The Fear Factor

The Fear Factor

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Under cover of the darkness, the intruder slipped silently at first into the garage of the suburban residence; confident that in the early morning hours of around 3:30 am, the residents of the home would be fast asleep.

Inside the home, Deputy Easton McDonald was already up and preparing to go to work that day in his position with the Loudoun County Sheriff’s Department.

The intruder was apparently unaware that an alarm had been set off alerting Deputy McDonald inside, that the garage door had been breached.  He knew someone, at that moment, was in his garage.

Now hearing noises the Deputy retrieved a weapon.

The shadowy figure, in the darkness, continued to move through the garage not knowing that the Deputy was now on the alert and had a weapon.

Who was this perpetrator?

Was this person armed and dangerous?

Was the motive a break in with the intent to rob the residents?

Or maybe worse?

And what was going through Deputy McDonald’s mind as this dark shadow moved through his garage?

An intruder was in his home, his loved ones upstairs asleep.

Yes, a trained professional, but his wife; his family upstairs and asleep are now in danger. Who knows how much adrenaline was kicking in at this moment.

Now when he sees the dark figure coming at him he fires his gun.

 

“I am studying how quickly you react to something that is frightening, and it turns out that it takes just a tenth of a second between the time you are exposed to something that you fear until you react,” says Ole Åsli, a postdoc in the Department of Psychology at the University of Tromsø, in the ScienceNordic.

This has been a hard week for our country, for the African-American community, and for our police officers.  Again this week these incidents involved white police officers and African-Americans resulting in the loss of lives, maybe innocent lives.  Who can say?

From the vantage point of my TV,  I am not deciding right or wrong.

But I do know some police officers, or former police officers.  And I know their wives and their children.  And I am sure they were always as anxious as any one of us to be able to go home safely to their loved ones after facing stressful situation after stressful situation every shift.

And in those horrific moments of fear, those moments of fight or flight, when decisions had to be made in tenths of a second, reactions couldn’t be changed once committed.  They weren’t allowed a second chance; a second or third “take” if the outcome is not what was wanted unlike the movies or television where way too many of us base our version of reality these days.  It doesn’t happen that way in real life, you can’t take it back.

You don’t get a do over.

And what about Deputy McDonald, the police officer who shot the intruder in his garage?

Did we read in the Washington Post the next day about another white police officer shooting an unarmed person, maybe an unarmed African-American person?

No we didn’t.

In the case of Deputy McDonald, yes the victim was unarmed.  And the victim was white.

In fact the person Deputy McDonald shot in his garage as he felt he was being threatened, was his teenage daughter trying to sneak back into the house early that morning after slipping out of the house the prior evening.

We can be sure Deputy McDonald wishes he could take that split second reaction back.

Thankfully, his daughter survived her gun shot wound.

 

I don’t know…

I am sad for all involved… for all of us.

Somehow,  some way,  we need to change something.

Maybe we just need to pray about it.

Bucket List

Bucket List

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Blind Lemon Jello
Blind Lemon Jello
  1. Happy marriage…check
  2. Half Marathon….check
  3. Website and write…check
  4. Savannah’s Cod Fish and Hamburger Casserole…check
  5. Mission trip in Jamaica mountains…check

I mentioned a few week’s back that I played the harmonica.

I also mentioned in that same piece that I wasn’t particularly good at anything.

That particularly applies to playing the harmonica.

  1. Music video…check and check

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-TVIiGLAcV8

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tWwxdxiyHUM

 

I had fun though.

Thanks Tom Fish and band

On Delivering Happiness and Grit

On Delivering Happiness and Grit

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Photo of Mr. Hirsch and his dog from the WUSA 9 post
Photo of Mr. Hirsch and his dog from the WUSA 9 post

My skin is burnt from the sun.  My lips chapped, and my mouth dry from partial dehydration.  The bruises on my thighs don’t tell the real story of the pain I am feeling in my legs and feet.  I haven’t slept in over forty hours and dizziness is now setting in making my gait unstable and I stumble at times.  The strength that I relied on the last few days is now gone and I struggle to lift the most minor objects, even the fork that is now in my right hand.  The device on my wrist reminds me of the almost 90,000 steps I have taken in the last 48 hours or so.

What happened? You ask. Did you go through some kind of survival exercise?

