A Doug's Life: "Oh, Would You Like to Ride in My Beautiful Balloon..."

And I thought I was afraid of heights.

Well yes, I'm still reluctant to stand on the top step of a ladder. And no, I wouldn't jump out of a hot air balloon basket at 7,000 feet, as a guy did right before my eyes today.

(Yes, he had a parachute).

But you know what? Floating high above the Menifee Valley for more than an hour really didn't scare me at all. Actually, it was a breathtaking experience that gave me a new perspective on the landscape, a better understanding of just how vast our world is, and an incredible sense of peace.

It all started before dawn, in an open field not far from Perris Valley Airport. There we were -- nine adventurous souls, surrounded by tumbleweeds, watching our pilot, a two-man ground crew and a "jumper" prepare for liftoff.

Our hosts at Above the Rest Hot Air Ballooning had thought of everything. Dawn Chapton, owner of the company, had booked our flight and checked the weather conditions the night before. Our three-man crew, headed by pilot Phil Brandt, had driven us out to a remote location where obstacles were few and the wind conditions were favorable.

The wind, you see, has everything to do with hot air ballooning. Before leaving the company's home base, where it also provides skydiving services, Brandt had sent up two small helium balloons to check Mother Nature's steering system.

So there we were, seeing nothing but sagebrush and hearing only the wake-up call of a lonely rooster somewhere out beyond the boulders. Brandt, after joking that he was on his third week on the job, admitted he's been doing this for 22 years, with more than 5,000 hours in the air. Or, as he said, "since God's dog was a puppy."

I decided that was good enough for me, so with my daughters Jill and Megan, I waited patiently for the crew to roll out the multi-colored, 210,000-cubic-foot nylon balloon and fill it with air.

"Remember," I told myself. "You wanted to do this." Well, at least I said I did, in a column about the wild blue yonder above Menifee. But that was back in December, while writing in the comfort of my den. This was today, and the balloon was filling up real fast.

Sitting on the ground in front of me, stuffing his 22-year-old body into a pressurized jumpsuit, was Brent Witt, a local boy who was going to further entertain us by skydiving out of our balloon basket from several thousand feet up. Better him than me, I figured. Obviously, the guy has nerves of steel. Less than an hour before, he had been fast asleep when Brandt called, asking if he felt like jumping this morning. I mean, the dude was there before the balloon was filled.

One must get quite a rush from this skydiving thing, I thought. But there was little time to ponder the situation. Suddenly it was time to cram 11 of us -- nine passengers, Brandt the pilot and Witt the jumper -- into a basket roughly 9 feet by 5 feet.

One quickly forgets about the close quarters once Brandt fires enough propane-fueled hot air blasts up into the enormous balloon. Quickly, you're thankful there are other bodies close by as you slowly begin to lift off the earth and rise into the morning sky.

At first, you laugh at the people, barking dogs and moving cars as they begin to fade away, soon to be mere ants on the landscape. Then you rise into and finally above the clouds, witnessing a scene most of us have seen only through the window of a commercial airliner.

Up there, truly in God's country, there is nothing but peace. No traffic jams, no lawn to mow, no laundry to pick up. Just clouds and sunlight as far as you can see, the only sound being the occasional blast of the burners to give us more altitude.

As Brandt explained, Above the Rest operates these flights year-round, holidays included, weather permitting. He estimates that the company carries about 3,500 passengers a year across the skies, leaving from locations in Perris, Temecula and Palm Springs. The company features rides to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, wedding ceremonies and more, capped off by champagne and snacks on the ground afterward.

Brandt's job as pilot involves managing the blasts of propane -- about 55 gallons' worth for the entire trip -- "spinning" or rotating the balloon by pulling on ropes above him, monitoring our position both visually and with a GPS system, and communicating with the ground crew.

After all, they have to know where to pick us up. The wind will have something to say about the landing spot.

Meanwhile, at about 7,000 feet -- 8,400 feet above sea level, Brandt points out -- Witt pulls on his goggles, steps up onto the top rail of the basket, waves goodbye and jumps out. Looking like some kind of superhero with a spread-eagle, free-fall posture in his winged jumpsuit, Witt opens the parachute about halfway down, just as he begins to disappear into the clouds.

Alrighty, then. Where's that handrail?

