Swim Team and the Swim Meet that Never Ends.

You know it all seems so cool, seems so awesome. What could be better than being a competitive swimmer?

Since I was a kid the TV brought scenes of Olympic swimmers during their meets, and events, and heats. Watching the US Swim Team crush everyone in Los Angeles during the 84 summer games was amazing. That was the Olympics of Rowdy Gaines, Pablo Morales, Dara Torres, and Mary Meagher. The US bagged 21 gold medals. From there we got Atlanta and then Sydney and the first appearance of then unknown Michael Phelps from Baltimore. The coverage of swimming at the Los Angeles Olympics all the way through the latest games in Rio has been breathtaking.

Not Torres and Gainey. Still super cool though.

You want to know what that coverage wasn’t? Accurate.

Now I’m not saying it was fake news. No, everything we saw was real. What I’m saying is we didn’t get to see everything. Lie by omission? Probably not. But if the unwashed, such as myself, could see what went into to those super cool swim meets, what happened behind the scenes… Well let’s just say my kids might have had to live with a very non-super cool ten dollar slip and slide during the summer instead of the swim team they go to each day.

Swim team practice itself is great. Takes an hour and they can go to the morning session or the evening session or both. Two nights a week the evening session is on the campus at the University of Tennessee. That’s way cool.

Practice is just what you might expect. Swimming. They literally swim laps for an hour. Great exercise and they do it every day. In the final few minutes of practice any kid who wants to can jump from the diving board. Mine have really enjoyed that part. They used to be deathly afraid, now even AM jumps right off. The confidence building in them both is visible.

But the swim meets. My god the swim meets. Tuesday night was my first time. What an indoctrination. My wife and kids got there around 4pm. The meet started at 6. I got there around 5:45. I was greeted by utter chaos only to be told by a dad from the other team that this was one of the most organized meets he had seen so far. No one from my family had seen me yet. The desire to flee was palpable. Instead I braced and forged on.

Should have run when I had the chance.

I found my wife at the check in tent, volunteering as usual. The kids appeared soon after with colorful but weird markings on their bodies. Across their backs, a sharpie induced tattoo of their last name. On the underside of their forearm some hieroglyphics that looked something like this: 12/1/1.

That bit of info indicates his event, heat and lane. So for that example he would race in event 12, be in heat 1, and swim in lane 1. Frank swam in 4 events so he had a mini European train schedule on his arm. But once it was explained to me it was easy to follow. Until I took a closer peak.

Frank why does the last one say 42/3/3?

Cause I swim in lane 3 for my last race.

Wait are you saying you are swimming in event 42? Tracy is he swimming in event 42? There are 42 events?

The answers were yes, yes and no. Absolutely should have run before I was made.

Yes he was swimming in event 42, but no there are not 42 events. There are 72. I’ll write that out for you non-numerically inclined. A swim meet has seventy-two events. And every swimmer swims at least one event. The opposing team had 160 swimmers added to our 60+ swimmers.

Frank is not even that good at this and he was swimming the maximum allowed four events. He was slated for events 12, 22, 32, 42. Great for ease of counting, not great for getting to bed anytime before midnight. Once more, there are multiple heats to each event. So from the above example Frank swam the first heat in event 12, but there were 4 heats in that event. So event 13 did not occur until all heats for event 12 were finished. And of course we had a record breaking 8 heats in event 16. Of course we did.

AM was easy. She swam 11/1/1. Event eleven as it turns out was very early on in the festivities. Problem: Wife was volunteering the whole meet, and I had to stay for all of Frank’s races. Issue: AM has to hang out waiting for her brother to finish his last race in the third heat of event 42. Forty two?!?! How do I tell a kid she has to sit there and watch other people swim but she, still in a bathing suit, can’t go in the water? The waiting is a lesson in endurance. And for a 5 year old she did great.

And yeah we blew town the minute he emerged from the water after his last race. Look I’m all for team work and team spirit and all that other business, but it’s Tuesday night, quickly becoming Wednesday morning. I don’t even want to tell you what time I get up for work. (4:30am) but there is a good chance they still might be swimming when I’m hopping in the shower before heading to the office.

I ran into a friend who was volunteering as a lane watcher or something. His kid was swimming in event 64. Poor bastard. I almost passed out when he told me. Speaking of… did I mention it was 98 bazillion degrees out there? Mrs Frank’s Place was almost a causality. Which is bizarre really. To pass out or suffer from the heat or dehydration a mere five steps from a large pool of water would be one of the universe’s cruel ironies.

