The Wedding Watchers

My wife and I got married 35 years ago this summer and the youngest attendee on the big day was my six-month-old nephew Eric. Flash forward to the summer of 2025 where we watched him and his beautiful bride Julia tie the knot at a church in Nebraska. Talk about a full circle moment.

Back in 1990 at our ceremony, the six-month-old Eric didn’t hold back his emotions, crying openly and unapologetically at the tender ritual enfolding before him. We were touched by his raw expression of joy and silently vowed to return the favor if we were fortunate enough to be invited to his wedding some distant day.

So there we were at St. Thomas More Catholic Church in Omaha, wedding watchers ready to let the waterworks flow. The only hitch was we were feeling much too cheerful to sob. I’ve been to my share of weddings through the years, and for me they generally fall into two categories. There’s the “Good Luck, You’ll Need It” ones, and the “This Looks Like The Real Deal” ones. This was the real deal. 

As I watched the bride and groom exchange vows, I thought back to the first time I saw pictures of Eric and Julia together on social media. They had just started dating and every smiling photo revealed what the passage of time would confirm: these two were madly in love and destined to build a bond that could go the distance. Contrast that with the lifecycle of a typical celebrity marriage:

Week 1: Head over heels.

Week 2: Trouble in paradise.

Week 3: What was I thinking?

Week 4: Drifting apart.

Week 5: I just can't do this anymore.

Week 6: Divorced.

The wedding ceremony and reception were filled with solemn traditions and joyful exuberance, but it’s the little things I’ll remember most, including:

- The bride and groom requesting that there be no cell phones, cameras and other electronic devices at the ceremony so that guests could be fully present in the moment. It was very Amish of them. I loved the low-tech touch.

- Listening to my sister-in-law Sandy read an Old Testament passage during the wedding ceremony that included lines like “Hark! My lover – here he comes springing across the mountains, leaping across the hills!” She brought a quiet dignity to the words that I would have turned into inappropriate comedy.

- Seeing my brothers Jim and Bob looking dapper in suits and ties while remembering our rural boyhood attire of dirty t-shirts and jeans on a par with the cast of The Waltons. Good night JimBob, good night John Boy.

- Discovering the adult versions of my nieces Kristen and Rachel who had grown up to be bright, funny, spirited women. In an uncanny coincidence, Kristen’s husband Scott and Rachel’s fiancé Brent turned out to be bright, funny, spirited men. What are the odds?

- Witnessing my mom embrace her role as the family matriarch posing for photo after photo with guests excited to rub elbows with an historical figure who was also “a hoot.” 

- Looking on from the sidelines while members of the younger generation bounced wildly from one part of the dance floor to the other like human pinballs on energy drinks. When a couple of them fell to the floor near where I was standing, I wasn’t sure if it was a dance move or a dizzy spell. 

- My wife Sherry and I dashing onto the dance floor when we heard the song Tennessee Whiskey, confident we could slow dance our way through it without going into spasmodic gyrations that would risk injury. (We were waiting for a Johnny Mathis tune, but chances are it was not on the playlist.)

- And through it all there was the bride and groom, graceful, gleeful, seemingly everywhere at once and intimately in a world of their own.

So many moments, so many memories. Reflecting on the day, one thing was abundantly clear to me: Eric and Julia are two people who are loved as a couple and unique individuals and who mean a lot to all the people who have shared their journey so far. 

In the eyes of this wedding watcher, it was a truly wonderful day. Here’s to a wonderful life ahead!

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No Fly Zone

We've all seen the videos. The bear that breaks into a cabin in search of leftovers. The startled deer that takes a detour through a bank lobby. The bull running amok in a china shop. (Okay, I've never seen the bull in a china shop video, but I hear they are rude to the employees and reckless around the breakables.)

Then there’s the case of the uninvited house fly. While videos of this invasive species in action are rare, many can attest to the chaos and trauma they cause. It happened to me last week on what seemed like just another quiet night at home. I was sitting on the sofa watching TV when I felt something on my leg. To my stunned disbelief a fly had landed on my knee and was staring in the general direction of my head as if to say, “What are you going to do about it?” 

Snapping out of my shock, I unleashed a swift and blinding slap to my knee that only a battle-tested house fly could evade. Turns out he was battle tested. He evaded. My adrenalin surged as I stood up and braced for the next encounter.