Nope…nothing like that.

It was the church yard sale!

My daughter Hayley gave me the book Grit, the Power of Passion and Perseverance,  by Angela Duckworth for Father’s Day.  Though I haven’t finished it yet, Ms. Duckworth defines Grit as the combination of passion and perseverance.

My church’s annual yard sale is an example of grit.

Matthew 25:40: “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.”

Every year on this last weekend of June, a group of very passionate people, persevere through what was a grueling month of work, escalating in the days and hours leading up to and throughout the event itself; to raise money to support missions that help “the least of these brothers and sisters.”

Tony Hsieh, in his book Delivering Happiness, says that happiness is about four things:

Perceived Control

Perceived Progress

Connectedness (number of relationships and the depth of those relationships)

And, most important, being part of something bigger than yourself

I can tell you that the folks who I worked with this last month and especially these last few days have both Grit and Happiness.

 

I finally arrived home Saturday about 7 pm after being up since Friday morning at 6 am and sat down on my deck to eat the nice dinner that Savannah had made.  My neighbor came over to ask if we also had noticed the odor, the smell of a dead animal, evident from time to time in our yards.  Since I hadn’t been home in 36 hours I hadn’t really noticed it but Kim had as well.

Our yards back up to wooded area, and we have many animals that we see in out of the trees and brush fairly routinely.

A few minutes later my neighbor came back, this time visibly a little shaken and asked me to come with him,  he thought he found something suspicious in the woods behind his house.

 

Kenneth R. Hirsch, left a home on around 4:45 p.m. Tuesday in the 1400 block of Kingstream Drive around 4:45 p.m. His dog was with him. He was reported missing to authorities on Wednesday.

Police said Hirsch “may be experiencing emotional distress and be in possession of a firearm,” police said. They warned “he should not be approached.”

This was reported in the Washington Post on Friday.

 

On Saturday evening my neighbor and I found Mr. Hirsch and his dog.

Sadly, according to the police officer I spoke with, it was presumed that Mr. Hirsch took his own life and the life of his dog.

In August of 2014 after the suicide death of Robin Williams, I was reminded in my Happier, Healthier Me blog that not everyone was happy, not everyone was healthy.

Like Robin Williams, I am guessing that Mr. Hirsch didn’t have those four components of Happiness that Tony Hseih defines for us.

Unlike the physical pain I experienced this week in my quest to pursue happiness, Mr. Hirsch’s pain was different.  And at least for a moment he couldn’t control it.

And that’s all it took.

There are many around us who don’t have perceived control; who don’t feel like they are making progress; many that don’t have lots of strong relationships or friends; and aren’t part of something bigger than themselves.

They don’t have a passion for life anymore and the strength to persevere.

We need to help these brothers and sisters too.

 

 

 

Father’s Day Epilogue

Father’s Day Epilogue

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My Pop the Waterman
My Pop the Waterman

The day started out to be just as I imagined, the best Father’s Day ever.  Who would have ever thought it would end so horribly surreal.  The kids were fishing off the dock.  Suddenly one of the fishing poles dipped strongly from an obviously heavy force and the line took off.  With tremendous effort the reeling in began.

Surely this had to be some great fish.

Suddenly the beast crested the surface and came crashing down like the very sea monster I imagined it was.  Huge wings flapping and slapping the waves, its tail thrashing, it dipped back under the surface diving deep, no doubt wanting to take one of us with it.  What seemed like hours went by and now near exhaustion, the great beast was at the dock when it came crashing down on the deck.  Its huge tail swung around and I raised my foot to block it, saving the girls, but its long spear like razor sharp stinger with its poisons ripped through my skin and pierced the bottom of my foot.  Pain gripped me as the blood spurted; the gore was now evident over the freshly painted deck boards.  Now half delirious I could feel the pain creeping up my leg and into my groin.  I grabbed my six inch fishing knife and plunged it deep into the belly of the beast.  Now crab bait, I lay back exhausted and dizzy from the toxins that were raging though my blood stream.  I did the only thing I could think of, with all the strength I could muster, I screamed for help…

“MOMMY!”

Okay it didn’t exactly happen like that.

Now sitting on the steps of my parent’s deck, my mother was spraying peroxide on the puncture wound in the bottom of my foot.