All my whining aside it was a great thing. To see your kids perform in an environment like that at such a young age is a treasure. Coach Joe is an amazing dude. He is responsible for running the meet when it’s at our pool. By all accounts it went off without a hitch. Which is staggering considering all the logistics that go into something like that. So kudos to him and the staff and Team Smokin Salmon!

Here are few shots from the swim meet that never ends.

Starting Block Lane 4 – Individual Back Stroke

Frank reaching for the wall – Individual Back Stroke







So intent on a competitor he forgot to put his goggles down – Individual Breast Stroke

AM in her first ever race – Individual Free Style

So yeah it sucked in some aspects. And now that I know what to expect and how to prepare it will suck a whole lot less next time. But there was a whole lot of greatness happening too.

The camaraderie Coach Joe has cultivated on a swim team with kids as young a 5 and as old as 18 is amazing. Older kids I’ve never met stopped to congratulate AM on her first race as they were on the way to check in for theirs.

In a middle of the road type race, Frank’s kick in the final stretch of the Individual Backstroke got him from 6th to 4th, picking up valuable points for his team. Honestly I thought I was the only one who noticed. Wrong again. Several people came over to him with encouragement and excitement of his final move in the last few meters.

When Frank was so focused on beating one of the kids from the other team off the block he forgot to slide his goggles down over his eyes. He went the whole race without them. He took the kid from the block and at the wall. Mission accomplished.  Two of his coaches were laughing. There goes Frank the Tank without his goggles. No he has goggles, he’s just not using them.

The kid has a nick name. Who knew? An easy alliteration of his name to be sure. But apparently it also refers to his determination to do something like prove he can swim the length of the pool without moving his arms, jump from the diving board without getting his hair wet, and swim a race with his goggles on his head instead of his eyes because he was intent on getting off the block first.

The things you learn about your kids.

It’s a good squad with good coaching. We are lucky to have this experience. And my kids are learning important life lessons from swimming I thought they might only get from golf.

Hmmm Swim Team, who knew?




50 Years a Memory: Where did the time go?

As my friend and Friday golf partner always says, Father time is undefeated. It’s a phrase bandied about in sports more than anything. Athletes get old, skills diminish, the wear and tear becomes more visible. They become a shell of what they once were. As I approach 50 years old it becomes more painfully obvious sports has no monopoly on this condition.

But take heart, this is no woe is me I’m an old man screed. My golf game is better now than it was 10 years ago. Nope, this is just a miss-mash of revelations that occurred to me on the drive back to Knoxville TN, my current home, from the Jersey Shore and the home where I grew up. And as is the custom, if it occurs to me I tell it to you.

The place we called home.

So here’s to the tellin. 50 Years a Memory: Where did the time go?

July 4th weekend was a big deal. Aside from our nation’s deceleration some 241 years ago, it was on this date July 4th 1967, construction was complete and my family moved into the only house I ever knew. One month and 16 days later I was born. Three years and three months later my little sister and the last of the eight Linardo children of Frank and Marie was born. Yep, eight of us in there. Plus parents, plus my dad’s mother eventually. That’s 11 people, 3 adults and 8 kids, if you’re scoring at home.

11 is just right.

And until someone buys it, only one family has ever lived there. Us. Here we all are in 1973(?). With a photo bomb by our house.

I’m the tiny dude up front wearing horizontal stripes way before they were in style. It appears I’m also wearing my trusty one rig holster complete with an ivory handled six shooter. Well, it’s Jersey after all.

Now the distinguished lady in the back right is my mom’s mom; Granma McEntee. She was just visiting from Phila. Lots of history and memories standing there. Some faces are gone but most are still here.

The house, well the house remains. But as hard as it is to contemplate, it’s on the market. At some point in this year I would imagine, another family other than us will live there. Weird really. That’s just not the standard anymore. So it’s weird to think about us being the only people to ever live in that house.

You might be able to tell from the first picture the house is losing to father time. No different than anyone or anything else really. We all feel the effects sooner or later. For 50 years old and the wear and tear it’s still in great shape. Yeah it’s got some age marks, but those are some righteous age marks. The phrase if walls could talk would be appropriate here. But I bet the can could say much more. The can? That’s South Jersey speak for the bathroom.


Oh jonny, the stories you might tell.

