Santina and I have been trying to downsize for a couple of years. Our timing's bad. With just the 2 of us, we'd like to move into a smaller space. No big deal, I mean it's nothing like Kaiser Wilhelm contemplating Lichtenstein. But with the economy being what it is, we're thinking smaller all the time. We've stepped back from 3 bedrooms/2 baths, to maybe one door and a perch.

A trade-off of sump pump and paint brush for the occasional tete-a-tete with English sparrows works for me, but the requisite change in diet is off-putting; and of course the growing restrictions on air travel will ultimately nix this deal too.

On Sunday a small contingent of a tiny Kansas-based hate group, calling themselves the Westboro Baptist Church, launched a name calling assault right here in Concord.

It is NH's new gay marriage law and WBC's anti-gay crusade that brought them here, but they are not limited to anti-gay; they are anti nearly everything, including anti-everybody-else's-religion; and anti-military membership (since joining the military is an act of supporting the government of a country in moral collapse). And so, you can throw in anti-US as well.

It is only natural to shake a finger at their hate mongering, to question the use of the word "Church" in their title, and to wonder how Baptists in general view this group -- but one has to marvel at the power of heredity (or perhaps environment) when members of the paltry congregation include not only the founder's middle-age daughter (Margie Phelps), but also his grandson (Ben Phelps). What chance do you suppose these poor souls ever had? How many flushes of a badly clogged toilet are required before really clear water returns?

So while I hold no sympathy for the rest of this errant congregation, I'm cutting Margie and Ben some slack. These two have plenty of reasons to be flailing against the world.

We each leave our mark -- whether we mean to or not. There is no anonymous life.

While Gandhi and Mother Teresa left theirs through years of service, John Hancock, in 3 seconds of scrolly handwriting, said all he ever needed to. Babe Ruth only pointed. A cow's skull means Georgia O'Keeffe. But be careful about the mark you leave; you could end up like the Emperor Nero, bound for all eternity to share a blackened pasture with Mrs. O'Leary's cow.

If you decide to re-do your kitchen (like Santina and I did), and if you go the whole bit with the dishwasher made invisible (like Santina and I did), and if you then reach blindly for the silverware drawer, which pulls out, but inadvertently grab the dishwasher handle, which pulls down, your whole world will turn instantly topsy turvy and for a split second you will not even be certain of your gender.

Seems like we used to get a lot more Christmas cards than we do now. I trust this says more about the changing times than it does about us. Still, they're nice to receive. Diana touches base from Switzerland, Susan thanks Santina for the holiday cookies, LR speaks from the soul. And it's good to hear from Michelle and Barack, catch up with them, hear what they've been up to.

When I was in high school and just starting to shave, Bobby Poole enlightened me as to the nature of whiskers. They don't grow at a constant rate he told me, but rather they have two phases of rapid growth, the first phase beginning right after they've been cut, and then a second phase just before they're cut again.

(who was I to question a friend?)

And I confess that I have often wondered during all these intervening years just how many really stupid life decisions I might have avoided had I been only half as smart as Bobby Poole's whiskers.

I was shocked to hear today that Chad and Jeremy would be performing locally. Shocked that they were both still: a) living, b) performing together, and c) welcome in NH.

In probably 1966 Patty of the Cher-hair and I had sat stage right, front row in the u-shaped wrapping balcony of the Keene State College gymnasium, waiting impatiently through an interminably bad opening group, and boisterously joined the throng of stamping feet, whistles and catcalls for the main event. Finally Chad and Jeremy emerged. After three songs the President of the Student Senate rushed on stage and implored us to give them a big hand. Which was very confusing. Till we realized they were departing. And then we were told that one of them wasn't feeling very well. Stamping feet and catcalls returned as a drama unfolded backstage. The college refused to pay, citing breech of contract; and then there was some breaking of furniture.

I didn't see Patty after that. Dropped her off at home and never called back. We'd been out maybe three times, it might have looked from a passing bus that we'd be a good fit, but there was simply no spark. And even less maturity.

43 years later I'm hoping Patty is also still alive; and if she remembers me at all I'm hoping that she does not do so with the same glower that I reserve for Chad and Jeremy.

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Oh, but memory fails. And are we surprised? It was only designed to suggest possible locations of car keys; 43 years of personal dust bins is way out warranty. Never was Chad and Jeremy was it? Was Peter and Gordon (who maybe only had three songs).