As we continue drifting southeast, we pass over Highway 74 and notice Diamond Valley Lake off in the distance. Through breaks in the clouds, we can see horses wandering around corrals, freshly plowed fields, new housing developments, bright blue swimming pools, even a couple people up on their rooftops, waving as we begin to descend.

Finally, after nearly an hour and 20 minutes of heavenly bliss, we float down to a vacant lot in the unfinished portion of a housing tract a bit southeast of Heritage High School. A couple of slight bumps and we're down, having traveled almost five miles from our takeoff spot.

As he begins to help the ground crew pack up the equipment for the van ride back to the base, Brandt is asked what keeps him motivated to do this every day.

"It's not the same -- ever," he said. "I've never done two trips that are exactly the same. And it's the reactions... usually, this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience for people."

Maybe, maybe not. I think I just might take to the skies again sometime. I'm not saying I'll be ready to strap on the chute if Brent Witt sleeps through the wake-up call next time, but I'll certainly be ready to pile into the basket again and take off into the wild blue yonder.

Above the Rest Hot Air Ballooning and Skydiving
Reservations: (888) 364-7421

A Doug's Life: Riding the Dusty Trail

In the continuing efforts to explore my relatively new hometown of Menifee and surrounding areas, I recently discovered a new strategy:

Get lost.

OK, so I wasn't completely lost. I mean, I always knew I could find my way home eventually. Even though I wasn't familiar with the neighborhood I found myself in upon making an unscheduled exit from the 215 Freeway, I knew there was no reason to panic.

I didn't have to hope someone had left bread crumbs for me to follow home. I didn't need a compass or to wait for nightfall and look for the North Star. C'mon, it's 2012. I had a GPS app on my iPhone.

Besides, as usual, I found a way to turn a challenge into an adventure.

Here's what happened. I was cruising south on the 215, a few miles before reaching my Menifee exit, when traffic came to a dead stop. "OK, so it's Southern California," I said to myself. Then I thought, "Hey, this is the middle of nowhere. Isn't this what I moved 90 minutes east to escape?"

The same thing had happened a couple nights earlier, when I spent about a half hour maneuvering through a detour at the 4th Street off-ramp because of construction work. At least that time, it was about 10 p.m., when you'd assume such work would be taking place.

This time it was 5:30 on a Friday afternoon -- not exactly prime shutdown time for a busy freeway, no matter how many tumbleweeds are floating around.

Maybe it was just a stalled car around the bend, but I decided not to take any chances. Streaking over from the center lane to the far right lane with the dexterity of my grandma on steroids, I pulled off on the Nuevo Road off-ramp before reaching the red (tail light) zone.

I knew enough to turn left, heading east, where presumably I could catch some surface street that would take me southward toward the Hidden Meadows development of Menifee. If not, I could always send up a signal flare.

Just past Perris High School, I pulled over to consult the GPS. Yep, it showed me that, sooner or later, I would come upon Menifee Road, which would take me in the right direction.

Of course, sooner turned out to be later. For the next few miles, I drove down lonely roads lined with boulders the size of a garage. In short, it was pretty much the back-road tour of Nuevo (is there a front-road tour?)

But that's OK. Back in the day, I would've grumbled to myself about the delay. But this is the new, relaxed, rural, cowboy-wanna-be me. An unexpected 25-minute drive the rest of the way home was downright enjoyable.

To me, there's something soothing about cruising down the road with very little on either side except horse corrals and abandoned barns. At one point, I passed what appeared to be a grandpa and grandson riding on horseback down the side of the road, chasing their own shadows away from the setting sun.

(Cue the strumming guitar and howling coyotes).

Yeah, this side trip definitely beat the usual freeway race past the Home Depot at Ethanac Road. This definitely was more scenic than the auto mall with the giant thermometer. I didn't even miss my usual view of the lights in the valley as I head over the hill toward Newport Road.

After all, I said when I came here that I wanted to see the sights. It's just taken a bit longer than expected. Suddenly, I realized, I had gotten into a rut, traveling up and down the 215 like a racehorse with blinders on.

It reminded me of an incident a few days earlier, when my wife Kristen and I decided to travel a bit north of our neighborhood on Briggs Road, just to see where it led. Lo and behold, there's a giant dairy farm right there, maybe a mile from our house. That explains the smell.

Once again, I didn't mind at all.

In recent weeks, I also have discovered the scenic drive west across Scott Road (eventually Bundy Canyon Road) to the 15 Freeway. I have a few enticing side roads earmarked for a return trip.

