Are you kidding me?  It’s mid-August and summer is fading quickly.  What happened to June?  I vaguely remember celebrating Mother’s Day and enjoying the rising anticipation that accompanies the end of an academic school year.  I must have blinked.  In May, we composed a summer fun list.  You know – the things we wanted to do while school was out,  the weather was warm and the sun didn’t set until 9:30 PM.  Now we’re facing the season of sunset and darkness at 5:45 PM and an early-bird dinner every night. Though it sounds romantic (or rugged, depending upon your perspective), there’s no way I could live full-time in Alaska. Cold and interminable darkness in the winter. Perpetual sunlight and giant insects in the summer. No wonder they pay people to live there. But, oh, what a view!

Now that summer is beginning to retreat, what’s on the horizon? August signals the resumption of school bells, increased traffic, choking smog, and the familiar rumble of school buses. Teachers report to classrooms with orders not to smile until Christmas.  Many water parks and theme parks close for the season and landscaping companies hunker down for the lean months of dormant grass and hibernating customers.  Personally, I look forward to the days when my Bermuda grass turns brown and I can store my lawn mower, unplug my hedge trimmer and enjoy a few days of semi-retirement away from the tyrants that proliferate in my yard.

Secretly, I enjoy the changing seasons. Others prefer a more consistent climate.  Some believe the weather in San Diego is perfect.  The thermometer hovers at a constant 72 degrees year round (that’s what I’ve heard) and Great White sharks only linger along Mission Beach and LaJolla in the winter.  Perfect?  Definitely awesome.  But I’ve discovered a recurring anticipation that builds every August and seems to persist until all my warm weather clothes mysteriously disappear into the dark recesses of my closet, thereby yielding choice real estate to my long sleeved t-shirts and sweat pants.  Meridith insists that this enigma is precipitated by the kick-off to football season.  As usual, she’s right.   Still, when I see the leaves beginning to turn bright red, yellow and orange, and I can see my breath as I stumble to the mail box, I know change is in the air.

All of this signals a common phenomenon.  When we know with certainty that something is going to end – or change – we’re less affected by what we anticipate or experience.  This perspective doesn’t eliminate our pain or sense of lose, but our capacity for understanding gives way to a growing acknowledgement regarding the temporary nature of what we currently experience.  Ironically, this insight doesn’t diminish our gratitude, but rather increases our appreciation for those things and people we hold dear.  Everything around us falls into the category of change and disintegration:  dream houses fall into disrepair, prized cars require upkeep and maintenance, careers come to an end, books gather dust, dishwashers stop working, children graduate and move away, software systems become obsolete, and waist lines begin to expand (ugh!). With a fearful or frustrated resignation, we lament the progress of time and the culmination of the seasons.

Yes, football season begins in just a few weeks (more on that later).  But as the whistle blows and our thunderous rhetoric replaces genteel conversation, the dog days of summer will give way to Labor Day weekend.  And before you know it, we’ll be Christmas shopping.  Think of all that will happen between now and then.  Part of me wishes that summer would last 500 days.  But the leaves would never change, my grass would grow year round (geez), Christmas would be sweaty, and the lifeguards would never have a day off. Change? Bring it on!  I’m ready for some football!

Praying doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m way too analytical and methodical. I’d rather “do it myself,” even though I feel somewhat inadequate when I wander the aisles at Home Depot. I’ve been called a “control freak” and a recovering “perfectionist.” I accept the assessment and aggressively try to help my family live with my obvious flaws. If you’re smiling, you know what I mean. Self analysis aside, our family gathers at Jackson’s bedside each night to express our gratitude for the day’s events and each member of our immediate family (moms, dads, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, etc.). The benediction follows a familiar pattern of, “thank you for our home and family, protect both, in Jesus’ name we pray, amen.”

When prayer time concludes, Jackson occasionally launches into a litany of love statements directed at one or both of us. Though he engages in this practice regularly, we find some of his affectionate associations priceless. One evening, Jackson said, “I love you more than the Titanic, but not more than the black hole.” We feigned comprehension and said “Aw, thank you, Jackson.” Recently, he reached beyond the normal range of eccentricity and stated matter-of-factly, “Mom, I love you more than the Civil War.” When a five year old references the Civil War as the benchmark for his amorous expressions, there’s only one reasonable response. LOL! As a parent, I have no explanation for this historically-based, existential proclamation. Like all statements to this effect, we gushed with bewilderment and pride . . . or something like that.