My wife was busy sweeping grass off the deck.  You see when you are from western Pennsylvania these sorts of things seem trivial.  “No Blood, No Bones, don’t bother me” is what my wife always says.  My brother in law once cut off the end of his finger while milking cows.  He placed the severed finger piece on the window sill and finished milking the cows.  It was only after he went home and the family asked where his finger was that he went back to barn picked it up and had it sewed back on.  That’s grit.

I am not that tough.  I am from the Jersey Shore.  We have Boo-Boos in New Jersey.

The real story is Savannah caught a small skate.  While trying to get the hook out of its mouth, it wacked the bottom of my foot with its tail.  Skates, even small ones,  have this razor sharp defense mechanism in their tails.  So after my mother patched me up, the pain did get a bit unbearable and started traveling up my leg.   My wife drove me to the Your Doc’s In Urgent Care in Cambridge Maryland where they were very concerned and took very good care to relieve the pain and ward off infection.

Savannah Holding the Great Beast
Savannah Holding the Great Beast

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Mom administering First Aid while Kim sweeps
My Mom administering First Aid while Kim sweeps

 

 

 

 

 

 

Me Soaking at the Your Doc's In
Me Soaking at the Your Doc’s In

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So today I am home as advised, soaking and elevating and will have the local Patient First take one more peek at it, also as advised, later today.

And though I lost three hours in the middle of the day yesterday it surely was the Father’s Day weekend I will always remember, and that memory won’t have anything to do with that skate.

Hope you all had as good a Father’s Day as I did.

My Dad with Alexa and his newest great grandchild Christian on the best Father's Day ever
My Dad with Alexa and his newest great grandchild Christian on the best Father’s Day ever

 

 

Oh Daddy

Oh Daddy

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Me and my Pops
Me and my Pops

Oh Daddy

If I could make you see,

If there’s been a fool around,

It’s got to be me.

Why are you right when I’m so wrong,

I’m so weak but you’re so strong,

Everything you do is just all right

(Christine McVie)

 

Yeah right.  Can you imagine one of your kids singing that to you?

The Shore Regional High School Class of 1974 yearbook was called the Voyager.  Towards the end of the Voyager was a section that may be all yearbooks contain, I don’t know; but it listed a couple of personal characteristics and predicted your status in ten years.  It was the Is/Can Be Found/Status in 1984 section. Well at least in my case it was 1984, but you are probably familiar.

Mine went like this:

Christiansen, Curtis

Is: Reliable?

Can be Found:  Playing his harmonica

Status in 1984: Daddy

I remember at the time, I wasn’t so sure I liked the Reliable with the question mark tag. But now I acknowledge my ADD tendencies and totally understand.

I thought that the Playing the harmonica was cool.  I still do a little of that.

I particularly liked the Status in 1984: Daddy.  You see I was looking forward to being a father.  I thought at the time, I would make a good one.

I recently read the autobiography of Mick Fleetwood, titled Play On.

In fact I read it twice.

I have always been a big Fleetwood Mac fan.  Most people are familiar with Fleetwood Mac from the Rumours album, the one that featured the song “Oh Daddy” written by Christine McVie.

I found myself drawn to this book and his story because I found many parallels to my life; the music I remembered; the sixties and seventies and everything good and bad that went along with that; family struggles; raising kids; raising girls.

But there was another thing I thought interesting, he admitted to feeling that he was never particularly good at anything.

That’s interesting because I have always felt that same way about myself.  I have always felt that I was never particularly good at anything either!

In just a little over a week I will turn sixty years old.  And just as my yearbook had predicted, in 1984 I was a Daddy.  I became a father in November of 1982.

You would expect that by my age I would have had the opportunity and the ability to be really good at something. You might expect, for instance, with that many years of parenting experience I would at least be good at that.  Good at being a father.  But the truth is everyday continues to be a learning experience, some days with struggles; some days with victories, others with regrets; but inevitably there is that nagging doubt and the thought that I could have done better, I should have done better, or I should be doing better.

I once thought the best thing I could teach my kids was how important it was to work hard; working hard no matter what the job.

I had always felt that way and lived that way, I have no guilt there.  But I have learned,  maybe too late in life, that working hard wasn’t the most important thing after all.

