Since it is April and it’s snowing outside and that makes me a little sad and I heard a certain song on the radio, I have decided to rebroadcast a “Cookies by Dave” classic.  I’m sorry.  Please, forgive me.  Enjoy.

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“Centerfield, Not Centerfold”

(Originally broadcast – January 15, 2016)

Enjoying dinner, our 8-year-old son Sam posed the following question to Charlene and me, “What was your first favorite song?”  Well, that answer was easy.  The year was 1981 and the song was “Centerfold” by the J. Geils Band.  Really, it was hard to resist their sing along hook that went something like this, “Na na na na na na na na na.”  I loved it.  I even had a 45 record of “Centerfold.”  This, plus Eddie Rabbitt’s “Drivin’ My Life Away” comprised my entire record collection and as you can see, I had varied musical tastes for such a young lad.

As for “Centerfold,” I was 9-years-old and had no clue as to what the song was about.  “Those soft and fuzzy sweaters, too magical to touch.  To see her in that negligee is really just too much.”  Yep, the whole thing went over my head.  This of course begs the question, “How did a 45 of ‘Centerfold’ end up in my sparse record collection?”  Hum.  I think it may have had something to do with my teenage sister, Kathy.  Perhaps some sort of payback for the time I promised to tape all 100 top songs of the year on New Year’s Eve, while Kathy went out with some friends.  I made it to about song number 96 before I lost interest and joined my parents in the living room to watch a bowl game on television.  Epic little brother fail and not to mention all of those cassette tapes that went unused.  What a sad tale.  My guess is that I was never paid for taping those four songs, so in some ways getting that 45 of “Centerfold” was really more than I ever deserved.  “My blood runs cold.  My memory has just been sold.  My angel is a centerfold.”  Yep, all over my head.

So back to the question at hand, the one posed by my 8-year-old son, “What was my first favorite song?”  Looking back at Sam and with all sincerity, I answered, “I was into sports.”

Listening to the Gospel message, I was struck by something.  Take a look at the portion that caught my ear.

“So she (Mary Magdalene) ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved (John), and said to them, ‘They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.’ Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went toward the tomb. The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first.” – John 20:2-4

John beat Peter in a footrace to the tomb.  Poor Peter, he lost the race.  Not only is John called the disciple “whom Jesus loved,” but Peter had recently denied knowing Jesus three times.  Also, where is this story located?  The Gospel of John.  Peter just got letters included in the Bible.  No Gospel of Peter to be found.  They could have just put in a postcard from Peter with a photo of Rome with a little “Wish you were here” note.  Our boy Peter was suffering through a major losing streak.

Then as the jelly bean powered sugar rush of Easter morning settled in my sleepy mind, I smiled.  Peter actually won in the end.

Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome.  Holder of the keys to the kingdom of Heaven.  Nice job, slow poke.

I guess it is like Jesus used to say, “Sometimes slow and steady wins the race or at least the papacy,” or something like that (“So the last will be first, and the first will be last.”  – Matthew 20:16).

Happy Easter from www.CookiesbyDave.com!

This is what happens when you allow your family to pick out their hats first.

Yes, that’s right.  Good guys wear bucket hats.

While debating whether or not to shave my “Spring Break Beard,” I looked in the mirror.

What I saw, I would like to blame on sunscreen.  I would like to blame on too much sun.  I would like to blame on anything.  Anything, but the truth.  The truth staring back at me in the mirror.

My chin was mostly white.  White stubble.  White stubble that I am just not ready to embrace.  White stubble that will soon meet a razor.

White stubble, thank you for the tie breaker.

There’s something in our shed.  Something that comes in the middle of the night, drags our mouse traps around, licks up the peanut butter formerly on the traps, and then exits.

Tired of this intruder, I purchased the largest mouse trap I could find.  Prepping the trap, my teenager spied me.  “What is that trap for, a beaver?,” he asked in a teasing way.

Son, sometimes you have to aim for the rodent kill, even if it may end up being an overkill, with a trap designed for the big game hunter in mind.

When you just can’t decide on a color or texture.

Sitting at dinner, I spied an opportunity.  A chance that every dad identifies.  A partially consumed kid’s meal waiting to be finished off.

Sure enough, my son had stopped mid-burger, apparently unable to carry on.  Never fear, child.  I can help.  So I stepped up to the plate and downed the rest.  So good, so dad kind of helpful.

Later that same evening, more like middle of the night, my wife heard a rustling in the bathroom.  That same child, the child of the burger donation was vomiting.

I recalled the tasty burger.  The tasty burger that I now suspect transported so many germs from my child to me.

I was now a human host.  A petri dish for the propagation of the burger virus.  Some burgers are topped with cheese, but that one was covered with regret.

When the frozen Earth refuses to yield the final poinsettia decoration, there’s no avoiding a Conflict of Seasons with the bunny on the door.

For dessert, I delivered a plate of chocolates to the dinner table.

My 9-year-old son Ben grabbed a caramel and took a big bite.  Curling up his face in disgust, he remarked, “This chocolate has salt on it!”

I only had one thought.  The thing he needed to hear.  The only thing that would set the world right.

“Eat it, boy!  Today, you become a man.”