You, my friends, are looking at the one and only bathroom in that house. I took that picture when I was home this past June. Almost 50 years after it was built. Numbers are important. Eleven people, three adults, eight kids, all using/sharing that. Did I mention five of those eights kids were girls. I’m not sayin, I’m just sayin. That’s a sturdy room.

Now lest some of my kin jump needlessly, there is a half bath downstairs. Referred to then as a powder-room. But that amounts to a toilet and sink in what could generously be described as a water closet. That joint could tell some stories too. But not like the main hub of the house.

No the main bathroom is where it all started every morning. From my dad rolling out to work at 5am, to my sisters hogging the shower, to my brother yelling The bus is at the corner! when it really wasn’t, just to see the mayhem and maybe clear a space for his own assault on the can.

I remember coming out of the shower only to see my glasses lenses covered with shaving cream and all manner of insults, also in my dad’s shaving cream, scrolled across the double mirror. I can remember my brothers yelling through the door from the hallway and my sisters, some of them anyway, yelling right back from the high ground; inside the bathroom.

From there the action always moved to the stairs. Either my brothers running down and out the front door trying to escape the wrath of my older sisters, usually with an old hunk of hot-wheels track in hand, or me and my little sister using our blankets wrapped around the rail to ride to the bottom.

Climbed these thousands of times.

Look at those stairs. You can almost see the history in the treads beneath the carpet. When I was a kid the rail was black wrought iron. Same rail, now white. It’s a testament to the manufacturing how well that damn thing held up. Yeah man the house is 50 years old, but they truly don’t make em like that anymore. Our house was put to the test daily for almost half a century and it’s still solid.

Now it’s empty. Sort of. Fifty years is a lot of memories but it’s a lot of stuff too. That stuff has to be dealt with. I’m a bit conflicted of being 660 miles away at this moment in history. I would love to be there going through all the stuff and reliving things. But then again I’m pretty lazy and that seems like a crap ton of work. My little sister, the warden as we call her, is on the job. The whole gang except me really has been going at it for some time now trying to get it ready to sell. Like expert archeologists they tackle one layer at a time.

The pics my sister sends me are great. Talk about memories. The tractor in the pic below is older than me I think. A little worse for wear, I believe this was unearthed from the downstairs attic. Yes kids, in those days houses of that type were built with an upstairs and downstairs attic. It’s amazing to see the pics sides by side. At least to me it is anyway.

Old faithful. Could still get er done!

Me in what had to be 1970, 71 at the latest.

Appropriately my trusty old tractor is sitting next to an Amazon Prime box.When Frank saw this picture he thought it was of him. Father time is indeed undefeated.

No Frank that’s not you. You are looking at your old man, way back when, younger than you are now, sitting on a tractor thing that still works, in front of a house that’s as sturdy as ever.

When the new people move in, and the carpets pulled, and the walls painted, and the memories erased, the dust will fly. There is a history in that dust. Those floors bear our existence. Those walls hold our jelly stained fingerprints. The stairs contain the drum beat of eight kids growing up.

In that dust, in the commotion of remaking old into new, lies the story of us.




Back to work: The Grind

Not in the Grind.

I imagine this will be a fairly obvious statement, but being a stay at home dad spoiled me. Yes it was hard and yes it’s still work, just unpaid work and… blah blah blah. I get it. I’m not saying being a stay at home is any less demanding than going to a paid job might be. Trust me I did it for six years. No matter what I did in the military, no matter what I do now working in national security, none of that was or will ever be as important as what I did for the six years I was home with Frank and then Anne Marie.

Still, I never felt it for those six years. There wasn’t this pang hanging in the air. You know the feeling. It’s just faint white noise on Saturday morning. It becomes a bit of a buzz by nightfall. No not that kind of buzz. The kind that of buzz distracting you from enjoying Saturday because you know what’s coming. By Sunday it’s loud and unmistakable. You, my friend, are in The Grind.

Honestly I didn’t know what it was. But I knew it was there. As soon as I went back to work I could feel it. Maybe not right away, as the adrenaline of all the new things carried me through the grind unnoticed. But as soon as I got into a groove at work, as soon as I began to feel comfortable there, I could sense it. It was just this lurking feeling, again like a very light white noise playing in the background. It was annoying but not debilitating. It was this feeling. A feeling like I was running after something but could never catch up.