But as every parent knows, our exalted estimation suffered a stinging setback. Less than 24 hours later, Jackson downgraded our status and deemed us “the worst parents ever.” Yes, those are quotation marks. Apparently, the stress of having to brush his teeth proved too much for our delicate parent-child relationship. As my mother-in-law commented, “Welcome to the rest of the world.” I stared at Jackson and smugly cited the Civil War as a reference to our current predicament. With an animated huff, he refused to acknowledge the connection and stomped into his bedroom. Ah, the spoils of war.

In a few days, we’ll unleash this prodigy (how every parent refers to his offspring) on a roomful of other Kindergarten students and their fearless teacher. I’m holding my breath . . . and my belly. There will be numerous additions to our prayer list and an expanded field of love references. “Mom, I love you more than the smelly janitor at school.” Or, “Dad, I love you more than the principal’s office.” Principal’s office!? Time to go pray . . . and brush up on the details of the Spanish-American War.

On December 18, 1871, a bill was introduced simultaneously in both houses of congress  for the protection and dedication of the world’s first National Park. The speed with which the Yellowstone Park bill proceeded from introduction to enactment is surprising, even given the fact that the legislation was not accompanied by appropriation and was merely the reservation of land already belonging to the government. Still, 10 weeks later, the bill became law as President Grant formally allocated nearly 3,500 square miles of wilderness for the “pleasure of the people” and the “enjoyment of future generations.” PBS produced a six-episode series entitled “National Parks: America’s Best Idea.” After spending several days in both Yellowstone and Grand Teton national parks, it’s hard to disagree with this assessment.

For over a year, we’ve been trying to sever our relationship with Delta Air Lines by using the last of our remaining Skymiles. The opportunity finally presented itself  in the form of three round-trip tickets to Bozeman, Montana. As expected, even when you fly “free,” you’re required to offer an arm and a leg for the privilege of transporting your underwear cross country. Baggage fees are of the devil and deliver adequate incentive to go commando for the duration of your travels, or perhaps longer if you find the experience to your liking.

Baggage issues aside, we landed safely and pointed our Priceline rental wagon toward the north entrance of Yellowstone. For the first three days, the town of Gardiner, MT provided a suitable base camp for day-trips into the park. As we entered the park on the first day, we were required to purchase a pass. A seven-day pass for both Yellowstone and Grand Teton national parks costs a total of $25 per vehicle. Divided by 3, the total for our family came to $8.33 per person (less for larger families). Compare that fee to a one day (adult) ticket to Walt Disney World, which now costs $95, and only $88 for children ages 3-9.  For a more equitable comparison, a 7-day pass to WDW is $288 for adults and a paltry $270 for children. Even though I was a liberal arts major, the financial equation is astounding. One week in two national parks is 35 times less expensive than a week at WDW.

So what do you get for $25??  A full report of all that we packed into our 7 days in Yellowstone and Grand Teton would fill several posts.  But I’ll offer a brief synopsis just to keep you engaged.  Yellowstone National Park is a geological wonderland with thermal features unlike any terrain on the planet.  There are 900 miles of hiking trails, over 300 waterfalls and dozens of mountain peaks soaring above ten thousand feet.  To these features, add spectacular plateau valleys inhabited by thousands of bison, along with elk, moose, bears, wolves, pikas, and bighorn sheep.  Much of this landscape is blanketed with lodgepole pine trees, glistening rivers, and crowned by Lake Yellowstone, which is 131 square miles.  The park boundary encompasses a land mass that is larger than Rhode Island and Delaware combined.  And all of this can be yours for $25 a week.  I would, however, suggest purchasing a can of bear spray and a large memory card if you intend on exiting your vehicle at any point during your visit.

If you enjoy park-hopper privileges, the National Park Service will accommodate you as well.  We hopped over to Grand Teton National Park and enjoyed three days of challenging hikes, stunning vistas and almost no queue lines.  We did have to wait once – about 3 minutes – for a shuttle boat to transport us across Jenny Lake.  In all, we hiked about 35 miles on approximately a dozen different high altitude trails in both parks.  As far as we know, there were no scheduled fireworks displays or parades, except for the kaleidoscope sunsets and the prairie marches of pronghorn.  Jackson even earned  Junior Ranger badges at both Yellowstone NP and at Grand Teton NP. In the spirit of full-disclosure, we were asked for a $1 donation for each Junior Ranger patch he received.  Jackson gushed at the opportunity to take the reigns on a covered wagon ride and even paddled us down the Snake River during a sunset float-trip in the shadows of the Grand Teton range.