Yep, it's time to stop and smell the roses. OK, road apples. Whatever.

I doubt that Kristen would agree, but I find it refreshing.

A Doug's Life: Upholding a Super Tradition

Just finished up another Super Bowl Sunday, and boy, am I tired.

I don't know how the players do it. They have to actually run, pass and tackle for about four hours. It must be exhausting. After all, what else would explain Giants running back Ahmad Bradshaw stopping just short of the goal line and falling untouched into the end zone like he'd just passed out?

(Oh yeah, strategy, right? He was supposed to take a knee at the 1-yard line to use up a little more time before scoring. See, it's mentally draining, too).

Yet as physically and emotionally exhausting as the Super Bowl was for the victorious New York Giants and the New England Patriots, one has to admit it takes a lot out of the fans as well.

Wherever you were in and around Menifee on Sunday afternoon, chances are you saw at least part of the game. Whether you were part of the packed house at the Beer Hunter, attended a Super Bowl party at a friend's house or simply kicked back in front of the flat screen at home, you got in your own personal workout.

At least if you're like me. Hey, it's tradition.

First, you've got to have the snacks. A full meal always is appreciated, but snacks are a must. This always was a necessity on New Year's Day, at least back when they played all the best college bowl games that day. But now the best college games are spread out over weeks. Who wants to celebrate New Year's Day with chips and dip while you're watching the Capital One Bowl?

No, there really is only one true pig-out day now for Americans, and we're not talking about Thanksgiving. That meal is justified. Super Bowl Sunday really is celebrated for no good reason other than to convince our "significant other" we are legally required to stuff ourselves with junk food and beverages while watching a sports event at least once a year.

Take me, for instance. I knew darn well that unlike other years, this Super Bowl Sunday I would be watching the game virtually alone at home. My son-in-law the Patriots fan (sorry, Jeff) and his family were at another party. My wife and I are still relative newcomers here and we aren't exactly party animals, so the plan was to kick back on the sofa, watch some football and stuff myself.

I no longer try to convince my wife about the legal requirement to celebrate Super Sunday. She doesn't buy it. Even when I tell her that, as a former sports writer, I am simply continuing my research, she gives me the evil eye. But hey, she did sit there and watch for a while, managing to stay awake for most of the first half.

Kristen even fed my Super Bowl "habit" by helping in the preparations for my little party, ignoring the fact that the crowd would basically be one. She accompanied me to the market as a consultant on which chips to buy, made sure we had cheese slices in several varieties, and even found the one remaining box of chocolate chip cookies -- a must at such events.

As kickoff approached, I sat down by myself in front of the big screen -- and a spread that could've fed 10. For a brief moment, I remembered my New Year's Resolution to eat healthy and get more exercise. OK, I decided. I would stand up at least twice a quarter and do a set of bicep curls with some soda cans. And this time, a dozen cookies would be my limit.

Before long, my soon to be 4-year-old granddaughter Riley joined me on the couch. Said she was rooting for the Giants -- basically because she doesn't know what a Patriot is (who does these days?). By the time she'd had a couple cookies and more than a few chips, she was bouncing off the walls in her little cheerleader outfit, waving Giants blue pom poms.

Yeah, the party was getting out of hand.

Halftime with Madonna on stage was kind of a blur. Maybe it was all the soda, chips, salsa, cheese and cookies. Or perhaps it was the difficulty I had following the antics of a 50-something entertainer leading high school cheers.

At least the second half was entertaining enough to hold my interest as I headed to the kitchen for some bottled water. Having polished off most of the snack tray with the help of the little cheerleader, I was feeling mighty proud of myself -- and also a bit sick. Having a wild fourth quarter to watch overshadowed the stomach rumblings that too often took precedence in past years.

The commercials? Oh, they were OK. I've seen better. The game? The finish definitely was more entertaining than most years.

The spectacle itself? It's Super Bowl Sunday, and tradition must be observed. Tomorrow, the gym awaits. For this one day, being a well-fed couch potato is cool.

A Doug's Life: Having a Ball is an Adventure

The ritual has begun anew.

We're barely into February and the rites of spring are upon us. All around Menifee, wherever there's a park big enough to have a dirt infield and four bases, you'll see them.

