Junior High a few years from now, they would be the ones with the "tattoo regret".

Let's make good decisions people.

How I plan to become the funniest man in Nepal

For some reason, Jerry Lewis is still the funniest man in France. All these years later and the comedian now associated with Labor Day telethons is still packing out movies houses in Lyon. It doesn't make sense, but humor rarely makes sense. It either works for some unfathomable reason, or it doesn't. I got my beautiful wife to marry me mostly because I can make her laugh. It doesn't make sense, but I went with it because, well, a beautiful woman was available and eager to laugh. Eleven years later she is still laughing, and I hope I'm as funny to her at 85 as I was at 25.

Likewise, Celine Dion is not selling as many records as she once did (the movie Titanic came out 15 years ago, can you believe it?), but she is still selling out a daily show in Las Vegas and shattering wine glasses with those crazy high notes. She may not appeal to suburban New Jersey housewives as she once did, but she really scratches the itch of Japanese tourists in town to play the slot machines.

Who can say why different cultures find different artists appealing while similar artists can't sell a single ticket in the same country? There is a Boston area band that released two albums here in the states a few years ago, had a video on MTV, and now tours exclusively in Malaysia. They shut down malls over there. They were mobbed at the airport, but here in the states they were dropped by their record label because they didn't sell many records.

One of my roommates in college, Dan from Levitown, PA, is perhaps the funniest person I personally know. He was a Woody Allen disciple and always had me in stitches. Once we were free climbing a rock face and he was going on about something (not even trying to be funny) and I almost dropped off the face of the mountain because I was laughing so hard. Never have I been so close to death for such a wonderful reason.

But the thing is, in Dan's area of the country, he was not considered very funny. But after college he moved to Minnesota (a lovely lady was responsible for this, I'm told) and had people rolling in the aisles. He vowed never to leave the state.

My wonderful church (Oasis Christian Church in Concord - stop in some Sunday to see how strange and wonderful a Sunday morning can be) hosts a church body made up of folks from Nepal, and for some reason I slay comically with this group.

Now, I consider myself a pretty funny guy, especially in the southern parts of our country (I should move down there if I were serious about being a standup comedian), but I have never been as instantly funny as I am with my new Nepali friends. Within a few moments of talking with a couple of them before their Sunday afternoon service, I had a crowd around me as I explained how to play the bongos. I'm not sure what I said or did, but to have an instant audience like that in the palm of my hand is a pretty heady experience. I even got a smile and a small laugh out of the stern Nepali grandmothers in the room.

Then, the next week, it happened again, and this time I felt the pressure. It's one thing to be funny spontaneously, but when it's expected, it's a little more difficult. But I came through and had the crowd roaring (in their polite, Nepali style of laughing). One of them sought out my wife (Special Sauce Caldwell) and said, "Your husband is a very, very funny man."

All of this makes me think that I should start a standup comedy tour of Nepal soon. For the price of a plane ticket, I could soon be packing out theatres in Kathmandu (possibly the greatest capital name of all time) and maybe even give a command performance in the royal palace. I think all I have to do is work on my funny faces, play the bongos, and riff on folks from India and Pakistan. (Have you heard the one about the Pakistani man and the block of ice?)

So look for my dispatches from Nepal any day now. I just need to take a crash course in the Nepali language (also called "Nepali" - thank you, Wikipedia), figure out how to fill out my State Department visa forms, and, of course, find my way across the Hindu Kush mountain range.

Hindu Kush...Kush...I think I could really do something funny with that word.

In Which Princess Genius, Age 4, Joins Mensa

My life as a dad would be immeasurably easier if my two daughters, ages 6 and 4, each had an IQ that was 20 points lower or if I had one that was 20 points higher. Because, quite frankly, I'm starting to feel outgunned. And I have the feeling that it's only beginning.

Every parent desires for their children to be incredibly bright. We pray for a child genius, play Mozart for the baby while they're in utero, bombard them with Little Einstein videos while they are toddlers, and wait for their little neurons to start firing.