“We have a fly in the house!” I yelled to my wife in another room.

“Oh no, how’d he get in here?” Sherry shot back.

“I’m guessing a fake ID and help from relatives.”

“Do you think it was when we were bringing in groceries from the garage,” Sherry ventured.

“Or that,” I conceded.

I felt a buzz near my ear and swiped at the sound, smacking myself on the side of the head. Oh, so this is how we’re playing it, you little creep. Go on the aggressive and baffle me with bold assaults to my head and body while I search for the fly swatter. Come to think of it, I don’t think we have a fly swatter anymore. Our old one splintered into pieces after numerous missions in fly-invested territory.

I rolled up a batch of junk mail from our kitchen island and scanned the room. The granite countertop made it hard to detect surface debris or loitering insects, but suddenly I saw him cooling his wings a mere four feet away. Executing the limber lunge of a much younger man, I lifted my arm and struck down with a precision force that only a field-savvy house fly could escape. Turns out he was field savvy. He escaped.

“Any luck?” Sherry asked nervously, looking for signs of property damage.

“Not yet. But my hand-eye coordinating is getting better with every hit,” I boasted. “There will come a moment when he lets his guard down and the last thing he will see is a fistful of junk mail and my victorious glee.”

“Just don’t break anything,” Sherry pleaded.

“You mean like his will to live?

“I mean like the nice things we own.”

An eerie calm fell over our house under siege as several hours drifted by. I searched room by room, ready to take the fight to the fly who entered our private air space and taunted me with a landing on my leg. How had he succeeded in eluding me, time and time again? Did he feel the draft of my attack coming as my hand swept through the air? Should I have distracted him by wiggling an outstretched hand in one direction and coming in for the strike with the other hand? Should I have clapped above him, causing him to become disoriented and fly up toward my hands for an easy capture? So many questions, so little clarity.

That night, as I got ready for bed, I heard a buzz near my ear and knew what I had to do. I slammed the bathroom door shut and grabbed the small roll of paper towels I keep under the sink. 

“It’s just you and me now,” I muttered under my breath. “And only one of us is leaving this bathroom alive.”

I issued a series of rapid-fire wallops as he skirted along the vanity counter and mirror. A couple grazed his wings, sapping his propulsion. He retreated into the shadowy corners of the shower with me and my paper towels in hot pursuit. A clever reverse flight move gave him a last hurrah as I got tangled in the shower curtain, but there was no way out. I finished the job and flushed away my vanquished foe.

“We are finally fly free,” I announced to Sherry as I climbed into bed a few minutes later.

“Oh, wonderful!” She gushed. “Thank you for taking care of that.”

“It was a knock-down, drag-out fight, but I wasn’t letting that little bloodsucker win,” I asserted. 

“Wait… did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That buzzing sound – something just whizzed by my head,” Sherry pointed out. “Fly number two?”

“Oh crap, I hope they’re not related,” I sighed. 

“Let’s buy a fly swatter in the morning,” Sherry suggested.

“Good idea. In the meantime, try not to sleep with your mouth open.”

###

Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep

How did you sleep last night? Did you get the recommended 7 to 9 hours? Did you wake up refreshed? Did you greet the day in a sleep-deprived fog? Did you toss and turn and wish you could unplug your brain until morning? 

So many questions, so little rest for the weary. For me, almost anything can upset my chances to go deep sleep diving at the end of the day. Cases in point:

Rousing Sporting Events or Movies. What I watch on TV before turning in for the night can either lull or enliven me. Win or lose, a close game that goes down to the final seconds will have me replaying the key moments long after the players have showered and gone home. 

Same thing with a riveting movie that stirs me up, yanks me around, and then leaves me scratching my head about an ending I didn’t see coming. The antidote to this problem is to only watch Hallmark movies where the happy ending is predictable, or sporting events where I don’t care who wins, but that could lead to too much sleep before bedtime and not enough during the night.

Song Lyrics That Live In My Head Rent-Free. Being a word guy, I love the rhythms and flavors of language and how it can make us think, feel, relate and connect. When it comes to lyrics, this is a dangerous attraction that can lead to having a song get stuck on continuous play in your head. 