Don’t get me wrong – I enjoy the artificial amusement of theme parks as much as anybody.  But I find more wonder in what God has created than anything man can manufacture.  One noteworthy purchase summarizes Meridith’s sentiment about mountain magic.  She found a t-shirt in a clothing store in Big Sky that read, “I’d rather be in the mountains thinking about God than be sitting in church thinking about the mountains.”  One day, we may plan an adventure where we move as cattle from one thrill ride to another.  But unlike our trip to Montana and Wyoming, we’ll certainly miss the spontaneous outburst of Jackson’s recurring declaration, “Way to go, God!”

The music started and I instinctively realized that there was an unusual sensation in my throat.  I didn’t anticipate it.  I couldn’t explain it.  But there it was.  The gentle swelling in my larynx began in my chest and rose through my windpipe.  Breathing wasn’t difficult, but I couldn’t swallow.   Before I knew it, this inexplicable phenomenon found its way into my tear ducts and I noticed that my vision had become blurry.  While trying to refocus my eyes on the event before me, I noticed that my chin began to quiver.  And then it happened.

The door swung open and the graduates began their processional.  Paparazzi parents strained to catch a first glimpse of their young scholar as he or she marched proudly into the room.  Jackson followed directly behind his Pre-K teacher-saint, Ms. Kristy, and stepped masterfully down the aisle and turned  to take his assigned place on the front row.  The room was buzzing with the whispers of adoring parents, the unbridled wiggles of all the graduates, the unabated flashes of way-too-expensive cameras, and that song.  Years ago, I heard someone reach beyond their mental capacity to recall the title of this song.  “Pomp and circumcision,” she said with conviction.  I smiled and turned away to consider the implications.

Eight days after Jackson’s memorable ceremony, this whole scenario repeated itself in a larger, more public venue.  Thousands of people filed into the football stadium at McEachern High School to collectively bake in an open-air oven and witness the commencement exercises for the Class of 2012.  Nearly 500 students received diplomas and almost all their relatives received assistance from the swarming EMT’s who were called to the scene.  In spite of the sirens and heat, Spencer stepped gracefully across the platform and received his high school diploma.  He graduated with honors but no one felt more honored than me.

After watching two of my sons graduate this month, I’ve personally experienced the power and emotion of Pomp and Circumstance.  The song’s title is taken from Act III, Scene III of Shakespeare’s Othello.  The traditional definition of the word pomp is “a display of magnificence and splendor.” Perfectly stated.  The word circumstance literally means “to stand around,” describing a crowd that has gathered around a particular event or in honor of a special occasion.  Though few dislike the arrangement and orchestration of this march, most just ignore it once it begins to play.  We become so focused on the real subject of our pride and affection we tend to forget the song is resonating in the background.

From start to finish, the entire score of Pomp and Circumstance takes five minutes to play.  To us parents, that’s about how long it seems between the time your child graduates from Pre-K and his high school commencement exercise.  This realization pounces on you almost without warning and releases that extraordinary sensation in your throat, causing moderate breathing difficulty and blurred vision.  It happened to me when I heard that melody reverberating innocently while straining my neck and pointing my camera into the sea of bobbing mortar boards.  This past week, two heads came into focus through my camera’s viewfinder.  These are the kinds of pictures I’d grab if the house became engulfed in flames.  Even better than these images, I have the unqualified joy of being a father to these two remarkable young men – and one extraordinary daughter.  And so it happened . . . twice this week.  I sniffled while witnessing the graduation exercises for the classes of 2012.  Love those boys!  Pass the tissue, will ya?!

Spring break elevates our collective senses in unique and prolific ways.  The season of Lent culminates on Easter, bringing with it a ravenous return to sinful habits for which pledges of abstinence have held dominion.  Pollen fills the air, along with the coughing, sneezing and wheezing that symbolizes the official start of spring.  Hope springs eternal for the fans of baseball’s perennial cellar dwellers and also-rans.  This is the season when NCAA basketball champions are crowned and the annual green jacket is awarded amid choruses of “a tradition like no other,” which is another way of saying, “no women allowed.”