Then I mentioned it to my friend and neighbor JB. He tagged it immediately. You’re in the grind bro! For a dude 20 years younger than me he is wise beyond his years. The Grind. Yep. By Sunday morning it was this dread and angst all at the same time. Trying to get stuff done at the same time trying to enjoy the final moments of the weekend. The Grind.

Definitely in the Grind.

The funniest part, I love my job. I love the people I get to work with. Top it off with the mission. The mission is as close to what I did in uniform as I could ever get on the outside. I’m not sure I could have described what I thought the perfect follow on job for me would be once I retired from the military. This place is it for me. That’s what makes the grind so dastardly.

I don’t worry or fret going back to work on Monday’s, but I can tell you I’m grinding on Sunday. Hell I went to work this past Monday, July 3rd even though most of the place would be off and I would be off Tuesday July 4th. I like it there. I feel at home in my office and my building. I know JB loves what he does. I know he enjoys his work as much as I do mine. But still, the grind is there. It’s tangible. You can feel it. And then it’s gone.

When the alarm blows on Monday morning the grind is gone. It’s time to make the doughnuts and no time to be worried about the weekend cause it’s over. You would think the converse would be true as well. You would think there would be an equal and opposite reaction, an anxiousness waiting for the weekend to begin. Nope. The grind doesn’t work that way bro.

Now I can’t speak for JB here. All I know is I don’t sit around on Thursday watching the sweep hand and waiting on the plant whistle to blow. I work a 4/10 schedule with Fridays off. So Thursday is my Friday. Yeah I know, don’t hate me. The weeks disappear for me. When I hit the ground on Monday I’m going hard, jobbin, choppin wood, whatever. When I look up, it’s Thursday. The weeks happen that fast for me. Still come Friday night, after all the golf has been played, all the naps taken, the grind starts to approach.

The Grind

It’s a little like that green fog in the movie The Ten Commandments. You know, when Yule Brenner as Ramses II condemns all new born Hebrews to death but Moses beat him to the punch on what was to become the first Passover. That green fog held low to the ground. It was the representation of the angel of death and instead of Hebrews, every first born Egyptian literally eats the dust when it envelops them. The grind is just like that, minus the Hebrews and Egyptians and the death thing. But that fog man, that fog creepin along the ground… You’re in the grind bro!

Now I know all you junior psych majors are saying the same thing. Dude, it’s the job. You’re dreading going to the J.O.B. What’s the saying, All Knowledge, No Mileage. Try to explain the grind to a kid with all school and no work and that’s the answer you get. Not their fault. They will feel the grind one day in the near future and the light will go on for them as it did me.

Look I can’t explain it. All I can say is the work is good but the grind is real.

Stuff my kid says: From the mouth of a preemie.

Who knew?

Strange how time affects things, how it can change your point of view or even your philosophy on stuff. Take for instance my now 5-year-old daughter. While in the NICU weighing a slight 1 pound 12 ounces any sound she made was met with joy and celebration. A burp, a cry, even a tiny little preemie fart, was cause for elation. Now, five years later, well let’s say the philosophy has changed a wee bit.

We summoned her upstairs to try on some new PJs. She was in the living room alone, it was quiet. And that’s important. When I called her to come upstairs it got dead quiet. Think of the quiet before a nuke goes critical and destroys everything in 100 square miles and you’d be close to the quiet before what we now call The Event.

When she realized we wanted her to stop what she was doing and come up stairs we clearly heard her say semi-under her breath, Well Shit. That was followed by her slow stomping her way up the stairs.

I am not embarrassed to say it was one of the proudest moments of my life. Not only did she use the proper word and context. She used the proper inflection. It was impeccable delivery.  I mean it was wrong on almost every level but damn it was funny. Tracy did not think so but I didn’t notice because I was too busy peeing my pants laughing.

But she wasn’t done. In fact she has offered so much funny lately I’m only giving you the best few as I see it. Or hear it as it were.


We are both having hotdogs with ketchup. Frank and I are equivalent. Daddy equivalent means equal or the same. As you might imagine that was uttered with condescension dripping from all sides of it. She actually paused, taking the time to explain it to me as if I was the one in the room who could not possibly comprehend that word. She might as well have said excuse me while I explain it to you know who. All accompanied by a smirk and the old thumb wave that says hey look at the dope. Just remember when you point one finger at someone there are four more pointing back at you. To whit…

Daddy, dog water tastes just as good as people water. This revelation was made mere seconds after she educated me on the word equivalent. But this is the joy of young minds right? To her both of those statements were equally smart and observant. You might say they were equivalent. That is until your mind stops long enough to ask what should have been the obvious question. Anne Marie how do you know what dog water tastes like? Turns out thew answer is as obvious as the question.

