Climer Family Obit: Making Them Smile till the End

So Uncle Roger passed away a few days ago after battling ALS for six months. A great funny guy who just couldn't get angry at anything. My family as always been of the backward sorts, even during those "its a fact of life" things. Below, you will see what I mean.

And, yes, you will notice that Uncle Roger passed away on the same day as his brother (Uncle John) and father (Grandpa Joe). Not creepy at all...

Keep smiling Uncle Roger...tell grandpa and John that we miss them too.

D. Roger Climer

Born: October 30, 1957
Died: December 06, 2015

D. Roger Climer, 58, of Londonderry, was taken too soon at 8:27pm on Sunday, December 6, 2015 at his home, surrounded by his loving family, following the fight of his life with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease). 

http://www.hallerfuneralhome.com/home/index.cfm/obituaries/view/fh_id/12580/id/3516689  

He was born in Londonderry to Joseph and Genevieve (LaPine) Climer on Halloween Eve 1957, ruining trick or treat night for his siblings; and they held it over his head for years. On June 28, 2003, he married the love of his life, Heather Davidson-Climer.

In addition to his wife and mother, Roger is survived by his beloved son, Eli Climer; a brother Michael (Judith) Climer, of Londonderry; three sisters, Linda (Rodney) Dilley, of Richmond Dale, Janet (David) Whitehouse, of Chillicothe; and Kathy (Rodney) Skaggs, of Chattanooga, TN; his mother-in-law, Lois Davidson, sister-in-law, Heidi Davidson, both of Londonderry, a brother-in-law, Daniel (Jaime) Davidson, of Chillicothe; as well as several nieces, nephews, and a myriad of special friends, including Jeff, Marcel, Erdy, Big Bob, and Butsey. Roger was preceded in death by his father Joseph, who died on December 6, 1984. He was later preceded in death by a brother, Johnny Robert Climer, who also died on December 6, 1995.

Roger was a graduate of Southeastern High School, and went on to work for the Londonderry branch of the Shell Oil Company as a “petroleum transfer technician” (Uncle John pumped gas at Bolte's Shell, a pitstop between Chillicothe and McArthur, Ohio at the intersection of U.S. Route 50 and Vigo Rd). In 1995, he began working for Ross County Litter Control as a collection supervisor, but was more professionally known as “The Trash King”. In his spare time, Roger enjoyed watching his favorite football team, the Cleveland Browns; even though they were a constant disappointment. It was well known amongst his family and friends that he was a fun, quirky, twisted person with an amazing sense of humor. Even through the end of his illness, Roger never lost that “spark” that made him so lovable. He will be remembered as one of the kindest and most gentle souls; as a person who was selfless, caring, and giving to anyone that he met. His entire life revolved around his son Eli, and the activities they would do together. Riding the 4-wheeler, mushroom hunting, gardening, playing ball in the yard, watching football and the Cincinnati Reds were just a few of their favorite adventures.

In accordance with Roger’s wishes, calling hours will not be observed.

The family would like to thank Dr. Skocik and Adena Hospice for their outstanding care during his illness.

Local Kids Cash In: Trade Necco Wafers For Pepitas

"This is no fairy tale. I can tell you where Jack can stick that beanstalk," says Edmund Abernathy. The 70-year old Central Ohio man was less than amused when asked about a recent trade with three area children that backfired. Sure he only had his best interest in mind and was attempting to cash in on the gullibility of the kids, but this was not their first rodeo either.

It began last year when Mr. Abernathy was reminded of this favorite candy as a youth, Necco Wafers. The vintage round, potato chip-like combination of sugar, corn syrup (also sugar), gelatin (yup, still sugar) and gum (Hey look, its sugar!) that came in flavors like orange, lemon, lime, clove, chocolate, cinnamon, licorice and wintergreen. Realizing the candy still had a life delighted the man. With Mr. Abernathy not getting around as well as he once did, getting out and finding the coveted wafers had been difficult. Thus, his scheme began.

He thought he could fool neighbor kids during the upcoming Trick-or-Treat and trade them for what he says was "something special". His target were the brother/sisters trio of Calli, Abby and Reed Henderson. These three had a reputation and had been a nuisance to him since their birth. Little did he know, his beloved Necco Wafers had been the bane of all Trick-or-Treaters for the last half century.