Our spring break began with a scheduled tour of the University of West Georgia in Carrollton.  Spencer is completing his senior year at McEachern High School and is poised to expend four more years of academic blood, sweat and video games.  With enrollment deadlines looming, it was time to confirm the address of where to send all future tuition checks.

Part of the University System of Georgia, UWG has nearly 12,000 students enrolled, far more than I realized.  As we arrived on campus, we were greeted by an enthusiastic team of student volunteers.  Always the one to make a cultural splash, Spencer donned a Kuwaiti t-shirt with Arabic inscriptions and a wool tam with rasta stripes.  The first student leaders we encountered showed speechless deference, but one older staff member couldn’t contain himself.  “I love your t-shirt,” he gushed.  Spencer’s admirer was wearing a pink tie along with a fuschia dress shirt.  All of this complimented his ruddy complexion and thinning red hair.  I offered a smirkish grin and cast a “don’t encourage him” look in his general direction.  Spencer found the incident rapturously affirming.  It’s truly amazing how far your money will go at a Goodwill store.  For five dollars, you can purchase an ethnically inclusive wardrobe and satisfy the tastes of culturally deprived citizens of Carrollton.

Our walking tour of the campus included visits to student dorms, the library, the quad, and the campus recreation center.  Afterwards, we were invited to take a bus ride to the outer edges of campus to view new student apartments, the new athletic complex, Greek village, and view the site of the new nursing school, which is under construction.  It occurred to me that if Spencer attended UWG and asked a coed out on a date, in all likelihood, she would either be matriculating as a nurse or a teacher.  Now that’s a tough choice.  Do you want to date a girl who is drawn toward a career working with doctors or first-graders?  In the minds of some, there’s little difference between the two.

Our tour hostess was a sophomore who enrolled at UWG hoping to transfer after completing her freshman year.  But she found the experience at West Georgia suitable and decided to stay and complete her degree in Carrollton rather than move to Athens and attend UGA.  As a parting gift, Spencer and I were presented with a free voucher to eat at the student cafeteria.  We entered the dining hall through doors which read RFOC, which means “Real Food on Campus.”  I wondered out loud, “How do they classify food served in other dining outlets on campus?”  The UWG campus also features a Chick-fil-a, Subway, and Einstein Bros. Bagel.  And if that’s not enough, there’s a Starbucks, which is strategically located in the library.  If I’d had a Starbucks inside the library where I attended college, I can imagine that some of my C’s may have actually become B’s or even A’s.  Kids have it so easy these days.

Spencer and I completed a set of tasks at the outset of our visit.  In order to locate certain campus offices, we were charged with finding our way through a maze of stairways and hallways in hopes of meeting staff members in career services, financial aid, the registrar, housing services, and student orientation.  As we progressed through our check-list with Lewis and Clark-efficiency, Spencer kept chanting, “Lead on, Sacagawea.”  We found the exercise meaningful and were rewarded with a t-shirt upon completion of our assignment.  Though there are more mazes to navigate in the future, I derived proud satisfaction in our working together for a common goal.  Though my college days are now categorized under early American history, the prospect of entering college holds a strange fascination for me.  I’m immensely proud of Spencer and anticipate a rewarding and perhaps tumultuous four years.  As I’ve learned, you can’t always create an ideal future.  But you can dress for the occasion, acknowledge those who ignore you, and embrace your future with trust in the one who knows the territory better than you.  Go Wolves!

For some, Kindergarten registration is a moment of joyful exuberance.  The hope of the future rides on the extraordinary prospect of turning five years old.  Our first stroll into the local elementary school was punctuated by a prolonged photo shoot at the front entrance.  Jackson cooperated long enough to pose with mom and dad, then with other strangers who happened to be progressing through the parking lot.

We entered the building with some level of difficulty given the pure weight and volume of documentation necessary for registration and enrollment.  Once inside, we were immediately asked to present “proof” of our existence and demonstrate that we had not arrived from some adobe hut in northern New Mexico.  So began the long process of our rightful claim upon the high ground of public education.