Because now I realize the most important thing in life is learning.  And I know now that I should have spent less time at working hard and more time at learning and growing.  Maybe if I had done that I would have had something I was good at by now.

And if I had worked less  I could have spent more time with my kids growing up and as a result, I would have been more prepared for changes in their lives and changes in mine that I didn’t foresee or expect.

This Father’s Day is special because I get to spend it with all my kids and my Dad gets to meet his newest great grandson for the first time.

This Father’s Day is also special because I also get to spend it with my Dad.  There was a time when I wouldn’t have been able to sing those Oh Daddy lyrics to my father either. But I could now.  So maybe I have learned one thing, how to be a better son.

Maybe that will make me a better father too.

And maybe my prophetic classmates were more right than I would like to admit.  Maybe there are some aspects of my life I can be more reliable at.

And I don’t mean playing the harmonica.

In the mean time I will keep trying and keep learning.

Oh Daddy,

You soothe me with your smile

You’re letting me know,

You’re the best thing in my life

 

Happy Father’s Day Pop!

The Great South Florida French Bread Incident

The Great South Florida French Bread Incident

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french bread one

By definition, a French Bread is a yeast-raised bread distinguished by its thick, well-browned crust, made in long, slender, tapered loaves.

I am a huge French bread fan.

HUGE!

But let’s get to the story.

It was early April.  I don’t remember which day exactly; it’s all a blur now.

Kim and I were visiting my daughter and son in law in South Florida and spending some time with our newest grandson.  One afternoon, I was preparing dinner and needed to go to the grocery store.   It was a Publix, a grocery store chain prevalent in South Florida.  I picked up what I needed for the dinner I was planning, and then I found a French bread.  Not a perfect one I thought, but not bad either.

I placed my French bread in the seat of the shopping cart like I would have done if it was my infant grandson Christian; very carefully and safe and sound away from the other items.

So now having completed my shopping I went to the check out.  I put all my groceries on the belt saving my French bread for last.  Now safely behind the other groceries, I put the little divider out so that the customer behind me wouldn’t encroach on my bread.

The nice young lady scanned and bagged all of my groceries.

Then she got to my French bread.

I watched.

She picked it up from the middle as I would have wanted her to do, so the weight would be distributed evenly.

She scanned my bread.

Then, she very calmly grabbed it with two hands, one on each end, snapped it in half and shoved it in the bag with some other groceries.

I felt the blood draining from my skin as my face got pale.  I think my bottom lip began to quiver as I stared trying to make sense of what had just happened.

I was speechless.  I didn’t know what to do!

Then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened, she calmly asked me to swipe my card, which momentarily jarred me out of my shock and I fumbled around to find my debit card, now just reacting to commands without thinking.

Shock gripped me…was this a South Florida thing I thought?

Should I just act cool like I knew that every check out person in South Florida snaps their customer’s French breads in half to be able to fit them in the bag?

I come from a part of Jersey where snapping someone’s French bread or Italian bread in half could have dire circumstances.

Still dazed and confused I took my receipt and my bags, including my broken baguette, and went back to my daughter’s home to tell them the story of the girl who folded up my French bread and put it in the bag.

 

I waited to share The Great South Florida French Bread Incident because I thought that one day I would understand; one day it would have some meaning, some moral to a story that would serve as a metaphor for one of life’s indignancies.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I knew the moral of the story already.

The moral of the story is… hey South Florida; don’t be snapping people’s French breads!

If I had bought a bouquet of long stem roses for my wife from the floral section would the stems have been snapped in half and the roses shoved in a bag?

What if I got one of those long family size packages of chicken thighs, would she have busted them up so they wouldn’t poke out the top?

I don’t think so!

Why then did she disrespect my French bread?  If I had wanted my bread in smaller pieces I would have bought the bag of dinner rolls instead!  I want my French bread as a long, slender, tapered loaf like the definition says!

Maybe there is a message here.  Maybe it is about respect.  Respecting those things that are important to others or that belong to others.

It’s like going out day after day to find that your neighbor’s dog has peed on the plastic bag that contains your Washington Post as it rests on the sidewalk (me).

Or coming home and finding teenagers you don’t even know sitting around your patio smoking cigarettes and helping themselves to your cooler (yup, my patio).

 

Yes, I think it is about respect.

Surely, that is the moral of The Great South Florida French Bread Incident!