The eldest of the trio, Calli (10), says she thought the wafers were simply scented sidewalk chalk. "People used to eat those things!? Why would they do that!?", she said amazingly. The middle child, 7-year old Abby, claims her school used them as a deterrent for bad behavior."What are 'clove' and 'wintergreen' anyway? They can't be real. Are those code names or chemicals of some kind?", she said confusingly, yet perturbed. Four-year old Reed could care less, as long as it has more sugar than anything else, he's happy with it - and the concentrated sugar discs hit the spot.

Mr. Abernathy did not understand that the children would have gladly given him their unwanted, sure-fire, holiday retaliation handouts. Knowing he was out of the loop, the kids played along. The man offered what he called "magic pumpkin seeds" as a trade for the wafers. The seeds were actually stale BBQ flavored pepitas left over from a Whole Foods gift basket from the previous year's Christmas.

Calli, Reed & Abby Henderson proudly showing 
off their Pumpkin Straw near their home in Orient, Ohio.

The ringleader, Calli, indicated they would have taken anything in order to get rid of the remnants from the candy hall of shame. "Hey, at least it saved old Mrs. Murch from future payback. She was the one passing that crap out. I think she found them under her refrigerator", she stated.

"How old is this candy?", Abby asked. When told the original recipe was developed in 1847, she quipped, "I think that crazy lady has been holding on to these for the last 168 years. They taste like they're from the original batch."

The youngest, Reed, seemed to be annoyed that in order to get his sugar fix he had to punish himself with a lack of actual taste. We wanted to know if the wafers reminded him of anything and with a mouth full of a colorful, soot-like substance, he replied, "Poop flavored dust!"

Once the trade of Neccos for pepitas (the "magic" pumpkin seeds) took place, Mr. Abernathy was overwhelmed with joy - feeling as if he had his revenge for the most recent havoc the trio had caused. Their game, called "Pine Cone", had left his juvenile coniferous trees devoid of their beloved woody offspring he uses to decorate with each fall.

Apparently, "Pine Cone" is played by simply plucking the items off of the trees and repeatedly pelting one another with them until you find something more constructive to do. Defending their most original game, Calli says they - too - were not unscathed. "Those pine cones can be pretty sharp, I got a real bad, deep splinter the last time we played," she said forcing back an obvious smile as only a child can do.

Almost sure that what they received was nothing, the children did - for laughs - plant the seeds. They were more than relieved to be rid of what Reed referred to as the "devil candy". And just like that, the trio grew the world's first Pumpkin Straw. They have become rich and famous for their unique, homegrown product. Their hometown of Orient, Ohio has - of course - become the hub of the Pumpkin Straw market overnight.

According to Abby, "We thought it was just a fluke, but the grass just kept growing. Folks purchasing the grass we've baled say it's like aroma therapy for their animals - it calms and pleases them." When asked her thoughts on the man who traded them the seeds and was, essentially, the reason for their success, Abby seemed to not understand the question, "Mr. Abernathy? Isn't that the neighbor's cat?" The three siblings then fell to the ground in hysterics.

In a world of pumpkin spice everything, these three children have added a new chapter to the gourd that turns fall into a nightmare. Who wouldn't want to taste, ingest or smell like a jack-o-lantern?

Beguiled by Necco Wafers and subsequently burned by his desire for them, Mr. Abernathy isn't too fond of his neighbors' new found business empire. When pointing out to him that this story was eerily similar to the "Jack and the Beanstalk" fairy tale we all know so well, he didn't budge. He just pointed to a recently opened box near his front door. The top flap said "Thank You! From The Hendersons" and inside was a pile of crunched up pine cones with what looked to be a pumpkin scented car air freshener sitting on top.

In the distance, several juvenile pine trees loaded with green foliage were swaying in the Autumn wind - but visibly missing their brown strobile brethren.

It CAN'T Be the Shoes!?

Fall, Harvest season, the Autumnal Equinox (FYI...thesaurus.com, you are seriously lacking in the synonym department); these are amazing in Ohio: the colors, the weather and the state's official tree scattering the landscape with the brown, poisonous nut that Ohio's flagship university has as its preeminent, fear-inducing mascot....the buckeye.