Baseball. Softball. Little League. Pony League. ASA. Fast pitch. Slow pitch. Travel ball. T-ball.

It's a way of life. Sometimes exhilarating, sometimes aggravating. Almost always addicting.

I know. I've been there. And as a recovering youth baseball and softball addict, it's interesting to watch these people from the outside this time.

Driving past Wheatfield Park on Menifee Road the last couple weekends, I have noticed the crowds. Not just the young people in tryouts and practice sessions. Also the "older" folks -- i.e., parents, grandparents and assorted other "fans" of the ballplayers.

They pack the stands. They wander about. Some volunteer. Others just cheer.

Work the snack bar? No problem. Need a team mom? Right here. Short of coaches? Sign me up, as long as my kid is on my team.

Some stay for a couple hours, others seemingly days. RVs line the street, as if setting up camp through the summer.

Ah, those were the days. Youth baseball. I played it, then coached it, then served on the board of directors. I wouldn't trade the memories for anything -- nor would I wish it upon any adult with high blood pressure or a quick temper.

So while I take a couple more years off before returning to the field to watch the grandkids play, I offer from afar a few suggestions for the adults who will be supervising and supporting the young ballplayers of Menifee the next few months:

Find the silver lining: Help the kids find something positive in the experience. If they lost the game, praise them for the big play they made in the field or their improved hitting skills. If those don't apply, buy them a hot dog and tell them you love them.

Throw out the stat book: Does it really matter what a 9-year-old's batting average is? Stats are for the adults, not the kids. Who's playing this game, anyway?

Don't give special privileges to your child: If you're the coach, it's likely your kid has received more mentoring than half the other kids on the team. Is that a reason to give your son or daughter the best field position, best spot in the batting order, and all the innings in the starting lineup? Be fair. Once you see little Irving the right fielder beaming after his first hit, you'll know why.

Don't deny standard privileges to your child: Now we're talking the flip side. Say you're the coach, your kid has pitched three hitless innings and you're winning, 10-0. Don't take him out just to give some other kid a chance when your only other decent pitcher is out of town. It might result in an 11-10 loss and a heartbroken son. Trust me, I know.

Don't leave the taquitos in the microwave too long: No one said that, when working the snack bar, you'd have time to actually watch the game.

Give the umpires a break: C'mon, half of them are teenagers and the other half can barely see. You're lucky they find anyone willing to subject themselves to that kind of abuse.

Watch what you say: When shouting from the stands, "Get a hold of one, Billy!" is acceptable. "Stick it in his ear!" is not.

Keep things in perspective: Notice the reaction of the different generations after a tough loss. You and your friends might be yelling at the umpires or second-guessing the coach. Meanwhile, the kids have already put it behind them and are laughing at each other through their snow cones.

It's a fun life, this youth ball stuff. Or at least it can be, if you let it. So play ball in Menifee, but remember this:

They call it a game for a reason.

A Doug's Life: Just Read, Baby

They say you can't judge a book by its cover. That's OK.

I'd rather judge it by the words inside anyway.

This came to mind the other day, when I was privileged to be guest speaker at a meeting of the Friends of the Sun City Library. It was my first time inside the beautiful building, which is only a couple years old and gets plenty of use.

My message to those in attendance was about the value of the written word, whether bound in published book form, assembled in a three-ring notebook, printed in a newspaper or magazine, or floating about somewhere online. Maybe I was preaching to the choir, but I never grow tired of talking about the value of diversified communication.

That has become a hot topic these days, whether you're talking about communication via the Internet on a laptop, on an iPhone, in a text message or in the pages of a good old-fashioned hard-bound book. Each day, people debate which form of written communication is more valuable and whether any of them should be diminished or eliminated.

If you ask me, the bottom line is this: Each format serves a useful purpose, should be valued for what it is, and should be used efficiently as a supplement to the others.

Think about it. You're reading this Menifee 24/7 column on a website, right? You won't find this article printed on paper you can pick up at a news rack. It isn't sitting somewhere on the shelf of the Sun City Library. But you can access it at that library and anywhere else that has an Internet connection. Does that make it more or less valuable than a printed article?

I say neither -- just different. Menifee 24/7 and all the information published here serves a valuable purpose in informing and entertaining members of the community. It distributes news that is covered nowhere else by traditional print media, primarily because of the limited resources of some newspapers in today's economy. Even so, print publications that cover Riverside County communities continue to serve a useful purpose.