And I also think that there might be times when we just need a reason to laugh little again.

 

 

 

On Cameron, Uncle Jim, and Me

On Cameron, Uncle Jim, and Me

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This is Cameron. He recently lost his second tooth.

When my almost six year old grandson Cameron arrived at the memorial service to celebrate Jimmy, he asked if Uncle Jim was there.

A little while later when the long lines of visitors extended down the driveway, he asked Savannah if Uncle Jim was in that long line.

With everything else that was going on, I don’t know that Cameron’s questions were ever properly addressed by Savannah or I.

So my answer to Cameron would be this;

Yes Cameron, Uncle Jim was in the building.

And yes Cameron, Uncle Jim was in the line too.

And I would add that Uncle Jim was in the Coomber Farm back yard as well.

And when me and all of you nice people left and went back to wherever it was we came from, Uncle Jim is now there too.  And that’s where he will live from now on.

And after seeing many familiar faces and speaking to many friends, I think it’s safe to say Cameron,  that your Uncle Donny was there too.

 

And finally I would like to express my personal gratitude for everyone’s assistance in helping to share our stories in all of our ways; and for the encouraging on line and off line comments that I personally received.  Some of those comments even came from folks who didn’t know Jimmy and wished they had, or felt like they do now; some in fact didn’t know either one of us.

When you are used to getting 30 or 40 views of one of your posts, and then you get 5000, that is sort of akin to having a best selling book in my little Musings world.  Hard to imagine. I have heard of people who have written a classic or a best seller only to never write again for fear of failure in a follow up.

Sorry,  that won’t be me.

And besides, I’ve been inspired.

Do you think that is a coincidence?

I don’t know.

Maybe………maybe not.

My Eulogy for Jimmy

My Eulogy for Jimmy

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img138

Later today we will celebrate the life of Jimmy McLaughlin.

But I would like to share with you now my favorite Jimmy story.

Most evenings when the weather is nice, you will find Kim and me out on our deck unwinding from the stress of the day and catching up with each other.  If you are not familiar with where we live, our yard backs right up to the Herndon High School athletic fields.   There is a fairly thick wooded area between our yard and the more elevated fields, which are enclosed by a chain link fence that is probably a good 7 or 8 feet tall.  Because of our close proximity, if we are on our deck, we are hearing whatever game, practice, or band event that is occurring on the fields.

On this particular evening, if I remember correctly, it was a Powder Puff game that was taking place.

So there we were, on the deck just talking and sitting at the table under the umbrella.  That’s when it happened.

All of a sudden there was this great commotion in woods behind our house.   We could hear bushes and leaves rustling loudly; branches snapping and cracking…..and I mean cracking, these were obviously no small branches being broken.

What the heck could it be?

We were startled…was it a huge deer?  A Big Foot?

What could possibly be snapping large branches like tooth picks and causing all that commotion?

Should we go to safety inside the house?

Seconds later, we saw it.

It wasn’t a giant deer.  No and it wasn’t Big Foot either.

It was a human.

It was a human in his underwear.

And it was Jimmy.

As Jimmy emerged from the trees and the underbrush he quickly bolted across our back yard.  As you would expect with Jimmy, he very respectfully acknowledged Kim and I on the deck with a greeting, never losing a step as he raced across the yard.  We watched in confusion and disbelief as Jimmy crossed the neighbor’s yard, then the common area, and finally disappeared around the tennis courts.

Later I would learn that in the moments  just before the commotion in the woods, Jimmy had streaked across the Powder Puff Game field and had a couple of adults in hot pursuit as he scaled and leaped the high chain link fence and went crashing through the woods.

For Kim and I, left looking at each other thinking what’s to disbelieve?

It was Jimmy in his underwear crashing through the woods and running through the yard.

Why not?

And we laughed.

 

I recently read a book by Elizabeth Gilbert called Big Magic.  You might be familiar with Elizabeth Gilbert because she wrote Eat, Pray, Love; which was pretty popular.   In Big Magic, Gilbert introduces the concept that inspiration is a living thing.  And as a living thing, inspiration is constantly looking for a place to live, a place to develop.  Left idle, that inspiration would move on looking for someplace else, someone else, where it could continue to live and grow.