Each September the Aesculus Glabra (ESS-kew-less GLAY-bruh....when did science begin using Star Wars as its basis for explaining nature?), a.k.a the Buckeye Tree, spreads its achene like the Johnny Appleseed of the this-looks-pretty-but-its-toxic-and-the-joke-is-on-you world. Many folks, including my family, typically gather the buckeyes and use them as fall decor around the house. As kids, we kept them for good luck. Now we did not have a Buckeye Tree in our large yard growing up, but many of our neighbors did. This includes our church, which was about a half-mile down our street.

One fall, I think I was about 12 or 13, my mom suggested as we left church on a Sunday morning that she could use the buckeyes resting on the ground near our car. My brother, sister and I thought nothing more of it as we were more interested in doing jack squat the rest of the day. We were all in sports and other activities and Sunday was typically our only day without something scheduled. We wanted to be lazy, before being dragged back to school Monday morning.

Later on, possibly in an effort to get us out of her hair and the house, mom mentioned the gathering of those buckeyes again. Now she may have really wanted them, but Linda is famous for repeating requests, must-dos and you-need-to-dos so much that it would drive a sane person nuts (or to gather nuts as it would be). I had college roommates who acted as hostage negotiators talking me out of shoving my head into our mini-fridge freezer compartment after phone calls from mom. They would ask, "Why did she keep repeating that? You answered her like eight times?" Did she think I was hard of hearing? There were times I secretly wished I was.

This particular afternoon was warm and sunny and we had nothing else better to do (and really didn't want to hear her ask AGAIN). So my brother Chad (about 15 at the time) and I made our way back up the street to the Richmond Dale United Methodist Church to gather what we could from the giant Buckeye Tree jutting out of the church's lawn.

Upon our arrival we noticed many of the spherical brown nuts were gone - someone had beaten us to them. We garnered the few remaining felled decorative toxic balls, but if we were to get more we would need to have them come to us. This, my friend, was a challenge. Most mature Buckeye Trees are anywhere from 50 to 80 feet high with a long, round trunk. This means most branches, or limbs, are well out of the reach for normal human beings.

Chad and I had a bag for the buckeyes and the clothes on our backs. The question: what do we have, or can we find, to use as weapons against nature? Then it donned on us - shoes, we have SHOES! If we just throttle a shoe into this tree's massive canopy, we are bound to knock loose some of the noxious nuts that were being held from us....pure genius.

Soon we had buckeyes raining down on us like the sixth seal of the apocalypse - all we had to do as fling a shoe into the tree in our church's side yard. I'm sure this happens everyday. As it was, everything was going much better than we had anticipated, but apparently karma was not amused.

On his next throw, more buckeyes fell - but Chad's shoe did not return. Instead it was being held for ransom, it became lodged in between branches. We were stunned momentarily, but no worries we thought...we have other shoes. With decent aim, we're be back in business.

And we were - until shoe number two did not return. Undeterred, we keep at it. More buckeyes fell -but a force field of some kind was keeping us from dislodging our kidnapped feet protectors. Before we knew it, shoe number three was also occupying an excellent viewpoint of our hometown in the midst of this great buckeye topiary.

Now panic began to set in.

We had dozens of buckeyes - the tree had three of our shoes. Our only weapon was, of course, our fourth and final shoe. Do we risk walking the half-mile home, shoeless, with our tails between our legs and explain to mom that we were bullied by a tree? That we were on the wrong side of a Jack and the Beanstalk like trade? That we were the subject of a bible school lesson we were apparently not aware of?

I can only imagine what passersby were thinking seeing the two of us staring solemnly into the canopy of this tree that somehow spontaneously started producing a pair of Nikes and a left foot Reebok. Richmond Dale is a super small town -  we would never hear the end of it if we had to breakdown and call either Pastor Pete or knock on the fire department's door, which just so happened to be directly across the street from the church.

Visions of Pastor Pete mocking us the following Sunday telling the congregation about the program we started collecting shoes for a less fortunate grove of deciduous outside of town; or our volunteer firefighters explaining they had to save our sneakers after they were chased up the tree by a pack of rabid, stray cats; or the local newspaper's article about the miracle tree of Ross County that's producing shoes. Screw that turning water into wine thing! Christians from all around would descend on Richmond Dale waiting for the next sign from above.

