A little tin press

A question you hear a lot when you’re a child is, “What do you want be when you grow up?”

For me, the choice was self-evident. I wanted to be a newspaper reporter. When I was about 10 or 11, I bought a toy press from a store in my hometown that sold gifts, cards and toys.

The printing press was made of tin and had little rubber type that you could put on a wheel and turn it to make an impression on a piece of paper. It was time consuming work and based on technology that even in the 1970s was out of date. However, that little press did what it was intended to do – it sparked my imagination.

By the time I was a freshman in high school, I was writing up sports stories about our high school teams for our hometown newspaper, the Roundup Record-Tribune. My senior year in high school, I was the editor of our school newspaper and had chosen the University of Montana as my college because they offered degrees in journalism.

A high school guidance counselor encouraged me to start college during the summer after my graduation. He pointed out that my high school had less than 200 students but the University would have about 8,000 students. He didn’t want me to have culture shock and drop out, so suggested that I attend summer classes – mostly with teachers who were coming back for continuing education courses – and I would be better prepared for classes in the fall.

This was a grand idea. Missoula, Montana, in the summer is a treasure trove of activities and I soon was involved in many of them including a Sunday morning softball game on campus. It turned out many of the players would later be my professors, so it was a good way to meet them.

After my freshmen year, I again went to college in the summer, which allowed me to graduate from journalism school in three years.

My first job after college was as a reporter in Beach, North Dakota. I soon discovered that a month actually working for a newspaper taught me more than college did in three years. I was covering city government, writing engagement announcements and even taking pictures of automobiles for newspaper advertising. The one thing I wasn’t doing was writing sports. So after six months, I decided to quit, go live with my parents and search for a job as a sports reporter.

My goal was to work for the Billings Gazette. But alas, after a two-month search, I landed a job in Alliance, Nebraska, writing sports. This was a short-lived job. After two-days, I quit. I found that the publisher had lied to me about my wages and benefits package so I re-packed everything I owned into my car and drove back to Roundup to live with my parents again.

A month later, I got a call from a newspaper publisher in Baker, Montana, who wanted me to be the editor of his newspaper. The editor of the newspaper in Roundup had put a good word in for me, which resulted in this job offer.

I snapped it up and moved to Baker, a town about the size of Roundup and one that had many of the same interests and both revolved around the oil exploration and production businesses. Still I wasn’t writing sports, but I found living in Baker very comfortable. There were lots of young people because of the oil boom and I liked to party with all of them.

Two years later, I was offered a job with Mid-Rivers Telephone Cooperative in Glendive. This marked a big change in my career because I left newspapers and moved into public relations. However, reflecting on the change, I really didn’t realize it at the time. I actually applied for the job in the first place because I thought it might bring some opportunities for my Baker newspaper to do some printing jobs for the cooperative.

Luck was smiling on me, because my neighbor in Baker worked for the telephone cooperative. And while my neighbor had a reputation for hating everyone, he liked me. That was partly because I was a part-time bartender in Baker at his favorite watering hole - the Windjammer.

After three years in Glendive, I found myself married to a gal who played on the same volleyball team as me. One day I told her that if MDU had a job opening in their communications department, I would apply. Even if it meant moving back to North Dakota. I had met a lot of MDU employees both in Baker and Glendive and I liked them all.

Well, that weekend in the newspaper, there was a job opening at MDU and I applied. I was one of about 90 applicants. A fellow by the name of Jon Metropoulos came to Glendive to do a first job interview. As luck would have it, I went to college with his son who also attended journalism school. I must have misunderstood Jon because somehow I though there was only three people who had applied for the job. Well, this gave me a lot of confidence as I thought I had to be better than the other two. Perhaps, Jon was telling me that they would narrow the field down to three and interview those three in Bismarck.

A week or so later I got a call asking if Belinda and I would come to Bismarck for a second interview. So we stayed in the Kirkwood Motor Inn, had our interview, had a nice dinner on MDU and I thought if nothing else, it had been a nice weekend. About a week later I was offered the job. I started in December 1985 as the editor of the utility’s employee magazine.

A lot of changes occurred in the ensuing 16 years and by 2001, MDU was no longer simply a regional utility and I was no longer the editor of the employee magazine. I had been promoted a couple of times and was working as manager of the corporate communications department. Until I wasn’t. I had been downsized. So in February of 2002, I took a job as a reporter for the Bismarck Tribune writing education stories.