Having worked as a professional journalist for 30 years, I never thought I would see the day I would rather read the news on my iPhone than by unfolding a newspaper with the same content. Why? Because I can stuff my phone into my pocket and easier than I can a copy of the L.A. Times. Also because my phone updates every few minutes and the print paper only once every 24 hours.

Even so, there are purposes served by the print version of the news that I can't get anywhere else. Have you ever tried pasting a copy of your iPhone screen into a scrapbook for safekeeping?

The walls of my home office are lined with bookshelves holding hundreds of my favorite books. Some are paperback; most are original hardbound copies. I have accumulated these over the course of a lifetime and I refuse to get rid of them, even if I've read them several times. Ask my wife, who gets dizzy just walking in there.

I think the thing that aggravates her most is that I keep adding to the collection. Sure, I have downloaded a few books to my phone for convenience's sake, but I suspect I will never grow tired of the feeling of turning pages in a book and reaching into the shelves for a favorite title I can both see and touch.

The epitome of publishing is when electronic communication and traditional print communication complement one another. You may not realize it, but it happens all the time.

When I first started researching my family history several years ago, I began with family journals and handwritten letters. That led me to Internet search engines and message boards, which contained listings of library collections.

Many of these private genealogies have not been converted into digital form. Some are handwritten or typed and are the only surviving copies, sitting on a library shelf somewhere. But using the vast resources of the Internet, I can find them and go where the words are.

That is why I spent hours poking through the shelves of libraries in North Carolina a few years ago, reading the words written by distant cousins I discovered first through the Internet, then in detail through the actual printed document.

So whether you're into eBooks, dog-eared paperbacks or that precious decades-old reference book, do yourself a favor and just keep reading. Read at home, at the office, at your local library or wherever possible.

And remember to give thanks for people like Jim Dunlevey, who this week completed a 12-year stint as president of the Friends of the Sun City Library, and Linda Denver, the group's new president. Through the hard work of these individuals and others, the Menifee community has a new library building, a wonderful library collection, and many community programs promoting reading.

One of those will take place this Saturday, Jan. 21, when the library hosts its first meet and greet event featuring local authors. Fifteen authors from the Menifee area will be at the library from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m., giving residents a chance to meet and chat with them.

Take advantage of such opportunities. Visit the Sun City Library when you get a chance. And most of all ... read, read, read.

A Doug's Life: Can't We All Just Get Along?

And here all this time, I thought I was moving to the peaceful outskirts of society.

Oh sure, it's nice and quiet around my place at night. I can look up and see the stars, which rarely make an appearance in the night skies of the San Gabriel Valley. An afternoon stroll around the neighborhood is quiet and restful. Even in the more crowded "downtown" section, people generally are friendly and polite.

But you know what else I found? You folks can be downright feisty when you've a mind to be.

Donna complains on this website about the lack of dining choices in Menifee. Sam says it's not an issue. Jane wishes for a Panera Bread cafe in town. Josh whines that this would just add to the traffic problem.

The city announces that Panera Bread is coming to town. Jordan says, "It's about time." Jenny responds, "Not in the Marketplace! Where are we supposed to park?" Gloria says, "Our community needs the business." Chris responds, "Hey, mind your own business!"

(OK, so the names have been changed to protect the innocent and some of the comments have been embellished. But you get the idea).

Mary wants a Wal-Mart. Joe hates Wal-Mart. Rick says to widen Newport Road. Sue says that's a waste of time; build a freeway overpass at Holland Road.

Hector says they're all wrong. Just head south to Scott Road, make a right, make another right, turn left at the railroad tracks, hike across the creek bed, skateboard down Haun Road, and you'll avoid a lot of the traffic.

More housing. Less housing. Compete with Temecula. Don't become another Temecula. Where's the theater? Who needs a theater?

And of course the latest controversy: Should we allow a tattoo shop in Menifee? Does it matter if it's near a church? Will it be a "bad influence?" Are those who oppose it simply ignorant?

Jason: "It will be a haven for drugs." Julie: "Your drug-dealing neighbor is the one you should be worrying about. Jack: "You're an idiot." Jane: "AND SO'S YOUR OLD MAN!"

Welcome to paradise.

Actually, I'm not surprised. In fact, it's kind of refreshing to realize that no matter where you live -- and no matter how many horses there are per square mile, or tattoo parlors, for that matter -- people are people. Get two or more of them together and the conflict ensues.