We suppressed our impending embarrassment and decided to try our luck with recovering our captive shoes. It was like a reverse Wizard of Oz - instead the tree was collecting our belongings and not angrily tossing apples at us.

Along with our remaining shoe, we used some of the branches that fell during our rogue buckeye collecting exercise as ammunition toward knocking free our footwear. It was a challenge, but slowly our desperation and persistence paid off. One, then two, and what seemed to take forever, the third shoe was swiped from the clutches of the Aesculus Glabra.

Chad and I sat there in exhausted elation, our arms sore and necks stiff from having to look straight into the sky for the past two hours. Being at eye level with things gave us a vertigo-like experience until our senses gathered themselves and returned to normal. Once recovery set in, we gathered our buckeyes, put on our shoes and tied them as tight as we could - ignoring the lack of circulation to our extremities. We had our shoes, we didn't care if we could feel our feet.

Similar to wounded warriors returning from a successful, but disheartening battle, we marched the half-mile back up Market Street in relief that the ordeal was over - mission accomplished. Saddened, though, that our pride and humility continued to lie bloodied and motionless underneath the massive, sneering Richmond Dale landmark.

To this day our nemesis still stands, presiding over the United Methodist Church kingdom it rules without regard to anything or anyone - pelting passersby each fall with buckeyes, warding off ne'er-do-wells. I can feel it staring at me whenever I return to my hometown, I'm sure it hasn't forgotten.

Buckeyes, despite their history and beauty, are not worth your shoes.

Awkwardly Curious

At  least we are guaranteed temperatures north of single digits, that was my thought as I headed south on State Route 23 from Marion to Columbus. Mother Nature had been wreaking havoc on us since the holiday season. It is now only February 21st, but with an expected high of 28 on this Sunday it might was well be 80. The last several weeks had us lingering in the area of 15 to farther below zero than anyone in Ohio would like to see.

She did drop five inches of snow on us yesterday, but now the frozen, frosted horizon made the 45 minute drive serene and peaceful. Our group, the Hangover Flag Football Club, plays nearly every Sunday morning at Antrim Park. I always get there early, this gives me time to relax, stretch and warm up. I just turned 39 and I don't warm up (or recover for that matter) that quickly anymore. I'm still just as in shape as most of our guys, many whom are ten or more years my junior, but I still have that athletic mindset. Figure I need to fulfill my weekend warrior phase while I still can....or at least try.

Another reason for arriving early today is for the picturesque scenery, I brought my camera to document the snowfall's aftermath before the bikers, joggers and dog walkers and what have you trample it all. About two thirds of the way there my phone starts buzzing, a quick glance and apparently some of our group have changed their minds and a couple of have been called into work  unexpectedly - or, more likely, the thought of playing in five inches of fresh snow is less than satisfying.

So the excuse hamster wheel has started to turn. Another buzz - T.J., the football facilitator, says if we don't have at least eight we will not be playing. Ten minutes out and this is not what I want to hear. "Well crap...", I say out loud to myself. I can almost hear my 10-year old Honda say the same thing. She isn't cut out for these trips much anymore - especially those that end up being unnecessary. Honda's are made to last, but I ran her hard over the years and she's holding up as best she can. I find myself talking to the car like an actual person quite a bit. Some think its weird, but the Honda and I have been through a lot and she has been my only real mainstay...despite my perpetual ignorance and occasional stupidity.

By the time I arrive at a somewhat empty Antrim Park, the text I was hoping to avoid arrives. "Sorry fellas, no game today. We'll try next week.", T.J. writes. Damn it, that's two weeks in a row! At least last week made more sense - it was three degrees without windchill, 15 below with.

I decide to wander the park, trudge through the snow, and take some scenic midwinter undisturbed nature pictures. Its much better than turning around and driving straight back another 45 minutes. I used to live in Columbus, but a good job with decent benefits and employment security are not a dime a dozen.