Take the quirky “Oo-De-Lally” by Roger Miller. It was first featured in the 1973 Disney animated movie Robin Hood and was more recently part of a TV spot for Google Android. It goes like this:

Robin Hood and Little John walking through the forest, laughing back and forth at what the other had to say. Reminiscing this and that and having such a good time, oo-de-lally, oo-de-lally, golly, what a day. 

Sounds harmless, right? A simple little ditty unworthy of further reflection or repetition. Tell that to my brain where “Oo-De-Lally” has played on multiple nights this week when I’m trying to fall back asleep after a trip to the bathroom.  

Unfinished Projects. Not getting closure on a project opens the door for some dead of night deliberations. A recent caulking job for a leaking shower stall is a prime example. I bought the caulk, watched 10 to 12 YouTube videos on how to do the job, cleaned out the old, moldy caulk and left the installation of the new stuff for the next day. Big mistake. Being a home handyman of limited ability, I spent half the night replaying snippets of the YouTube videos I had seen and asking myself a series of unanswerable questions, such as:

- Did I buy the right caulk?

- Did I clean out all the old caulk?

- Is one tube of caulk enough?

- Do I have a utility knife to cut the tip off the caulk tube? 

- How do I keep the pressure, speed and angle of the caulk line consistent? Should I practice first on a piece of scrap wood? Do I have any scrap wood?

- Is there a handyman I can call?

All toll, I lost three hours sleep on a project that took me 20 minutes to complete the next day.

Dream Interpretation. Dreams can be fascinating, provocative, perplexing or ridiculous – often all at the same time. This can spark futile attempts to make sense of the senseless at the expense of the shuteye I so desperately need. For example:

I dreamt I was a former child star living in a Winnebago outside of Forest City, Iowa with a small battery-powered TV and a collection of cabbage patch dolls. Interpretation: You’re better off being a late bloomer.

I dreamt my wife and I were contestants on the Amazing Race and got beaten in every event by a bickering lesbian couple from Santa Fe. Interpretation: Sometimes when you lose you win.

I dreamt I was a 400 lb. contestant on The Biggest Loser and tearfully told a trainer "I want to live to see my kids graduate college." The trainer slapped a giant chocolate chip cookie out of my hand and yelled, "Then let's get to work!" Interpretation: Relax, you don’t have kids.

I dreamt I was about to make a game-winning field goal in a big football game, but instead of kicking the ball my shoe flied off and sailed through the goal post. In the ensuing confusion, the refs count it as a goal and I’m carried off the field a hero. Interpretation: There’s a fine line between hero and zero.

Look, sleeping is a natural process essential to the restoration and recovery of vital bodily and mental functions. But “natural” and “automatic” are two different things and achieving the state of mind that produces eight uninterrupted hours of unconsciousness is a fragile pursuit. 

To keep things in perspective and improve your chances of drifting off without a struggle, I suggest reciting the following nursery rhyme each night before hitting the sack:

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray I don’t have thoughts too deep. 

If I should wake with brain waves flowing, I’ll just roll over and say “Not going.”

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Mr. Radio Breaks His Silence

Throughout my life, I’ve had complete strangers who, upon hearing me speak, ask if I work in radio. I’m always caught off guard by the question, because any time I’ve heard my voice on recordings I cringe at what sounds to me like a nasally camp counselor struggling to convince the rowdy teenagers that I’m in charge. 

“In about five seconds I’m going to start taking away miniature golf privileges. Do not test me!”

My reservations notwithstanding, the comments keep coming. While making small talk at the dentist the other day, the hygienist said, "You have a great radio voice." 

"Actually," I told her, "I sit silently for big stretches of time writing. I might not say a single word for hours" 

"That's ironic," she said.

I suppose she had a point as I look back on years of quietly tapping the keyboard. When I’m thinking things through, my so-called radio voice is reduced to the murmurs and mutters that come with the process of herding words into something worth reading. Ironic indeed.

This whole quirk of nature is truly a mystery to me. My father had a normal speaking voice. My mother does, too. In fact, as far as I know, no other member of my family has been mistaken for an announcer or radio personality, though several have been confused with certified meteorologists.

At times, I’d felt a twinge of guilt about wasting a natural resource like a broadcast-quality voice.  Give the people what they want, I would chide myself. Break your silence and share the gift! Go out and earn the title of “Mr. Radio” instead of disappointing those who already think you are. 