This job lasted until September. However, being a reporter again was a shock to my system. The biggest shock was the cut in pay. I was making less than half of what my salary had been.

In October 2002, I went to work for the Lignite Energy Council, where I continue to work today as the vice president of communications.

My wife and I have lived in Mandan for 25 years and we’ve been married for 25 years. We’re the parents of two adult sons and life has been good for us. And to think it all began with a little tin press that I bought at Annie’s Gift Store in Roundup. 

A little Polynesian culture

Last week, I took my fifth trip to Hawaii but my first actual "vacation" to the islands. I think this was also Belinda's fifth trip so we are "veterans" among the Hawaiian tourists.

We speak the language of tourists very well. We know to say "Aloha" for hello and "Mahalo" for thank you. We know that "Pupus" (pronounced poo-poos) are appetizers and "Pipis" (pronounced peepees) is beef. That "Luau" is a feast but "lua" is a toilet. That entrances to toilets  read "Wahines" and "Kanes" instead of Men's and Women's. Luckily, there are often drawings on the entrances as well.

One of the most important things to know about the islands is how isolated they are -- sitting in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. They are about 3,000 miles away from the west coast of the United States, and yet they are closer in distance to the United States than any other large land mass.

The islands are considered part of "Polynesia", which also includes other islands in the Pacific including Easter Island off the coast of South America and New Zealand, which is near Australia. There are about 1,000 islands in the Pacific that make up Polynesia. Since it would take months and lots of dollars to see all the islands, a simple way to get a flavor for the different islands is to visit the Polynesian Cultural Center on the east side of Oahu.

The Center is part of the Brigham Young University in Hawaii, so a lot of the people you see there are attending college from the various islands, such as Tonga, Tahiti and Samoa.

It's hard to know where the people that settled these various islands came from originally. Were they originally Asian or from South America? One things for sure, they were an adventuresome bunch to take to their homemade sail boats and float for thousands of miles on the high seas. How they ever survived is beyond  me.

Still, there are some similarities between the various cultures, which leads me to think that there must have been some trade between the islands. Perhaps a trader landed in Fiji after a stay in Hawaii. He would remember that he saw the hula dancers and might suggest that Fiji natives take up the dance as well. But since he has a poor memory, he can't remember all the movements or the color of their garments so they improvise.

Thus it comes to us today that the dancers from the various islands all have sort of the same dances but with different hand gestures, hip shakes and costumes.

Another thing to remember is that at the same time George Washington was commanding the Continental Army in the Revolutionary War against Britain, a war chieftan by the name of Kamehameha was leading his invaders with clubs and torches and burning the little grass shacks and chasing the natives over cliffs as he united the islands under his command. A statue of King Kamehameha stands across the street from the present day capitol of Hawaii in downtown Honolulu.

In 1778, the English explorer Captain Cook discovered the Hawaiian Islands and promptly named them the Sandwich Islands. So in 1866 when Mark Twain visited paradise, he called them the Sandwich Islands. However, eventually the native name of Hawaii became the prominent moniker.

After Cook came the missionaries who decided the natives needed to dress better so they gave them white shirts to wear. The natives didn't like the blandness of the white shirts and painted strikingly beautiful designs on them that were the forerunners of today's "Aloha" shirts.

There are many other unusual stories about the islands, including the role of the Dole family -- known for their pineapple plantations -- into persuading the United States to make Hawaii the 50th state in 1959.

Today, a visit to Hawaii will acquaint you with people from throughout the world. A bus trip from Waikiki to a Luau will include people from the United States, Europe, Australia and Japan....to name a few. There is no majority race in Hawaii. Everyone is a minority.

The U.S. has several military bases on the islands so you can also meet a lot of people in the service as well. They will be from all 50 states -- and I think they all enjoy their stay in the islands.

So practice up your Alohas and Mahalos, and save up for a trip to paradise. We've been to the islands in the summer and winter and there is no difference in temperature, the amount of daylight, etc. It's always nice in the islands. The flowers, the people and the natural beauty all welcome you to a wonderful get-away.

Lessons about happiness from an expert

Everyone wants to be happy. But it seems fewer people actually are. So, I’m going to try to change that by calling on a happiness expert – Happy Gilmore.

