My post 4 Ways to Flog the Inner Impulse Shopper is up in Free Money Finance’s March Money Madness tournament. Please take a moment to vote for me(Flog).
Thank you. That is all.
The no-pants guide to spending, saving, and thriving in the real world.
My post 4 Ways to Flog the Inner Impulse Shopper is up in Free Money Finance’s March Money Madness tournament. Please take a moment to vote for me(Flog).
Thank you. That is all.
When I was little, the world was amazing. The first snowfall was among the best days of the year. Everything was worth exploring, in hopes of discovering something new and fascinating, and everything was fascinating.
Stepping on a crack had serious implications. The wishbone in a turkey earned its name. Blowing out all of the candles on a birthday cake could change your life. The idea of some dude half a world away, watching you, then sneaking into your house to dish our rewards and punishments wasn’t pervy and sick, it was wonderful.
Then, one day, it all changes.
Somebody–a classmate, a older brother, a neighbor–let’s it slip that Santa isn’t real, and the implications snowball. That day, the magic dies.
Wishing on a star? Over.
The Easter Bunny? Hasenpfeffer.
Growing up to be Superman? Welcome to the rat race.
It’s a sad day when kids stop believing in magic.
I don’t believe in lying to my children, but I also don’t believe in destroying their magic. It’s a balancing act.
When my son was 6, an older boy at daycare tried to kill Santa for him. He was upset.
“Dad, is Santa real?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t believe in Santa.”
“Okay, I’ll let him know.”
“Nonononononono! Don’t tell him!”
Was it lying? Probably, but he obviously wasn’t ready to stop believing, so I let him continue. A year later, we had the same conversation, but the results were quite different.
“Dad, you’ve always said that you hate lying, so why did you let me believe in Santa?”
So I told him the truth. Magic is a frail thing that’s nearly impossible to reclaim and I wanted him to have that treasure for as long as possible. And, “Now that you know, you are in on the conspiracy. You’ve been drafted. Don’t kill the magic for anyone else.”
It was weird having him help me stuff stockings.
If you’ve got kids(and celebrate Christmas), how do you handle the Santa problem?
Today, I am sitting at a funeral. My oldest friend’s dad died on Sunday.
Mark had an amazing ability to make anyone feel like family, from the moment he met them. The day I introduced him to my wife, he taught her to throw a tomahawk, and she still talks about it, 10 years later.
I don’t have a post in me today.
Mark Wayne Dwire, 61, was accepted into his father’s arms surrounded by his family June 24th. Mark was born to Wyman
(Jack) and Donna (Hasbrouck) Dwire on March 25th, 1951 in Park Rapids, MN. Mark graduated from Walker/Hackensack High School in 1969. He was married to Sherry (Garbers) Dwire on July 31st, 1971. Mark was a business entrepreneur. He started as a logger when you could still make a living with a chainsaw and a tractor.
Mark was proceeded in death by his father, step father Robert Dwire and stepfather Patrick Harrington, his brother Kerwin Dwire.
Mark is survived by his wife Sherry, his mother Donna (Hasbrouck) Harrington, children Jesse, Jason, Terra Fine (Andrew), Jeremiah (Tanja), and Daughter-in-law Elizabeth. Mark loved his grandchildren Cameron, Emily, Madelyn, Lydia, Faith, Elaina and Ellery. He was fondly referred to as ‘Super Papa’. He is also survived by many siblings, nieces, nephews and cousins.