I pictured my enormous face plastered on the sides of buses, all air-brushed and slaphappy like local on-air celebs in every American city. Honk if you love Big Head! I would change my name, of course – something flashy and fade-resistant, with a back story to match. Something like…

Kip Caramia. Bilingual in English and Gobbledegook, Kip is hailed as “the coffee addict’s voice of choice” for his popular morning radio show “Sip a Cup With Kip.” In addition to his on-air impact, he has earned a reputation for speaking eloquently in front of large crowds at business functions without prior knowledge of the function's purpose or the makeup of his audience. His specialty: Winning over audiences by addressing them frequently as "a fine group of buckeroos" and limiting his speeches to exactly 11 minutes. 

Or maybe more like…

Lee Largo. A radio legend renowned for his ability to pronounce difficult words like “incalculable” and “Timothee Chalamet,” Lee is also a Unitarian Universalist minister. His best-selling book, Knock, Knock – Anyone Home?,  became the springboard for a speaking career that has taken him on nationwide tours of second-rate amphitheaters, dilapidated band shells and flea market food courts. 

Or possibly…

Connor Bradley. Beloved by radio listeners for practical pointers like the importance of grunting while lifting heavy objects, Connor’s speaking tours keep him on the road 200 days out of the year, sharing the personal wisdom behind his wildly popular podcasts and seminars. His many nuggets of inspiration include such penetrating insights as:

“Happiness is a choice you make when you feed your subconscious the nutrition of yes.”

“You prepare for greatness by maximizing your must-ness.” And, most profoundly…

“Dare to embrace your inner hero and your worries will surrender to the odor of your aura.”

The dirty little truth behind these absurd sayings is that if you come equipped with a voice that sounds microphone-ready, people will lap them up and label you brilliant. How can I make such a bold statement, you ask? It’s because as Mr. Radio I’ve walked the walk and talked the talk. 

But alas, that’s not the road I’ve traveled. Except for some late-night deejaying in college and the occasional voiceover gig during my time in advertising, I’ve been mostly radio silent. So when people compliment me on my voice, I simply tell them that my secret is to drink plenty of warm water with honey and lemon. Also, that I'm the bastard child of iconic game show host Wink Martindale. (Wink, wink.)

Reporting live from a quiet corner of my home, this is Mr. Radio signing off.

A Florida Whimp Whines About Winter

Cold enough for you? I’m freezing.

It was so cold this morning, I saw a squirrel wearing a hoodie.

It was so cold, I saw a collie in line at Dunkin' ordering a double expresso.

It was so cold, a raccoon asked me for directions to the Burlington Coat Factory.

Exactly how cold was it, you ask? It was 41 degrees. In Florida. Okay, I’m not expecting anyone to throw a telethon for us. I’m not even expecting an outpouring of sympathy for my discomfort. But after 40 years as a Floridian, I hope you can appreciate the hardship I’m enduring as I face temperatures well below the 75 degrees I’m used to in the winter months.

“Oh, poor baby,” my brother Jim scoffed during an early January phone call. “It’s 14 degrees here in Nebraska and we haven’t seen the sun in six days.”

“But your 14 degrees is the equivalent of our 41 degrees,” I countered lamely, pointing out the blood thinning effect of spending decades in a subtropical steam bath.

“In a few days you’ll be back soaking up the sun,” my brother ventured. “Meanwhile, we’ll be huddled by the fireplace taking swigs from a flask of whiskey and praying our provisions hold out till spring.”

“It was so cold this morning, I saw an egret wearing leg warmers,” I blurted, trying to match melodrama with imaginary wildlife.

Dressing For Distress

One of the first things you notice when the temperature drops is that a Florida cold snap brings out some strange wardrobe adjustments.

While running errands yesterday I saw a woman on a bicycle wearing a heavy winter coat with a hood. She was also wearing shorts. Earlier today I saw a guy wearing sandals, shorts and a heavy knit sweater. In both cases, it's as if their upper and lower bodies came from two different climates and formed an uneasy alliance in search of better weather.

To be honest, I’m not immune to wardrobe confusion either. When you spend the better part of the year in shorts and a t-shirt, assembling an outfit suited for cooler conditions doesn’t come easily. A long sleeve tee and jeans feels like a logical upgrade, but what if the daytime high never gets out of the 50s?