Happy Gilmore is the name of a 1996 movie comedy starring Adam Sandler, but its also the name of the lead character, a misguided hockey player trying to save his Grandma’s house from the IRS by becoming a pro golfer. Along the way he encounters a golf coach who’s missing a hand because an alligator bit it off. He also competes against a much better golfer by the name of Shooter MacGavin, and he gets into a slugfest with the old TV game show host Bob Barker.

So what can we learn from Happy that will make us happier in our own lives? I think there are three things we can learn.

The first, and probably the most important, is that we need to control our emotions. There’s a scene in the movie where Happy is standing at a bar and is being taunted by his arch nemesis Shooter MacGavin. Happy breaks a beer bottle and threatens Shooter while gripping the neck of the broken bottle.

Suddenly, Happy’s almost angelic girlfriend, Virginia, shows up and asks Happy what he is doing holding a broken bottle in his hand while his temper is flaring. Happy puts on a happy face and says, “I am just looking for the other half of it. Here’s a piece and here’s another piece.”

Sometimes we are going to be taunted by people and events that are going to be difficult to deal with. It’s easy to lose our temper. But the wiser choice is to learn to hold our tongue. It’s been said that grace is keeping your head when everyone else is losing theirs.

Let’s be graceful. And let’s keep our tempers in check. A day later or even an hour after we’re mad, we often look back at it and laugh or admit that it wasn’t worth getting mad about.

Second, we need to be ourselves and quit trying to be what others want us to be. For Happy, he was an unconventional golfer. In fact, he admitted that he was really a hockey player. Actually, he was a bad hockey player but a pretty good, unconventional golfer.

He could drive the ball farther than anyone on the pro circuit because he hit the golf ball the same way he would hit a hockey puck. He also didn’t use a regular putter. He used one the size of a hockey stick. Who knows…maybe it fit his hands better or made him more comfortable on the greens. The results are what counts and at the end of the movie, it’s a putt with the big putter that ricochets around a bunch of twisted pipes and bounces off a Volkswagen to win the tournament and save Grandma’s house.

I know all about this one. I stand out from the crowd because I write right-handed and do everything else left-handed. It would be no easier for me to learn to write left-handed than it would to learn to throw a baseball right-handed. We are what we are. Let’s accept that.

We need to keep our temper in check, we need to genuinely like ourselves the way God made us and we need to keep the right sense of perspective.

There’s a scene where Happy and his caddy – formerly a bum – are looking out at the fairway from a tee box.

Happy says, “Looks like a slight hill.” His caddy adds, “Yeah, and there’s a slant to the left.” Happy replies “Naw, it just looks that way because you only have one shoe on.”

It’s hard not to laugh at that. But how many of us are like the caddy. We’ve seen things from only one perspective so long that it looks right to us.

That is, until someone comes a long and turns our world on end because they look at things a little differently.

I have an older brother who use to make a lot of money as a welder in the oil fields in central Montana. As a welder, he worked around some of the toughest men in a tough industry. That’s why they call them roughnecks.

Today, my brother watches high school kids in a study hall in western Montana – many of whom are sent there because they are disruptive in class. In the world of high school, they are the worst of the worst. To my brother, they are about as troublesome as a lone cloud on a sunny day.

While teachers and administrators in the school think these kids are unruly or incorrigible, to my brother, they are no different from him when he was their age. And because he likes them, guess what? They like him to.

That’s why the principal of the high school asked my brother to leave his position at a middle school to take a similar job at a high school. I’m sure the teachers look at my brother and wonder if he isn’t looking at the world with one shoe off, but for Randy, he’s looking at the kids the way he wished high school teachers had looked at him. 

Who knows, these kids might end up getting married, buying a home, starting a business and raising a family….just like Randy did. And, really isn’t that what life’s about? High school is not an end, it’s a beginning.

So let’s learn from Happy. We’ll be happier if we control our emotions, accept ourselves as we are, and learn to accept other points of view as being as valid as our own. 

A Christmas we would never forget

Before I get to Christmas 2007, let me tell you about what happened in May that year. Dad had fallen down and a heart specialist recommended that he get a pacemaker. So we made arrangements with a surgeon at MedCenter One in Bismarck to implant the device.

On the appointed day, we took dad to the hospital for the procedure. They wanted him to come in at 6 a.m....before he ate breakfast.