But I'm here to tell you that having a child prodigy has a decided downside; and having two of them biding their time while they plot world domination is starting to take its toll on this father and his "mid-level" intellectual capacities.

Don't get me wrong; I like to think I'm a little sharper than the average Joe. I've read Shakespeare (he's the one who wrote War and Peace, right? Not that I read that one. I read the other book he wrote, the biography of Larry Bird) and I know the word "escrow" (I don't know what it is, but I know the word) and I've seen all the Lord of the Rings movies and read five pages of the first book.

But I'm starting to feel the pull of my limited IQ in conversations with my daughters, Princess Supergirl and Princess Genius. Just the other day, my six-year-old had to remind me that a killer whale is actually really called an "Orca" and that Orcas never make it to the Antarctic; that's just a myth. Penguins really fear seals.

"Seals?" I said. "I don't think so. Let's go check."

After Princess Supergirl helped me log onto my computer, she guided me to a Wikipedia article and, lo and behold, she was correct. It turns out Orcas don't like the freezing waters of the Antarctic. I was stunned. My inner three-year-old wanted to say, "You're grounded, missy," but the more reasonable angels of my nature won out and I kissed Princess Supergirl on the top of the head and said, "You are the smartest kindergartener I have ever met."

It's good to have kind, genius daughters. Because they take it easy on their poor, limited papa and generally guide me through most of their higher-end discussions, like the one they had the other day about the feminist motifs found throughout the new My Little Pony cartoon series. They applauded me when I said, "I like the purple one with the wings."

"That one's called a 'Pegasus', Dad," Princess Genius replied. "It's a creature out of Greek mythology. It was said to carry the Greek gods around on their various missions."

I smiled back at her and nodded. I find that, if I smile and nod a lot during their conversations, I can create the illusion that I'm following the flow. But, in reality, I'm wondering things like, "Does Captain America sleep with that shield in his bed or does he have some sort of super briefcase that he puts it in at night?"

And then the other day we got the expected phone call from Mensa. (I immediately took my newfound Wikipedia skills and looked up this brainy organization.) When they realized that they were talking to someone who was basically 100 points below the bell curve, they asked to speak to my wife.

It was then I realized where this intellectual capacity came from: my wife, Special Sauce Caldwell! My children were the recipients of her cracking, recondite mental gifts. From me they inherited a large, round nose (they both wear it very well), a round head, and, thankfully, not the gene for male pattern baldness. Also, I have taught them how to make noises with their armpits and the secret way to always win at the game "Paper, Rock Scissors." (The secret involves waiting a split second for your opponent to show their hand.)

My wife talked for a half-hour on the phone with the Mensa folks and used lots of large words like "propagate", "recitative", and "membership". I made popcorn and washed the dishes. (I like to pretend the dishpan is a battleship and the cups are submarines, and it's World War II in the sink.)

It turns out that (as my wife explained to me) the girls had "won" an all-expense-paid trip to New York City to attend a "special ceremony" that she and the girls would be attending. I could either sit on a bench outside the Mensa headquarters or, if I wanted to, the folks at Mensa had kindly thrown in a free pass for me to go to Madame Tussaud's wax museum where I could spend the day pretending I'm giving the Queen of England a noogie.

I've opted for the museum pass and the family is eagerly awaiting the trip to the Big Apple this summer. (The girls even kindly explained the etymology of that NYC nickname. It turns out that it has very little to do with apples.)

So, I'm proud and confused all at the same time. This feeling, I'm sure, will not go away anytime soon. The girls are already talking about some sort of prize that the King of Norway gives away each year. (I made a Norway pun using the term "no way" that caused the two of them to rub my head and say, "Good for you, Dad!")

I'm so proud of my girls. Confused and proud.

12 Dead In 12 Days and Loving My Neighbor As Myself

Normally right now you would be reading an opening paragraph in which I would brazenly say something provocative like “of all the soda options out there, Moxie is clearly supreme.” (Which, by the way, is true.) This opening salvo would fall somewhere on the spectrum of “mildly amusing to hysterical” and would, I truly hope, lighten your day a bit.