I love that phrase, "A dime a dozen." It makes me think of my late father and grandparents. It was a favorite of theirs and I find myself saying it under my breath or louder to myself than I should on occasion. The looks I get from others for my ensuing dorky smile are humorous. They assume I'm making fun of them, then I have to explain that its a personal inside joke - the looks then get that much more weird and confusion sets in. I just flash a smile and shrug my shoulders, then change the subject quickly. Reason why I'm single #58: Audibly verbalized inner monologues.

Only a handful of folks are braving the snow, but I sense that more will be coming as the morning moves along. I cover the majority of park in my ski pants, over top of workout shorts, three shirts, two pair of socks, running shoes and a wool-lined, navy blue hooded zip-up jacket. I'm warm and cozy down to my ankles. Alas, in a game pitting half a foot of snow against running shoes - my feet get the raw end of the deal. Now if we were playing football, constantly running and stopping, it wouldn't be that big of a problem. Since the majority of my wuss bag football friends left me hanging - I'm starting to lose feeling in my feet. I try to ignore it and trudge further on in search of my old stomping grounds.

I head down the hill, under the Route 315 overpass and make my way to the Olentangy Trail and its peaceful neighbor Antrim Lake. A few runner/walkers are working their way through down here and I'm finding a number of cool winter photo ops, but I have to laugh at those passing joggers. They may be wearing different styles and colors, but are more/less donning the same workout attire: Toboggan (or Skullcap), thin gloves, running pants/tights, sunglasses and some shape or form of a NorthFace zip-up jacket. Compared to them, I look like I prepared my outdoor get-up in the trunk of a car loaded down with goodwill donations.

Until they get closer, its even hard to tell who is male and who is female - almost a Stepford Running Club scene. "Maybe there's a Meetup for that, I'll have to research it sometime", I jokingly say to myself and myself alone...for once. They keep to themselves and at least smile and nod "hello" as they pass. Glad to see they aren't all athletic, unfriendly lemmings and cyborgs.

After taking way too many pictures and now unable to feel my legs from the knee down, I decide to make my way back. I catch my reflection in my camera lens and realize the hood on my jacket is over-sized. The kind that hangs over your eyes and covers most of your face. Great job Craig, picking the stalker look for an afternoon at a secluded, wooded running trail - there's a reason the joggers stuck to the dress code. They don't have the time to explain to police that they mean no harm and, instead, are just fashion illiterate. I apparently do though.

I put my camera in my jacket and start jogging. This works two-fold: I get a little bit of a workout and that, too, since my hands are free, it doesn't look like I'm carrying anything that resembles a weapon.

From the frozen lake I cross the trail and go back under the Route 315 overpass toward the entrance near the parking lot. Ahead of me, in my direction, another would-be jogger is preparing to brave the elements. As I get closer, it looks like she is hesitating. Like she's trying to decide if this is a good idea or she should just turn around, go grab breakfast, and maybe the New York Times and crash.

She looks up to see me headed toward her, catches my glance and smiles. Thankfully, my Unabomber look isn't as threatening as I thought. She slowly moves forward, still looking at me and smiling (that's a good thing...right?) and says, indicating to the path below us, "Is the trail plowed or does it all look like this?" A quick look down and we are wading in a deep, trampled, slushy mess of winter's fury.

She is dressed similar to the cyborgs from earlier - but this one, she has personality and seems less gung ho about running in the snow. I stop my fake jogging and push my hood out of my eyes... breathing hard already..... and struggle to blurt out, "Actually, its not bad. Its pretty well packed down and sort of plowed. Nothing like this gazpacho looking goop here." She laughs and removes her shades and I notice, finally, that she's attractive - very attractive.

Shoulder length, strawberry blond hair lightly dangling from her winter hat, freckles around her cheeks and nose, big brown eyes and a cross between athletic and curvy. She was easy on the eyes.

Typically this is where - in the past - I would take the easy route and do or say nothing. Then proceed to kick myself for the next few hours for not having the cahones to have at least made some sort of conversation. My wavering confidence has been the bane of my existence for years. Someone reaches out, I freeze to avoid confrontation, freak out and smack their gesture in the face. This is usually followed by a "Sorry, I know not what I do"-like look pleading from my face.

She takes her hand and moves the bangs about her eyes and tucks them behind her ear. "Good, at least it won't be as bad as I initially thought", she says breathing a sigh of relief.