As he's waiting for the surgeon to arrive, a nurse begins to ask dad several questions about his medical history. She asked him if he ever had a broken bone, ever had hepatitis, did he have high blood pressure, etc. Dad politely told her that he never had any of those things, although he was sitting in front of her with two broken fingers from when he fell. So I chimed in and told her the correct answers. Yes, he was a hepatitis survivor and he did have high blood pressure and a few other ailments.

Finally, she asked dad if he'd been to any foreign countries in the past couple of years or had any blood transfusions. Anyway, dad looked at me, then he turned toward the nurse.

"I want to tell you 'No', but that fella over there keeps piping up and contradicts my answers," he said.

His answer struck my funny bone and I began to laugh. Pretty soon, he was laughing also. So was the nurse.

Dad's memory isn't what it used to be, and some times the results can be very humorous. But it's not all his memory either. Like other people his age, he doesn't see and hear as well as he used to...and his patience has completely worn out.

So now let's jump back to Christmas 2006, his first holiday season in Mandan. Actually, it was Christmas Eve service and all the lights were turned out at the United Methodist Church as we were singing "Silent Night" by candlelight.

Much to the delight of my boys and my utter terror, dad was getting dangerously close to the hymnal with his lighted candle. As it turned out, he didn't start the pages on fire, but he did manage to drop a lot of candle wax into the music. I was wondering if the hymnal would ever be opened again after the book was closed on all that hot wax.

Now skip ahead a few months and we're at a country church where a funeral for one of Belinda's uncles is taking place. As often happens at these little churches, the priests who have served the parish all came back to play a role in the memorial service.

Some of the priests looked like they were older and more feeble than dad who was sitting in the second pew...right behind the deceased's brothers and sister -- also known as Belinda's mom and uncles. As one of the priests fumbled for his place in his old black, dog-eared prayer book, Mr. Patience -- standing next to me -- started drumming his fingers on the back of the pew in front of us.

In a few more seconds, his fuse had completely burned out and he said, in a nice loud, irritated tone, "He can't find it. He can't find it. He can't find what he's looking for."

You know, it's hard to laugh in church, especially at a funeral. But it's even harder to stop laughing.

Now come with me to Christmas Eve 2007. The Methodist church was packed and it seems that everyone had something to do. For my family, we were charged with lighting the Advent candles. As it was the last night before Christmas, there were five candles to light.

After our experience the year before, we didn't think it wise to have dad touch any candles. So we asked him if he would read the Scripture. It was from the second chapter of Luke. You are familiar with it as it's the same Scripture that Linus reads on the Charlie Brown Christmas Special every year.

There was Scott, Belinda, Grandpa and me. We decided to practice this whole lighting the candles, reading the Scripture, saying the prayer affair before the actual service and it's a lucky thing we did.

I had the second chapter of Luke printed out in nice big print for dad to read. And then he came to the part where Joseph is traveling from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Bethlehem, the town of David with his betrothed, Mary, who was expecting a child. This is where dad decided to read between the lines as he blurted out, "I bet that wasn't even his child."

Now for you heathens who have never read the Nativity story, dad was right. It's isn't Joseph's child. It's the baby Jesus, the son of God. But still...you don't want any ad-libbing during the lighting of the Advent wreath...especially if the extra words sounds like some sort of conspiracy theory hatched by road agents in ancient Judah.

So the question was this: do we trust dad to read the Scripture and hope that he remembers my warning about just sticking to the script, or do we trust him with a lighted candle in front of a packed church?

The answer was to give him the reading. And he did it wonderfully. The worshipers that night were very complimentary about how well dad had handled that passage of Scripture, especially the name of the governor of Syria -- "Quirinius."

Dad got the accolades he deserved....but if the crowd had only been there 30 minutes earlier for practice, it would have been a Christmas no one would have ever forgot.

Based on a true story...sort of

When Picasso was born, his mother would tell him and the other kitties stories from her life - in hopes her stories would protect her children when they were adopted by other people and taken to other homes. One of her stories dealt with mice.

She called them "darters." Little Picasso purred to his mommy, "Why do you call them that?"

"Because, honey, they like to dart in an out of holes in the walls, or from under hiding places and they are very tough to catch, but..." she smiled, "...they are fun to play with. You can bat them around and play with them until they are dead."