But as I scan the local headlines these past few weeks, I can’t help but have a heavy heart for our state and the unprecedented amount of violence we have endured the past twelve or so days. “Twelve dead in twelve days” is a heavy headline for any place, but in a state as small and cozy as ours it seems more like a headline from the Vietnam War.

Well, I guess it’s a warm and cozy state for you and me. But for some folks the world is a cold dark place, no matter how beautiful or scenic your surroundings. Some folks live in a darkness that you and I could never understand or comprehend. In the beautiful month of April thirteen years ago Columbine high school experienced a violent act that could never really be explained. Then five years ago, Virginia Tech experienced the same sort of event, times three. These acts of mass violence were perpetrated by “troubled loners or outsiders” and it was only afterwards did people around see the signs of what was to come.

But that’s not the conversation that we usually have after a violent event like these, or the recent troubles we have had here at home. Usually talk turns to gun control or the current economic climate in small towns and down and out places, and the psychological ills of violent media like video games and movies.

These are worthy subjects of consideration, and worth more time and conversation than an internet posting or a bumper sticker can provide. But it seems to me, and to my simple mind that the heart of the matter lies in the heart of man. The above mentioned factors are critical, but they seem like factors in a larger picture.

Before the outbreak of the recent Iraq war a reporter on MTV asked the musician Sting if he was against the war, and he said that he was. When pressed as to what his solution to violent tyrants like Saddam Hussein was, Sting responded with perhaps the wisest words ever uttered on MTV (among the daily pearls of wisdom offered on this network). He said “I would respond with the old artist’s answer of ‘love’. And what I mean by that is that it’s impossible for me to believe that if Saddam Hussein had experienced true love as a child, the true fierce love of a family or community, that he could ever have become this way.”

When I heard this I knew Sting was right. It’s about love, but not the kind of greeting card, Nicholas Sparks novel version of love. It’s the kind that cares for others and shows concern and regard for those at the ragged edge of society, loners and troubled souls who fill our headlines these days.

When Jesus (another eminently quotable person) was asked by the religious establishment of his day what the most important commandment (or “thing to do”) was, he answered with these two elegant lines; “love the Lord your God with all your heart and love your neighbor as yourself.”

This answer truly bothered the organized religion folks of his day (that should make some of your very happy) because it was too simple. Surely living the virtuous life should be more complex than this.

But it isn’t. It’s so simple. (But as my wise Pastor, Jon would say, “just because something is simple that doesn’t make it easy.”) If the one thing I am called to do down here (in regard to other people) is to “love my neighbor as myself” then that means looking out for one another in a serious way. And I know that Jesus meant more than just our literal neighbors because when the questioners responded to him by asking “and who is my neighbor?” Jesus responded by telling the parable of the Good Samaritan, a story that most of us have heard at one time or another.

Unless you are in the latest bio dome project, in complete isolation, you have neighbors, both literal and figurative. We need to look out for our own. What if someone had reached out to one of the perpetrators of these crimes in our state way before things started to sour in their lives? For some, that reaching out would have had to happen long ago. But it’s not too late to reach out to those in need right now. It doesn’t have to be complex; it can be a small act of kindness or a minute of your time. But if we all did it, if we all looked out for that person on our right and left, on the other side of our cubicle wall or classroom, then who knows what we could head off in the future.

My six year old daughter, Princess Supergirl knows this is true. When we were talking at bedtime tonight she asked me what I was going to write about and I told her (in an edited “Dad” version of course). She responded by saying “There are a couple of kids in my class who don’t get along with anybody and are always alone. I try and show them love and sometimes it works and everybody has a good time and sometimes they are still mean.”

To that I said “It always ‘works’ sweetheart. Sometimes it’s hard but you never know what you can accomplish.”

Sometimes you can save a life.