That may be hard to imagine, but I believe inspiration found a home in Jimmy.  Jimmy was inspired to do great things with his life.  After college something motivated him to leave his comfort zone and join the Navy.  But not just the Navy, he took on Navy Seal training and ultimately became a Medical Navy Diver graduating at the top of his class.

Something in Jimmy drove him to want to take on the most challenging and be the best at it.

And he succeeded.

I propose this to you, because I want you to consider that what if Ms. Gilbert’s theory has merit?  What if the inspiration that found its home in Jimmy, is now idle and looking for a place to live?

And wouldn’t it be an honor and a privilege if the inspiration that was alive in Jimmy, found its new home in one of us.

But maybe we think that is a bunch of crap and don’t believe that inspiration is a living thing looking for a place to grow.

Maybe we don’t need to.  Maybe we just need to consider Jimmy’s life…. not his death, but his life; and maybe that would be enough  to inspire one of us  to strive to do something we have never done before, something outside our comfort zone, and be the best at it.

And do it with the same good nature and passion that Jimmy would have done it with.

I think so.

And for Jimmy, who did all the hard work to provide that inspiration for us, that would be an honorable way to be remembered.

But for now Jimmy,  rest……. in peace.

Words

Words

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Jimmy McLaughlin May 19, 1988 - May 20, 2016
Jimmy McLaughlin
May 19, 1988 – May 21, 2016

For Kathy

It is estimated that there are 1,025,109.8 words in our English language,

Way too many for me to learn how to manage.

But woven together they can build great nations,

And the men and women who speak them, distinguished reputations.

They can be used to create unions of countries divided,

Or unions of two, with a simple “I Do.”

They often express love and sometimes inflict pain,

Either building strong relationships or causing some to be never the same.

And put to a melody some can sing and others try,

Or in a book or an essay, put a tear in your eye.

No matter, without them,  the world we would not know.

 

But if words are so important and so easily spoken,

Why is it so that there are days like today?

A day when I can’t find the words,  and the right thing to say.

When out of that million I struggle for just a few,

That will make this day better…. better for you.

Then I look up from my writing and right in front of me hanging on the wall,

Is a plaque that says:

“Mothers hold their children’s hands for a while…their hearts forever”

There….. I guess I couldn’t have said that any better.

 

Postscript:

The  prayers and deepest sympathies of my family go out to Meghan, Jimmy’s wife; Kathy, Jimmy’s mom, for whom I write this; Rody, Jimmy’s dad; Tommy, Christian, and Patrick, Jimmy’s brothers; as well as to Jimmy’s grandmother, aunts and uncles, and cousins.  And also to the extended family, you know who you are, who once again are circling the wagons.

Mother’s Day Angels

Mother’s Day Angels

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Lying in her bed, early in the morning

The cell phone rings with a message that reads

“Thinking of you, have nice day”

She puts her head back down on the pillow and starts to cry

Here we go again this year

It’s another Mother’s Day

 

I don’t remember which year, which Mother’s Day I wrote that, the opening paragraph of a longer piece I never finished.

It’s another Mother’s Day.  They are all a little different and unfortunately all have their similarities.

Today started with the similar, some sadness, some tears.

Kim decided to make a visit to the cemetery to visit Donny, and this is where it got different.

While there she felt a hand on her back.  It was a woman.  The women explained she had been walking by and saw Kim there.

And her heart felt heavy.

She started to walk back by again but again she didn’t stop.  And again she said she felt the Lord heavy on her heart and she felt like the Lord wanted her to stop and talk.

And so the third time she decided to walk up to Kim.

She told Kim “your son is always going to be with you even though he is with the Lord.”

And she said “It’s okay to cry.”

 

I don’t know who that women was who felt the need to stop and talk to Kim on this Mother’s Day, but for today to me she was an angel.  Like the young person who sent the text messages to Kim for many years on Mother’s Day, “Thinking of you, have a nice day.”  That act of thoughtfulness was huge.   To me,  he was also an angel.

And though the day started very similar to many other Mother’s Days I remember, this one had its story that made it different and as a result helped make it better.

Because just like the stranger in the cemetery said “it’s okay to cry,” it’s okay to be happy too even though you might feel like you shouldn’t.

So Happy Mother’s Day to my wife and to all the mom’s out there.  I am sure you all have your angels too.