With Gestapo intensity, the nice lady at the front desk demanded our “papers,” which included items such as our driver’s license, mortgage statement, utility bill, immunization record, dental record, vision record, medical record, and birth certificate.  All of this begs a number of questions.  If you have a cavity, are you still allowed to enroll in Kindergarten?  Is a four-year old automatically disqualified if he or she is near-sighted?  And why a birth certificate?  The kid’s standing in front of you, for cryin’ out loud.  Does a child need proof that he or she successfully navigated through the birth canal in order to learn to read and write?  What if the parents couldn’t find their child’s birth certificate?  That poor lad might never enter the promised land of first grade due to a technicality:  existential disqualification.  Imagine the conversation on the way home.  “I’m sorry, Johnny.  You won’t be able to go to school.  Mom and dad can’t prove that you were born, so please return to your habitat when we get home.”

Once we passed inspection and endured the delousing process, we were approached by a school staff member.  He brushed by us and stooped over to speak to Jackson.  After a lengthy visual assessment, he asked Jackson to accompany him down the hallway.  I turned and followed them, as any good parent would, but was immediately rebuffed.  “You stay,” he quipped, “Only the boy.”  “Yes, Tonto,” I mumbled in compliance.  I sat down and began to wonder if the school administrators had somehow accessed my criminal background record and wanted to speak to Jackson about what they found.  It finally occurred to me that I’ve only been convicted of speeding . . . a few times.  Perhaps I would be excluded from the classroom but I was convinced there was hope for Jackson.

While contemplating the myriad possibilities leading to my demise, I began to notice that other children were emerging from the dark recesses of the interrogation hallway where Jackson had been taken.  I breathed a sigh of relief.   Moments later, Jackson bounced around the corner followed by his mysterious escort.  “He passed,” came the report.  I was presented with a piece of paper with letters and numbers clearly written by a small child.  As the man spun on his heels and retreated into the darkness from where he first appeared, I glanced down at the paper.  Though I couldn’t quite understand why the document was littered with skulls and crossbones, I knelt in front of Jackson and whispered, “What did that man talk to you about, son?”  Jackson fixed his eyes on mine and in his most serious four-year old intonation answered, “I can’t tell you dad.  Or I’ll have to . . .”.  “Mr. Kelly,” echoed the interruption.  “Here’s your driver’s license and mortgage statement back.”  Startled, I stood and retrieved my belongings and headed through the front door.  We emerged into the sunlight when Jackson complained, “Dad, you’re squeezing my hand too hard.”   Indeed, I was.  Graduation exercises for the class of 2025 will be here soon.  I hope I can find my birth certificate by then . . . or else.

We recently returned from a week-long cruise aboard what was once the world’s largest cruise ship – MS Freedom of the Seas. Christened in 2006, the ship weighs in at a lean 154,407 gross tons with a length of 1,112 feet, making it only slightly “shorter” than the John Hancock Center in Chicago. Though I derive no pride from this, our floating resort is 229 feet longer than Titanic, and infinitely more buoyant.  Today, only the MS Oasis of the Seas and MS Allure of the Seas are bigger.

Though we’re not a turbo cruise family, we mingled with some on our voyage who considered their elite, multi-night status on our cruise line as valuable as the confirmation of knighthood.  “I’m gold-diamond,” one lady proclaimed.  “We’re double diamond,” another countered.  I smiled as if I cared, wiped my nose on my sleeve, then walked away perfectly content with the prospect of my “first night” on board.

Cruising is both gratifying and baffling.  First, there’s the food.  As you’ve probably heard, there’s a culinary cornucopia to be ingested and returned to the open seas as soon as the collective digestive process of all 5,0o0 people on board culminates.  Dining on board a cruise ship is truly an art . . . and a sport.  Some linger at each meal as though the ship is taking on water and that lobster theramdor is the final source of nutrition their bodies will receive.  Others wait mindlessly outside the myriad of dining venues hoping to be the first to dip their spoon into the baked alaska.  The competition at the buffet lines is truly Olympic.  Stepping in front of a “double diamond” guest is tantamount to asking the captain to take a short cut around some of the smaller islands nearby.

Our ship was home to nearly 1500 crew members, most of whom were recruited outside the US.  The majority sign 7-month contracts and rarely leave the vessel once they arrive on board.  Seven months.  For most of us, forty hours of work (or surfing the web at our employer’s expense) and we’re bolting for the door and singing, “Everybody’s workin’ for the weekend.”  To the ship’s staff, the weekend is also “turn-over” day, when last week’s passengers disembark, and next week’s passengers bring their luggage, double-diamond pins, and ravenous appetites on board.