The road warrior herself. Dreaming of first class leg room.

Daddy if it takes 13 hours to drive to New Jersey why don’t we just fly? Ah silly little child. If we flew we would be depriving you of that great American tradition; the family road trip. You see Anne Marie it’s supposed to take 13 hours so you can, we all can, experience the misery of the road trip in all it’s pee stops and hours long traffic jam glory. It’s what builds character and makes American strong. Fly? Fly! Don’t be silly. That would only take 1 hour and 45 minutes. What the hell are we supposed to do with the other 11 hours and 15 minutes?

Daddy we could live here forever! She tossed out that gem after it was discovered that Avalon NJ, the city where we rented the beach house for the week, had a Duck Doughnuts. That’s a cake doughnut place that has become wildly popular in the south. They make the doughnuts right in front of you, then put anything you want on them. I’m not saying I would do violence for a maple glazed with bacon on top, but I’m not not saying it either. Strawberry glaze with rainbow sprinkles is her regular. Of course this desire to stay in the homeland was also after we had real pizza for dinner one night and Italian subs the next and we spent a six days on the beach and at the pool. Live there forever, of course she’d want to. But will we? Of course we won’t.

I just don’t know who I’m going to marry. That bombshell came when I found her, at the ripe old age of four, sitting on the hallway floor in front of her room looking despondent. When I asked her the issue, she dropped that on me. She was very concerned that she would not find someone to marry. I suggested that she wait till at least her 5th birthday to get worried about that. She was agreeable but not happy. I’m still in counseling.

And for the top, and likely most disturbing comment…

Daddy do girls grow a penis? Tracy and I just looked at each other for a very awkward minute and it became painfully clear this was my hot potato to handle. It was like tip toeing though a mine field. Ah… no Anne Marie only boys have a penis. She paused for a quick second and offered this, That’s good. Cause I don’t want one of those. My thought – Hold on to that attitude for the next 80 years if you don’t mind.

And with that the conversation ended and she jumped into her bed and reminded us to turn on her sound machine and ceiling fan. That was our invitation to leave so she could go to sleep. So it appears we will be paying dearly for all of the quite, happy go lucky, rule following we got from Frank.

God help us all.

Six months in writers Siberia: excuses, justifications, and all that other jazz.

Twain has that famous line about his obit being reported in error. He dined out on that damn line for years. Well I’m here to tell you that cat is dead now, no matter what the paper’s say. Me on the other hand…

Proof of Life – the author and his kids. (The Frank of Frank’s Place is in the middle)

Yeah I’m still here. All evidence to the contrary, I did not fall off the face of the earth. Sorry to disappoint all you loyal members of the Flat Earth society, but it’s round, and it keeps spinning. No matter what we do, it keeps spinning. Now, some things may spin on without you. Take for instance the daddy blogosphere. It has hummed along nicely in my six month absence. There has been a shift toward video blogging or vlogging as the kids call it, but there are still writers out there defending the long form and kicking out good stuff. For that, and them, I am grateful.

This paragraph is where I’m supposed to regale you with tales of the exploits and adventures that have kept me from the key board these last six months. Honestly the only reason I know it’s been six months is the last post on the blog was my end of year Best of 2016 Posts post. And even more honestly, there has been no great reason, no wild tale to tell that would explain my literary solitude. In fact there is no tale at all, wild or otherwise.

If I had to pick a simple word to excuse the lack of stories here it would be work. Yep, that’s it. Just work. That word serves as an excuse, justification and simple fact all at the same time. I got a job in 2015. I got a promotion in March of this year. As much as I hated leaving the most important thing I’ve ever done in raising my kids, I love my new job. Other than the 4am wake up I can’t think of one thing I don’t like about it.

But the simple fact is, I haven’t had the gumption, the drive, the want to, that enables me to sit down and write. I don’t know how all those working dads blog on such a regular basis. Well other than the fact I’m extremely lazy and they aren’t. But that seemed too obvious an answer. I have no trouble getting up at 6am on my day off (Friday) to make my tee time with my buddy. But sitting down to bang on the keys was escaping me. And I have no idea why it’s not now. That’s not entirely true. I have a few ideas.