A minute or two later...she's still there, not moving on - hesitating again perhaps? I'm smiling back at her, doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. "Damn it, say something you dolt!" my mind is screaming at me. Suddenly I pull my hood back off  my face (again) and say something like, "Is it a solo run today?"

Good Craig, that's real good, asking a woman if she is by herself at a remote trailhead in my disturbed neighbor costume. I should be hearing sirens any minute now.

To my surprise she purses her lips and rolls her eye before saying "My friends aren't big fans of breaking hibernation early." Relieved and delighted, I take off my glove and stick out my hand, "That's too bad. Oh, um...I'm Craig by the way," the words nervously roll off my tongue. Feeling ready to jump out of my skin, she accepts my attempt at a greeting, shakes my hand and replies, "I'm Elizabeth...or Beth."

My heart is pounding, butterflies are puking in my stomach and why am I fighting to ignore the abort mission sensor going off in my subconscious right now?!

Sort of timid small talk continues and I notice Elizabeth (Beth) is drifting toward the trail - oh yeah...right... you came her to run, I remind myself. "Well, it was nice to meet you," she says as she puts her shades back on and turns. "Great to meet you too", I say turning the opposite direction but scrambling to find an excuse for this to linger for another minute or two at least.

After two steps I stop, turn back and throw out a string of words that sound something like, "Hey, would you want to grab breakfast or something instead?" HOLY COW, where in the hell did that come from?! The butterflies in my stomach are not only puking at the moment, but are now also procreating. I have never had an out-of-body experience, but this exactly what I believe it would feel like.

Luckily, she didn't take off in a horrified sprint in the opposite direction. Rather, Elizabeth stopped jogging, turned back with a broad smile, looked down and heads toward me. Before I could apologize for being a too forward schmuck, she bends down and reaches for something on the ground.

In my state of no man's land, I failed to notice I had dropped my glove. She picked it up, walked to me and handed it over. Sure that I was about to be shot down, she mockingly glares at me and says in a semi-serious, semi-joking tone, "You guys are a dime a dozen." My heart sank a bit, but my brain and heart are high-fiving one another. I couldn't help but laugh, hoping it didn't seem like I was making fun of her.

She continues to smile, but I can't read her eyes through her dark sunglasses. Elizabeth then turns and begins jogging away. Still in shock and outside of myself, I'm in a trance watching her move farther along toward the trail, hoping to burn her image into my mind somehow.

Finally catching my breath, I go to put on my retrieved glove and find that something seems to be blocking one of the finger sleeves. Digging for it, I pinch the corner of whatever it is and pull it out.

Oddly, it's a folded business card.

That's when I hear, yelled from a distance, "...you should just call me sometime instead!" Looking up, Elizabeth is about 20 yards away with sunglasses in hand and this huge beautiful smile beaming across her face. Through my foggy glasses I see her playfully wink and slyly bite the bottom of her lip, then put her shades back on and disappear around the corner down the snow covered path.

Dumbfounded, I unfold the crumbled business card and it reads:

Elizabeth S. Brandywine Photography

206 Vintage Ave. Suite 4

Columbus, Ohio 43302

Phone: 614-555-7617

Remarkably Unique

Slowly I turn around and make my way up the hill, passing timid would-be joggers and to my car. All the while I'm still trying to get a handle on what just happened. That's when, in succession, a handful of late arriving, uniformed football buddies begin trickling in. Nick, Roman and Adam all have confused looks as they glance around the empty, snow covered parking lot. Pulling up along side me, Adam - from the passenger seat of Roman's bronco - rolls down his window and asks (already knowing the answer), "We don't have numbers, do we?"

Smiling ridiculously with the folded business card still grasped between my gloved fingers, I look back at the trailhead in the distance. Then say under my breath, but clearly loud enough for everyone to hear, "I have ten of them."

Semi-retired & Frustrated: Superman Regrets Accepting Babysitting Job.

Semi-retirement has not been kind to the Man of Steel. Being able to leap tall buildings in a single bound and withstand gunshots (let alone ducking when the gun is emptied and physically thrown at him) has nothing on the chore of being a part-time guardian for three Central Ohio siblings.