Yes, the staterooms are small but adequately functional.  Except for periods of sleep, there’s little reason to tarry there unless you’ve never fully adjusted to life outside the womb. After a couple of days at sea, you find yourself unknowingly following the crowds to the next scheduled meal or featured entertainment and you can’t really remember why.  You forget what it’s like to be hungry but you’re instinctively drawn toward the dining room and buffet lines nonetheless.  Some passengers inadvertently spend more on alcohol, excursions, and shopping than their base cruise fare, effectively doubling the cost of their vacation.  One lady quipped, “We’re going into port because I’m upgrading to 1 carat this trip,” offering her measly half-carat ring as proof of her destitute condition.  Her husband smiled and adjusted his hearing aid.

Meridith is beautifully frugal, mind you.  Not cheap, but frugal.  Example?  Cruise ships are occupied by paparazzi – photographers snapping pictures of passengers ad nauseum, then posting the pictures in high visibility locations, thereby manipulating guests to purchase these images at outrageous prices to avoid public humiliation.   In a brilliant but unpopular move, my wife photographed our family’s pictures, saving us hundreds of dollars (see above).  She’s now 3 weeks into her 7-month penal contract with the cruise line.  She’s working as a photographer . . . and we miss her.

Late last year, my youngest brother-in-law stood before me, his family and his friends to affirm and articulate his love and commitment for his fiancee.  They are now “husband and wife.”  I refused to pronounce the couple “man and wife,” since the groom is about 6’5″ tall and has been a man for as long as I can remember.  Family members on both sides gushed with positive comments and couldn’t remember when they had attended a wedding so moving, nor seen a bride more beautiful.  I nodded in agreement but found myself rapturously enveloped with visions of my bride when she raced down the aisle to exchange nuptuals with me.  Well, maybe she didn’t race.  But my heart did . . . and still does.

When couples present themselves to a minister, priest, rabbi, etc., and blindly declare their love for one another and request the services of their preferred officiant, one wonders if they understand the scope and magnitude of what they’re asking.  I love my brother-in-law (all of them, believe it or not) and his new bride.  Her family is wonderful . . . and normal.  My wife’s parents are gold, so I couldn’t ask for better in-laws, except for that guy who shows up at all the family events and nobody seems to know his name.  For the record, I’m a bit of a romantic and believe that marriage is truly a divine gift.  God knew what he was doing when he noticed Adam trying to share his heart with an alligator snapping turtle and then decided to induce sleep, spare a rib and create wo-man.  Try as he may, it’s not good for a man to be alone.

So now my brother-in-law is not alone and he’s joined others in our family who have consented to monogomous bliss.  Though we refer to it as an institution, marriage is anything but.  It’s an organism – a living thing – and so it must be nurtured and protected.  For those who have celebrated at least double-digit anniversaries, you know that marriage is work.  Hard work.  Glorious work.  Which reminds me of why most people like to attend weddings.  The joy of knowing something that the bride and groom haven’t discovered yet is truly intoxicating.  Besides, a great destination wedding like my brother-in-law’s may include a stay at a beautiful house near the beach.  All my in-laws stayed with us, or us with them, depending on your perspective – a gift from my father-in-law.  We shared the entire house and everything was deemed community property, except our underclothes.  The fruit of marital labor is that you get to keep your underwear.

In fact, two of my brothers-in-law got married last year.  I offer a gesture of congratulations to both of them.  We’ve all joined that fraternity of men who have married up and realize that we are minor league players in major league parks!  Pitchers and catchers report soon.  Better go find my glove.

2012 rolled in like a thunderstorm and we were breathless watching one year come to a close while the next presented itself without permission.  We make few resolutions in our household but I decided that it was time to start blogging . . . seriously.  I don’t expect anyone to read this except perhaps those in our family who collect Social Security each month.  Then again . . . maybe they have better things to do.

Without fanfare and Super Bowl commercial appeal, here’s our new blog.  Enjoy it.  Ignore it.  Close the page and open Facebook or Linked In.  Whatever your digital psyche prefers.  The college football season is officially over and there’s much to be said (and discovered) when the rhethoric subsides and the televisions are strangely silent each night.  Looks like we’re in for a season of NetFlix and bad reality shows.  But we’re glad to be here and share our story with you.  Thanks for listening.