For one I’m on vacation in the motherland. Sitting on the deck of a beach house in South Jersey seemed like a good time to look at the blog and see what’s been happening. Yeah, did I mention I haven’t even seen my site in six months? Not a post, not a stat. Ignoring blog stats for a blogger is like depriving normal people of things like food, water or air.

Second, I’ve actually read a few other blogs this week and felt a little inspiration. One in particular is Skipah’s Realm. A good blog written by Gary Matthews, a divorced dad working and raising his kid and doing all the other things people do. He weaves his stories in a tapestry of analogy and metaphor with a good dose of humor. The big thing for me is this, the dude is a single dad with a job and he’s banging out stories on the regular. I don’t care if you like his style or not, that’s impressive.

So I’ve charged up the tablet, dusted off the key board and started tapping some keys. This is what has come out so far. At some point, probably this paragraph, I’m supposed to tell you I’m back. At some point I’m supposed to tell you I have story upon story que’d up and ready to type. Even if that were true I would not make that mistake again. Or again. I’m pretty sure I said I was getting my work legs under me and finding a good writing schedule and all that jazz. I’m more than sure I said it twice already. So no more.  I’ve got a few stories, some work, some home, some about this vacation. Who knows when if ever I’ll type them up. Hell I may never type again or I could bang out one a day for weeks. No tellin.

So for now let me say thanks to you all who have kept checking back. You’re loyalty will be rewarded, or you know, not.

How’s that for specific vagueness.

Frank’s Place: Best of 2016!

Posts With the Most

Posts With the Most

Another year come and gone. Not a particularly banner year at Frank’s Place. Of course that had nothing to do with the year that was 2016 a now popular lament as aging Hollywood stars cast off their earthly mores. Although I will say losing Princess Leia was a bit of a gut punch.

No 2016 was only a tough year for me because I struggled to manage my time. I landed a great job at the end of 2015 but the hours were so incredibly foreign, making time to handle my three main hobbies was tough. Yeah I know, cry me a river.

The work schedule actually lent itself to golf, my main hobby, as I had every Friday off. But finding time to blog here and get to the political podcast I do every week with my longtime buddy and comrade in arms was a struggle indeed. Go here: Unfiltered/Unfettered to hear two, old, fat Air Force retirees wax less than poetic about politics and society in general. There wasn’t enough Diet Coke to keep me going I’ll tell you that much.

The irony there is golf takes the longest and I’ve been able to do that the most. Blogging and podcasting might take 3 hours total a week, all after the kids go to bed. As you might imagine, one round of golf can take a bit longer and then there’s the lunch afterward. Of all three things my time with my playing partner/minister/counselor/mentor is more valuable to me than almost anything.

All that aside, it was a good year. The kids began to find their groove in their respective schools. I found my stride at my new job, and 4:30 am wake up really did get a tad easier as the year rolled on. My saint of a mother in law got married after a quarter century of being a faithful widow. We settled  an old score with a certain unnamed bully. And as you might have heard, we got a mutt. Milo Dog to be exact.

Anyway, enough of my gum flapping. I actually managed to get enough posts up to qualify for a “Best Of” this year. So from worst to first, that’s by number of views not quality of course. Although I guess you could make the case views are directly tied to quality, but I think we all know I way too lazy and no where near smart enough to analyze all that.

Here they are, on the cusp of this new year, number 10 to number 1, the best of Frank’s Place for 2016. Click each title link if you want to read the actual story.

10 – Snowmageddon: Aunt Jemimah, Golf, and Pat Summit to the rescue!

Ain't your daddy's tow truck.

Tow truck in front of me couldn’t even hold the road.

We don’t get snow that often in East Tennessee, well not in the Knoxville portion of East Tennessee anyway. But when we do git it, buckle up, cause it’s gonna be a wild ride.

Think of a death defying stunt that should only be tried by professionals. Then picture some hick named Earl easing up outta his busted lawn chair on a half covered porch he ain’t got round to finishing yet, telling his buddy Clem to hold his beer so he can show the pro how it’s done. That’s driving in Knoxville during a snow fall.


9 – War on Christmas: My wife wont let me use the laser!

Christmastime, the air is cold, the cards fill the mail box, and the house is bathed in the warm hues of the red and green season. All powered by a futuristic laser device I bought at The Kroger. What’s not to love. Even the Grinch couldn’t hate on that. Well maybe he couldn’t, but my wife could. What’s next; outlawing the Yule Log?