Picasso had never seen a mouse and he was nearing his first birthday, but the story his mother told him had stuck with him. He looked every where for a mouse, but alas, none was to be found at the Van Dyke's home. That is until one holiday - Veteran's Day - when Steve was sleeping in.

Picasso was sleeping at the foot of Steve's bed when he saw something that he had never seen before. Sticking out at the bottom of the covers was a round, pinkish mouse.

At first, Picasso wasn't sure it was a mouse so he went over and smelled it. It had an odor. So he licked it.

Suddenly the mouse darted under the covers.

With the quick movement, Picasso was more confident than ever that what he had seen darting under the blanket was a mouse. So he reached his paw under the covers and started batting at it.

This seemed to wake up Steve, who looked down at the foot of the bed to see this golden cat swiping at his big toe.

Thinking nothing of it, Steve went back to sleep...after all, it was a holiday.

As his feet were growing warm under the blankets, he again stuck his left toe out to get a little air.

Suddenly, the kitty sprung to life and pounced on the mouse, biting, licking and pawing at the darter.

Steve woke up from his dream and realized that Picasso was a "gullible" cat because he acted on only a small bit of information that his mother had told him. However, now the adventures of Picasso would be know throughout the world as "Gullible's Travels."

Bloom where you’re planted

All summer long I’ve been looking at these marigolds growing in the middle of my garden. A couple of weeks ago, I put my garden to bed for the winter when I dug up my potatoes, beets and carrots…the last vegetables growing, but I left the marigolds because they are very hearty and will take a couple of frosts before they stop blooming. Also, because I know that if I leave them in my garden, they’ll drop some seeds and grow next year. I’m not exactly sure where they will grow next year but I know that the scent of the marigolds drive off wanted insects and other pests. For instance, we live near the edge of Mandan but rabbits, gophers and squirrels don’t bother our garden. I’m about half convinced it’s because of the marigolds.

But the marigolds are but one flower I have in my yard. I’m also a lover of tulips. They are a sure sign of spring when their green heads start popping through the frozen ground. Come May, the tulips are bright yellow, orange and red…but they need to be cared for.

So on a sunny Saturday afternoon, my son Derek and I got busy and dug up the tulip beds. There are a few things you do.

First, you dig up the four to six inches of dirt that covers them. Second you remove the tulip bulbs. Then you dig a little deeper and add fertilizer. You put a little dirt over the fertilizer and rake the bed flat. Next you separate the bulbs and plant them. Then cover them back up. Then you wait for spring to arrive. 

So let’s review how this can help us as we grow and mature.

First, there’s the dirt. Where ever we are working or living, we need to make sure that the climate and goals of those around us are a match for us.

Let me give you an example. I began my career with newspapers, but after working 20 years in public relations for an energy company and a telephone cooperative, I had a hard time returning to the job of being a newspaper reporter in 2002. It wasn’t that I had forgotten how to write, but there was just so much more that I wanted to do than just be a reporter. It’s a bit like asking a gourmet chef to be in charge of the salad bar at Bonanza. Because the “dirt” wasn’t right, I looked elsewhere for opportunities and landed my current position with a trade association and returned to public relations.

Next you need to separate the bulbs. By this I mean you need to look at your current position and see what else you can do to attain a higher position, if that’s what you seek.  I remember doing exactly that when I worked for a regional utility. I was the editor of the employee magazine but I really wanted to be the manager of the department. So I looked at what other things I could be doing.

Well, there was talking to the press and writing speeches for executives. Also, there were leadership duties such as communications planning. In all, I had drawn one circle in the middle of a piece of paper that said, magazine editor. Then I drew about eight circles,  which contained other things that I could be doing and should be doing if I wanted to advance.

That’s what I mean by separating the bulbs. Tulips start with one bulb but in a couple of years, there can be a cluster of bulbs around that initial one. If you don’t separate them, the one in the middle will begin to die and pretty soon the bulbs will simply turn to dirt. So just as separating bulbs is essential, it’s also necessary to see what else you can do to help you advance.

Remember, your advancement also will help your employer. After all, the person you hope to replace will eventually retire and your company wants someone who can do as good a job or even a better job than person now holding the postion.

Finally, you need to fertilize. And for people, that comes from training. An honest assessment has to be taken. What do I need to be trained on for me to advance. For me it was public speaking and getting over my severe fear of public speaking.

You might not recognize it today, but I assure you that I was petrified to speak in front of an audience or a camera…knowing that hundreds or perhaps thousands would be listening to me.