Mr. Clark Kent, who uses his human name in his golden years saying that using "Superman" tends to make his resume look less relevant to employers (or so the Franklin County Department of Aging claims), was hoping to find what he calls a "less stressful" gig since the majority of his super human days are far behind him. Among several jobs applied for, Mr. Kent thought he could piggyback his popularity among the world's children and make a go of it as a caregiver for some of his fans.

The Man of Steel being
 pranked into guarding
the vanilla Almond Milk

Six months into his three day, 20-hour a week retirement supplement job and Kent is craving for the easy, good old days of posing as a newspaper reporter and reversing the Earth's rotation.

The three who have forced Superman to rethink his decision are the Henderson children of Orient (a suburb of Columbus): Calli (9), Abby (6) and Reed (3). Among Mr. Kent's complaints are Calli's constant mocking, including her complete disbelief that the planet Krypton ever existed; Abby's beef that Kent "acts too much like a boy" during her princess tea parties, thus scaring her friends and Reed's insistence on always having chocolate...ALWAYS.

This, Mr. Kent claims, causes him to have nightmares and break into cold sweats. Apparently the images of a three-foot tall, toe-headed monster constantly screaming "CHAHK-IT!" at the top of his lungs has caused the super hero to develop an anxiety disorder that inhibits his ability to concentrate on normal day-to-day activities. "Crashing to Earth in a fiery meteorite and landing in a remote farm field somewhere in the Midwest and being brought up by lesser beings wasn't nearly as stressful as this," says Kent.

Being forced to watch the movie "Frozen" repeatedly is not as awful as it seems, though Kent says having been born on a planet made entirely of ice, the movie just doesn't seem realistic to him. This usually results in Calli telling him to, "Just shut up and sing the songs."

Falling prey to Abby's cute, angelic sad eyes routine, Superman finds that he has been fooled more than once to believing that someone has been trying to steal the vanilla flavored Almond Milk in the fridge that Abby loves so much. Thus, the kids then sneak photos of him attempting to guard the carton and share them with their friends on social media. Kent is embarrassed to admit he has found out the hard way that Abby's supposed tears of concern were actually tears of hilarity she shared with Snow White, Cinderella, Aurora, Ariel, Belle, Jasmine, Pocahontas, Mulan, Tinker Bell, Tiana, Rapunzel, Merida, Anna and Elsa during their princesses only get-togethers.

Having these three human children together in any situation takes days of preparation and mock run-throughs in order for Superman to get some sort of handle on what may happen, but the learning curve is slow.

Superman making the mistake of bringing 
carrot sticks to last
month's princess tea party

"You'd think my super powers and mystery would mesmerize them and they would be eager to see more and maybe respect me a little, it just doesn't happen," Kent says. "I know that's Santa's shtick, but I'm at a loss as to how he does it. That fat, over joyed bastard has it down to a science. I'm sure it has something to do with narcotics made by his minions....oh...sorry... I mean 'elves'. Or he has some sort of major trade deal involving vast amounts of Benadryl he hides somewhere in the far reaches the Earth," the super hero laments as his frustration boils over.

The Man of Steel says he has been perusing other jobs to keep his sort of retirement eventful. He says delightedly, "The local library is in need of a part-time Computer Center Assistant/Technician. That sounds more like my speed these days, I'm a bit fed up with smart aleck kids and being viewed as a fun hater. I mean, I can throw a bus for god's sake!"

When alerted of Superman's possible change in jobs, the Henderson children were not exactly disappointed and just seemed to ignore the question.

The youngest, Reed, (shirt and face covered in Chocolate) was salivating profusely and screamed in an animal-like squeal, "...juuiiiccce, peeaaassseee!?"

The middle child, Abby, gave us a death stare and wanted us to remind the old chap that, "...he's still on the hook for the finger sandwiches and fruit cups for next week's tea party. And he better not screw it up and bring those stupid veggies again."

Finally, the eldest, Calli, paused for moment then smiled broadly before blurting out, "Super....JERK!" At which time all three children laughed uncontrollably for the next 20 minutes.

Ohio Cold

How cold is it on this wonderful January day in Ohio? So cold, ice is forming on the snow. I know that isn't exactly what's happening...but it does look super cool. Oh, and just so you know...it is freaking cold, -10 at the time of the photos.