8 – Back to Work: Three stall monty.

Man y’all are weird. This only got the third best response as far a views, but the response through e-mail and random people stopping me at work and home to tell me about some jag-off who sat right next to them when there were plenty of stalls down the line was crazy. The old potty story, and the breaking of the unwritten rules there-in, really caught people’s attention.


7 – Tales from the Tall Grass: A tree falls in Knoxville

No trees were harmed in the writing of this blog post, Well except that one. (John Stone for scale)

No trees were harmed in the writing of this blog post, Well except that one. (John Stone for scale)

This is from a new series I tried earlier in the year. Merging two of my hobbies didn’t really seem like a great idea but I was in a huge rut/writers block place so I decided to shake it up a bit. When me and John (a fore mentioned friend/golfer/preacher/sounding board and pictured left) ran into a dude on the golf course using a golf ball with the Frank’s Place logo and web site on it I knew we might be on to something. This story about a tree that terrorized me for a decade was the second installment. Again hitting trees really struck a nerve. Lot’s of response to this. And I can say it’s an area I will pursue more as I’ve finally got my time managing feet under me I think.



6 – Growing Up: It sucks man.

This is just me whining about my kids getting old. Hence I’m getting old. Honestly, who uses the word Hence but old people. Obviously seeing Anne Marie grow up is bitter sweet. But this is what were hoping for when she was born at 25 weeks. Now, we want it to slow down. Same with Frank. As the cuteness ebbs and the know it all preteen grows we both are looking for the break pedal.

Also I put my reading fairy tales in German on display. Don’t miss it.


5 – Road Trip 2016 Part 2: Hotdogs, Presidential Waffles, and Good People.

I bet I can get through this daddy!

I bet I can get through this daddy!

We went to Jersey for a summer vacation. I finally listened to my wife and we took three-ish days on the way back to Tennessee and stayed in DC. Glad we did. It made for a great trip. The time in the homeland amongst my fellow Jersy-ites was great. The trip to our Nation’s Capital was even better. This story amounts to home movies in print with a twist. I did a bio on some of the interesting people we met in our few days on the ground in DC. Hint, none of them were in the government.


4 – Back to Work: Driving in Purgatory

Another work story another rant on driving in East Tennessee. This one has nothing to do with weather and everything to do with The Drive. Yes it’s the drive for which I lament. The 20 minute sled dog race with some of Knoxville’s finest motor vehicle operators that makes the 4:30am wake up such a joy. It’s no mystery why this one is in the top 5. I may be the only one ranting publicly about this but I’m not the only one who knows it’s an issue. I can almost guarantee you have a similar tale.


3 – One Year Gone: If I could make it to 30.

This one is a bit of therapy as I grieve the death of my father who passed in 2015. Mostly it’s about the rationalization I concocted for myself as an 11 year old on how I would deal with the death of my parents. Obviously it didn’t work out the way I planned it when I was 11. I made it to 30. In fact I made it to 48 before I lost a parent. Still hurts. Hard. Sad truths you can’t learn until you live through them. Life just blows the big one sometimes.


2 – Sometimes Words Fail



Speaking of the world just blowing sometimes. This is about Lucas, a boy from our neighborhood and Frank’s kindergarten class. It’s impossible to comprehend what must be happening to him and his family as they fight through this.

Be warned there is nothing but hard life in this post. However there is a link as well. this one to be exact : Lucas’ Fight Against Child Cancer. Click it here, click it there. No matter. If you feel led and you are able, do what you can.

I can tell you we are 9 months adrift from the diagnosis and Lucas is still battling. Still fighting the fight. The strength and courage of children is staggering.


1 – Yeah so we got a mutt.

Yeah that's cute. So what.

Yeah that’s cute. So what.

Well good lord was there any doubt this would be the number one post. Just can’t figure out if it’s because of Milo’s cuteness or the fact people know I’m not a dog lover or animal lover for that matter. And yes most people’s predictions have come true. I have bonded with the dog and he with me. My kitchen floor has never been cleaner and the little bastard is sleeping on the bed. Shut up.


Well that’s a wrap. The Top Ten decided by you, the faithful of Frank’s Place. I appreciate your clicks and hope to give you more to click on in 2017.

2016 was a decent year for us personally. Every year will have ups and downs but for my ledger we came out ahead. For that we are grateful.

Happy New Year from Frank's Place!

Happy New Year from Frank’s Place!