Under the right circumstances, a mid-weight sweater would be a sensible choice, but that depends on if it’s windy or not. Maybe that heavier sweater that feels like wool but is really acrylic needs to be exhumed from the cedar chest. And what of that smell embedded in the garment? Is that the cedar chest scent or the cold sweat ghosts of Christmas’s past?

Whatever ensemble I pick, I’m invariably too warm, too cold, or convinced that the apparel I need was donated to a long-ago clothes drive because “I’ll never need this stuff in Florida.” Think again, Sonny Sockless.

Hunkering Down Until The Temp Goes Up

When the weather got unseasonably cold, my wife and I found ourselves downshifting to a hunker down lifestyle, canceling all plans and priorities that involved leaving the house.

“What do you want to do today?” I asked Sherry, hoping she was as committed to sustaining cozy comfort as I was.

“I’m content just to putz around the house,” Sherry confided, leaving details up in the air.

“Let’s do that,” I agreed. “I think we have our hands full maintaining body temperature. I’d hate to lose focus on that just to feel actively engaged in the world around us. Besides, it was so cold this morning, I saw a sand hill crane wearing flannel pajamas.” (I have a million of them.)

As the chilly days dragged on and the sun kept its distance, we realized that we were no different that most other Floridians: A lucky group of hearty souls who, despite our sun-splash lives, reserve the right to whine about any dip in temperature that makes us reach for a light jacket.

If nothing else, I hope this cold weather commentary raises awareness around the rest of the country that winter's icy assault sometimes effects Florida folks, too.

To my fellow Americans in Northern and Mid-Western States: Thank you for your thoughts and prayers.

To my Fellow Frozen-In-Place Floridians: We WILL get through this. Your courage and resilience give me goosebumps.

Of course, that could just be my body’s reaction to the temperature dipping below 60 degrees.

###

The Art of Aging Gratefully

As each passing year has snuck up and shoved me a little further into senior citizenship, I am struck by how my view of the world and myself keeps changing. Consider these revealing signs of age-related evolution:

• I refer to people who drive any faster than I do as “maniacs.”

• My idea of hitting the club scene is shopping at Costco.

• I moved to a 55 Plus community so that when I use bygone words like “transistor radio,” “Mickey Mantle,” or “the Sears catalog” people know what I'm talking about.

• I divide my life into two periods: “The Agricultural Age” when I could eat everything in sight and not gain weight, and “The Information Age” where I read everything in sight about eating better to lose weight. 

• I say things like “Be careful, it’s a jungle out there” and “Can someone please explain to me why a baseball player is worth $10 million a year while a teacher only makes $35,000?”

• When I pull a muscle, twist an ankle, or otherwise injure myself in even a minor way, I know from experience that my recovery time may parallel the duration and comfort level of hiking cross country while pushing a barbecue grill. 

After another year rushed by and propelled me forward, I decided to launch an all-out search for the deeper meaning of my life. Conveniently, I found it on a celebrity website where I read that Rod Stewart, George Foreman and Frank Sinatra Jr. were all born on the same day as me. This is a truly fascinating piece of trivia since I’ve always thought that if you could somehow genetically combine those three men, you’d wind up with me. 

Okay, I haven’t always thought that, or even thought it once prior to seeing their names linked together by a random date on the calendar, but trivia always make me take a serious look at things.

Take the gray hairs that are appearing on my head in growing numbers. I tell myself that the gray I’ll be seeing in the mirror from here on out will come so gradually that almost nobody will notice. Oh sure, kids can be cruel (“Look mommy, it’s Wolf Blitzer!”) but most people will be too busy staring at their phones to separate the salt from the pepper.

Besides, I have come to see the significance of things like gray hairs as symbolizing the seasons of life. In case you hadn’t thought about it before, in your teens and 20s you’re in the springtime of your years. By the time you hit your 30s and 40s you are in summer. I’m in my late 60s. It’s mid-October from where I’m standing and I’m not in any hurry for the autumn leaves to fall.

Hey, I’ve got my whole life ahead of me. Well, not my whole life. But part of the fall and all of winter. With daily walks, a good multi-vitamin, proper colon care and afternoon naps, I should be able to keep that youthful spark that makes life worthwhile for us aging boomers.

One thing I know for sure at this stage of the game: It’s a nice place to get to in life where nothing much dazzles you but you have a quiet appreciation for many things. I’m there and I do.

