Merry Christmas, for schizzle

What could be more traditional?

A ghost of Christmas Past

And here is why I was really on shaky ground making fun of Mike's getup. This is Christmas 1981, back at Dad and Dar's John Street crib. Nice hairstyle, eh?

Hope everyone is having a great Christmas and staying out of the snow!

The Prom King

There's Dad, placing the crown on former KHS legend Birdie Kneepkins, or however the hell you spell that. It's 1952 and I have no idea who the other clown in the Sydney Greenstreet outfit is. It might actually be a department store mannequin, although it sure looks like he's checking Birdie out and wondering if he can get some of that. Since it was 1952, we can safely assume the answer was no. And even if the answer were yes, the dude would have needed a machete to hack through all that taffeta.

Dad was a pretty dashing figure, though, wasn't he? The wagon wheel in the background is a nice touch, too - almost looks like some sort of hillbilly halo for the lovely Miss Birdie.

Dad's been gone for a long time and the other principals in this photo, assuming they are still alive, are now both likely spending most of their time pursuing early bird specials instead of young love. And if their grandchildren are attending proms, the boys might be having trouble keeping their pants from falling down off their butts, if what I'm seeing these days is any indication.

What a nice looking family

Ain't we cute? Had this taken for the church directory back in August. Thought you might like it. We'll return to our regular cheap-shotting programming shortly.

Man, you're such a sellout

So I was just talking to Marge on the phone about Christmas stuff, and since she got my name, we were talking about what I might like for Christmas. I mentioned the possibility of some clothes I can wear to work and out in society. After I said that, I mentioned to Marge that if the six-year old version of me was to hear that, he would flip his lid. So, here is how I think a conversation with my six-year old self about Christmas would go:

6-year old Mike: What do you want for Christmas? I want toys!!!
31-year old Mike: Actually, I think some clothes for work would be decent.
6-year old Mike: WHAT?!!! CLOTHES?!!! Why would you want clothes for Christmas? Next you're gonna tell me you don't like the Cowboys anymore.
31-year old Mike: Well, I am a Packer fan.
6-year old Mike: GRRRR!!!! You don't want toys, you don't like the Cowboys?!!! What's next? You like girls now too? It's bad enough you like Margaret now!
31-year old Mike: Well, when you grow up, you actually start liking your brothers and sisters. And, boys usually start liking girls.
6-year old Mike: GRRRRR (that would probably be how I would express anger, considering this was just after I was told I couldn't swear until I was 12)!!! At least you still hate all veggies, right?
31-year old Mike: Actually, I sometimes eat the occasional veggie. But not onions....
6-year old Mike: You've changed....but onions are yucky! At least you still like cereal, right?
31-year old Mike: Oh yeah...but I have bad news for you, kid...they don't sell Halfsies anymore.
6-year old Mike: Grrrr.....

Well, the six-year old version of me wasn't that articulate. Hell, the 31-year old version of me isn't that articulate. But, that would probably be the jist of it.

So, my question to the group is this: What would the 6-year old version of you think of the adult version of you?

The double-digit rule

It's been over seven years now, and I sure miss it.

Usually around 9:30 or so, the phone would ring. I would answer the phone and the conversation would go something like this:

"Hello?"

"Might Mr. Mark Edward Heuring be available?"

"Hi, Mom. How are you this morning?"

From there, you never quite knew where the conversation would go. But it would happen, pretty much like clockwork. I would usually get the first call because others were enforcing the double-digit rule; that is, no phone calls before 10 a.m. This was a wise rule of course. For more than a few siblings I know, brains and bodies needed recovery time from the previous night's festivities. It was always difficult to talk to Mom if you were hung over. I remember trying more than a few times and the results were often bordering on the surreal. The only wakeup calls that were less welcome where when the woodpile beckoned on Railroad Street and Dad would go all Doctor Zhivago on us.

Funny thing is, I'd love to take a call from Mom. And I'd even be willing to face the woodpile again. I bet we all would.

So what's more embarrassing than wearing black knee socks in 1968?

Perhaps wearing a hoodie that's apparently made out of a tablecloth for your senior picture.

You were/are/might still be one sexy mofo, youngblood.

Rock on with your bad self.

Why I love my new scanner

Because it allows me the ability to post stuff like this.

We were really well dressed dudes back in 1968. Dig the short pants and the black knee socks on the brothers, and the Beatles-style Edwardian suit that I'm sportin'. And I'd be willing to wager we were all wearing Buster Brown shoes from Gloudeman's Department Store.

The only problem is we probably ended up with a mouth full of lake flies after this picture was taken.

Happy Birthday, Coco!

It's Carol's turn to have a birthday today! Hope that you have a great one and that you have a chance to enjoy yourself a little bit today. Perhaps you might be able to get a bite to eat later on this evening. If you get the chance, Pat and Butcher have a recommendation for you.

Getting Down to Business

So I figure someone other than Mark should post something on here. All joking aside, I think there are a couple of serious topics that should be discussed amongst Heuring Nation (as my buddy Jason calls us).

1. American journalism - Many people believe that the quality of journalism in this country has gone downhill significantly in the past few years. My question is this: Is it bad enough where perhaps a former neighbor of ours would qualify as a journalist by interviewing Appleton-area ants?

2. The decline of industry - Since it was alluded to in the comments of the first post, I need to ask: Why has the home delivery of orange juice declined? Is it because the consumer prefers to buy canisters of orange juice concentrate, and have to drive in order to do so? Or, did the fat cat plutocrats who run the industry want to simply fatten their pockets by not paying good people like Bud to deliver pure quality Michigan orange juice to the homes of America (or at least a certain home in the Hycrest subdivision of Appleton, Wisconsin)? I think the Florida growers were scared of a little competition and conspired to get this fine tradition eliminated. I don't know if I like an America where we are forced to drive to the store, buy orange juice (especially in concentrate form), and in some cases, make it ourselves. Where do the presidential candidates stand on bringing back home orange juice delivery and busting up the Florida orange juice cartel? This will determine how I vote in 2008.

3. Property rights - Is it really that bad to hit buckets of golf balls into neighbors' yards? I'm sorry, if a former Kimberly industrial arts teacher didn't want us hitting golf balls into his yard, he should have made his yard less inviting. Sure, you could give us the "it's his property" argument, but darn it, there were so few trees, it was like a real-world fairway. No one short of God himself could resist that temptation. Although, in retrospect, he shouldn't have mowed his lawn so much. Hitting into his well-manicured lawn has not allowed me to have the skills necessary to hit out of the rough (which is where I play most of my golf). Say that reminds me, I wonder how his wall of trees are doing?

I think we need to tackle serious issues on this blog such as the ones I just mentioned. I am sure there are more than just these that will come up as time goes by. But, I figured this was a good start.

My first blog post...hopefully it gets better from here.

We are the Grammatically Correct Family

Politically correct? Heck no. There are six of us, the spawn of Ed and MJ. We may be outnumbered by the Drexlers, but we're less loutish. And we're comin' for you.