Yeah, so we got a mutt.

Who could hate that face? Well, not me. But cute or not it still poops.

Who could hate that face? Well, not me. But cute or not he still poops.

Before I go one sentence further let me say I do not hate animals. I do however hate the messes they leave behind and the aggravation they cause, the extra expense they incur, and the overall upheaval that ensues when you bring one of God’s creatures into the home.

Okay, with the PETA public service announcement out of the way let’s move on.

Meet Milo Dog. Absolutely the cutest damned dog I’ve ever seen. And as far as pets go I’m really a cat person. Never had a dog in my life. Always liked cats mainly due to their attitude.

Cats could really give a flying rat’s behind about you as long as the water and food bowls are full and the litter box is clean. Their aloofness resonates with me for some reason. I like the fact they are fairly low maintenance and they sometimes look at you with the “I wouldn’t pee on you if you were on fire.” glare. Gotta respect that.

But back to Milo Dog. He was left at a shelter when he was a few weeks old by some dude who obviously didn’t want him. The shelter named him Milo and my kids didn’t want to change his name. Milo comes to us by way of deception and guile.

I did not want Milo. I did not want any animal. I made my objections clear; money, time, effort, poop. All sound arguments punctuated with the putting of my foot down. As you can now tell my word and the weight of my foot have no meaning what so ever. My foot being put down means so little I actually took a break from typing this very sentence to take Milo out for one of his many pee breaks.

So the guile first. For months my wife has been texting me pictures of dogs left at an animal shelter. Sometimes she would make her supplication with the written word. Most of the time she would just text me the shelter mug shots of these lost mutts. However, once she realized I was too strong willed to be worn down in that fashion, she sent in the kids.

Out of the blue one or two of my midgets would come at me about getting a dog. One day I called their bluff. Go a week without me having to tell you to clean your room and we can get a dog. That was easy money. They never got close to a week. Barely made two days. No mutt for them.

Then the littles tried to guilt me. “We’re the only house on the street without a dog daddy.” Insert sad face and use whiny voice. Just to get a little fun out of it I responded in my best mocking voice, “Well Frank that makes us unique. I like unique.”  Quick aside, we were soon not the only house without a dog. RIP Khaki. Still no mutt for them.

Really? That's all he does? Besides poop I mean.

Really? That’s all he does? Besides poop I mean.

On their last attempt I sent them packing before they opened their cake holes. Still the kids made one more push. My reply, “Tell mommy to get a job and she can pay for the dog.” Somehow they interpreted that as me saying if we could get more money they could get a dog. So my well meaning albeit comprehensively impaired kids ran to their rooms.

Two piggy banks smashed later they were asking if they had enough. Then I fired off a terse text to the master mind herself explaining the hazards of using the kids as emotional pawns in her little game. Still no mutt for them. Daddy – 1 Kids – 0 Piggy Banks – (-2)

Then a deal was presented. She would no longer use the kids as human shields if she could check on the availability of one dog they all liked. If he was no longer up for adoption she promised she would stop damaging our children in her quest for another mouth to feed.

And que the deception.

As she is laying out this silly plan she literally gets a call from the shelter. Her application for Milo has been processed and approved. The mutt was ours if we wanted him. For anyone trailing behind, she had applied to adopt Milo long before she ever mentioned the deal. Trump isn’t even that deceptive.

Well as you can obliviously tell we adopted Milo Dog. Yeah, no. He will not have our last name. If you question the veracity of that claim, just dial up the animal hospital a mile up the street from our house and ask the vet what Milo’s last name is. Her answer will be Dog or NLM. (No Last Name). And I would bet her voice cracks a bit when she tries to answer. Let’s just say me and the vet will not be exchanging Christmas cards anytime soon.

Me and Milo Dog.

Me and Milo Dog.

Yeah Milo has grown on me. He listens to me almost without hesitation thanks to a few tips from our neighbor’s JB and Becky who have a similar dog. He nipped at me one time and another solid piece of advice from JB cured that instantly. He wags his tail so hard when I get home from work his whole little dog ass moves back and forth.

And yeah he sleeps on the bed on Mrs Frank’s Place side now that he can sleep through the night without getting up to pee. Our kitchen floors have never been cleaner. He obeyed even when I started calling him No Nuts Milo after he’d been neutered. He’s sitting at my feet right now as I type about him. But he’s not one of our kids. He’s still just a dog.

He’s Milo Dog. And he’s all ours.