Life is precious and tomorrow isn’t promised. So enjoy every sunset. Every sandwich. Every song. Every laugh. Every hug. Every new morning. Every old friend.

I think Oliver Wendell Holmes put aging in the best perspective when he said, “What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” In my case, I’ve discovered that what lies within is a nine-year-old boy who, in spite of evidence to the contrary, thinks if he runs across the lawn fast enough and jumps in just the right way, he can one day fly. 

Aging gratefully? You bet I am.

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My Wild Lake Life

Let me confess something right up front: My vision for a happy retirement was to live on a golf course in Central Florida. It has nothing to do with my love of golf or my desire to awaken a dormant gift for the game in my golden years. 

Truth be told, I’ve never played golf and don’t know if I ever will. It’s just that after years of being surrounded by houses on zero lot lines, my wife Sherry and I longed for the scenic buffer the green space of golf would give us.

So how did we wind up living on a lake? I guess you could say some luck lies in not getting what you thought you wanted but getting something unexpectedly exceptional instead. 

With close to a year of swinging and missing in our golf villa search, we decided to expand our criteria. I let our realtor know that in addition to a golf course, our next home could back up to a preserve, park, lake or pond. When a lake house turned up shortly thereafter, we pounced like a Great Egret plucking a passing fish from the shallow water.

Egrets and Heron and Deer – Oh My!

Thanks to its tropical climate and numerous wetland habitats, Florida is home to over 500 native and migratory birds. Many of these diverse species have thoughtfully given me a chance to improve my bird knowledge by frolicking in full view outside my screened patio.

“Look – it’s a suburban butternut stork,” I excitedly alert my wife, hiding my limited avian expertise behind a façade of feathery wordplay. “They’re unapologetically omnivorous and feed on frogs, lizards, small rodents, and pan-fried crab cakes.”

“That’s a Great Blue Heron,” Sherry corrects me, having Googled “Florida birds” and given herself the aura of an Audubon Ambassador. “They’re actually skilled predators that feed on fish, rodents, frogs, reptiles and small birds.”

“It’s good to be at the top of the food chain with them around,” I joke, grateful for the unearned advantage.

The egrets and herons are almost daily guests in our well-attended lake show, along with periodic visits from pelicans, ibis, sandhill cranes, ducks and Roseate spoonbills – a bizarrely-conceived creature that looks like a cross between a flamingo and a kitchen gadget.

My favorite tourists are a mama deer and her fawn, who occasionally make their way slowly from yard to yard, foraging on leaves, twigs, stems, and plants. It’s a hard way to eat more salad, but they seem to manage it. 

The fawn is rambunctious, often leaving the mother’s side to explore some curiosity a few houses away. I sense the protective instinct kicking in, and in echoes of mothers everywhere I can imagine her yelling, “Hey, what did I tell you about running off? Now get your tail back here before you wind up missing like your cousin Venison!”

Later Gator

Once in a while we’ll spot an alligator quietly floating along. Some people say that living by a lake where there are alligators is dangerous. But I say driving a car is much more dangerous. Especially if there’s an alligator hiding in the backseat.

One day I noticed a gator uncomfortably close to the water’s edge eyeing an ibis that was pacing back and forth a few feet away. I hurriedly grabbed my binoculars anticipating a deadly encounter between predator and prey. After several minutes of tension-filled inactivity, I asked myself a practical question: Do I really want to witness an act of swift and brutal violence that will stay tattooed on my brain forever? The answer was no. That’s what R-rated movies are for.

Fortunately the ibis flew away, the gator moved on, and I made a mental note to avoid scenes of horrific mayhem. I haven’t watched the news in three weeks.

Going Deep

When friends come to visit they sometimes ask what goes on out on the lake.

“Can you swim in it?” No, I say.

“Boating?” Again, no.

“Can you kayak, snorkel, waterboard?” Not a chance.

When the questions run their course, I patiently explain that our lake is one just for looking at – a haven for wonderful wildlife, a magnificent mirror to the sun and moon, and a peaceful source of reflection and inspiration.

For those who crave a murkier portrayal, I tell them I’m working on a new mystery novel entitled “Looking In The Lake.”

What’s in the lake? Who is looking? How deep is the water? Are there weird fish? Is a pretty town girl missing?

I fear I’ve said too much already.

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