So I joined Toastmasters…back in 1989. The first meeting I attended was incredibly unnerving. It was the Flickertail Toastmasters Club and they had a speaker cancel on them at the last minute so I was asked to give my “Ice Breaker”. I thought I would die. But I didn’t. And gradually, I started getting better and overcame my nervousness.

I’m lucky that I found Toastmasters because it has made a world of difference to me.

So the next time you see marigolds or tulips or whatever flower you like growing in a bed of dark loam, remember that flower is urging you to bloom where you’re planted. Plant your roots in good dirt and spread your blossoms toward the sun. 

So long Nibby, welcome Picasso

Nibby was definitely Grandpa's cat. He would come when Grandpa wanted him. He would follow him to bed, sleep with Grandpa until he fell asleep and then Nibby would stay up all night looking out the window, jumping on our bed or several other things that only cats understand. Before Grandpa woke up in the morning, Nibby would sneak back onto his bed so that Grandpa would be sure to think that Nibby slept there all night.

And if you dared even to try to move Nibby from Grandpa's bed or a chair or off the counter, Grandpa was always there to defend his poor helpless cat. Many a time, Grandpa's relatives got a tongue-lashing for something we might or might not have done to Nibby.

So when Nibby got sick and was put to sleep this week, I didn't really think I would get choked up with emotion. After all, this was a one-person cat, and I never was that one person. Nibby was a nice looking black-and-white male tom cat, but he wasn't what you would call affectionate. He was independent. Tough. And always made me feel that I was intruding on his turf.

Still, when I brought him into the vet's office last Tuesday afternoon, my eyes filled with tears and I could barely speak to the receptionist. Grandpa, on the other hand, was looking for the Men's room and seemed oblivious to the task at hand.

A couple of days later and I was starting to forget about Nibby and the tears that were shed...that is, until we got a letter from the vet's office. It was a condolence card but it also had a card with inked paw prints and the name "Nibby" calligraphed underneath. I saw the card and thought, "Is this some cruel joke...I'm tearing up again."

Yeah, I fed Nibby and hunted for him when Grandpa would let him outside and he'd run away...but I couldn't say I was ever close to him.

So when Grandpa said on Tuesday that he didn't want another cat, I had mixed emotions. On one hand, I wondered if he would miss his companionship that he had with Nibby. But on the other hand, Nibby never liked anyone but Grandpa so it wasn't hard to say that you really wanted another cat like Nibby.

But as the days passed, it soon became apparent that Grandpa had not forgotten his cat. Even though I had moved the kitty box, kitty food and dishes out to the garage, Grandpa still was relentless in his search for his cat and wondering where Nibby was.

So what was clear to Belinda, Scott and Derek, soon became clear to me. We had to find Grandpa another cat.

On Friday afternoon, Scott and his cousin Janelle drove to the animal shelter to scope out the cats. Scott called me at work and told me they had three choices but Picasso was definitely their first choice. At 3 p.m. on Friday, I met Grandpa, Belinda and Janelle at the shelter and I agreed that Picasso was definitely a good selection. He loved to be held and purred when cuddled.

Plus there was a story that came with Picasso. He had been found in a garbage can and given to the shelter. It seems that his previous owners had abandoned him. They put him in a cardboard box and threw him away.

How heart-wrenching...and yet it felt like what we had gone through. No, we hadn't been thrown away. But we felt a loneliness and emptyness after Nibby died. So it seemed like a match made in heaven. We would provide a good home for Picasso and just maybe Picasso would fill the void left behind by Nibby. Grandpa might yet again have a cat that will follow him to bed, put him to sleep and then jump on our bed to wake us up in the middle of the night.

No, Picasso isn't the classy dude Nibby was. Nibby always looked like he showed up in a black and white tuxedo. But Picasso seems to have a much better attitude than the somewhat peevish and very spoiled Nibby.

Anyway, we got a call at 1:30 p.m. on Saturday that if we wanted to adopt Picasso, we could come to the animal shelter in an hour and pick him up. In the mean time, I went to the garage and fetched the kitty box and washed the kitty dishes and put fresh water and fresh food in them.

Grandpa walked by me and spied what I was doing. He said, "It looks better already."

So in the period of a few days, it seems like our family has fallen into a great abyss only to emerge...hopefully better than before.