I suppose if I had continued to settle into the peaceful existence of Menifee without ever hearing so much as an argument over a parking spot at the Super Target, life would've become boring sooner or later. And believe me, having worked as a journalist for more than 30 years, I'm used to people complaining.

So in that regard, I feel like I'm getting a little slice of home cooking from the old neighborhood. It's kind of like reality followed me out here. Maybe that isn't a bad thing.

But to all the rest of you, as an "outsider," I would say this: Exercise your right to free speech, but respect the other guy and avoid name-calling. OK, so you're convinced you're right and he's wrong. In the end, the two of you alone are not going to decide things. Once you, the other other guy and several thousand others make their feelings known, these issues are decided by city officials, in a courtroom, or by someone who has a lot more money than the rest of us.

I'm not here to pass judgment on how many businesses we should have in town, what those businesses should be, or how long the left-turn lanes at Newport and Haun should be. I haven't been here long enough to make an informed decision on a lot of these things.

I'm just a guy who found a town with a lot of things I like -- enough things to make up for the few I don't like. If I can help change the negatives into positives, I will. But in each and every issue, I will continue to play the role of the objective journalist and try to see both sides.

I wish more people would try to do the same.

A Doug's Life: Making Big Plans for 2012

As I understand it, New Year's resolutions are supposed to be one's commitments to accomplish things or take a certain course of action in specific areas.

Most people interpret this as a promise to "do better" in certain areas, such as losing weight or managing one's time better. Yet a New Year's resolution also can simply be stated as a goal to do something you've always wanted to do -- say, climb Mt. Everest.

I'm no mountain climber, but I'm pretty good at keeping lists. So as I close out 2011 and prepare to welcome 2012 in my new home of Menifee, here are my New Year's resolutions, in no particular order:

Read at least two books a month: I should be able to do much better than that, and I used to, before I started grading all those darn college term papers. I have dozens of carefully chosen books sitting on the shelves of my office, still waiting to be read. I think the goal is to devote at least 30 minutes each night to a good book before turning in. Now do I start with "Lonesome Dove" or "Gold Dust and Gunsmoke"?

Learn Menifee history: OK, so the town is named after a guy who was a miner in the area in the 1800s. There's got to be more to it than that. Recently, I joined the Menifee Valley Historical Society. It's time to go on some hikes and dig through some old documents.

Grade those papers on time: There's nothing like getting three weeks behind in grading papers when you have 80 students turning in two or three writing assignments a week. Trust me, I've been there -- like last quarter. My wife Kristen would say, "Can't I help you grade?" No, dear. They're like essays, not multiple choice quizzes. They require my personal expertise (sounds impressive, doesn't it?)

Take riding lessons: Horseback riding, of course. I've already lined up some possibilities. Hey, animals like me. Now, will my backside like the saddle after an hour or two? We'll find out.

Work out regularly: Last year, I was in the gym five days a week and lost 20 pounds. Then I had foot surgery and was on crutches for nine weeks. Now I'm 15 pounds heavier and feeling kinda sluggish. But I did find a nice local gym, so I'm back at it come Jan. 3. Until then, bring on the chips, soda and a whole bunch of football on TV.

Go camping: Haven't done it in years, unless you count a rented RV on the beach. I'm talking a tent and sleeping bags. This will happen during the spring or summer, when I can lay out under the stars without freezing my arsenal off. Anyone got any sterno?

Stay focused: I can be in the middle of a news article or grading a student's essay when my mind suddenly takes me to Maui or Dodge City. What the heck? C'mon, man, focus. I think it's today's society, which encourages us to log hours at work while checking Facebook status updates and tweets every 10 minutes. Something's got to give.

Explore the area on foot: I can't get everywhere I need to by car. There are trails, canyons, old mine sites and other cool spots I'll have to hike to. If my bad foot doesn't hold up, it's back in the saddle for me. It will happen.

Work on my family history: I've researched my ancestors back to 1531 in Germany and I created a website to tell others all about it. That's not good enough. Until I trace my line back to Adam and Eve, the work isn't done. Again, it's a matter of making the time. The information is out there. Anyone else got a horse thief in their family tree?

Drive from Newport and Antelope to the Countryside Marketplace parking lot in less than five minutes: Hey, you have to set your goals high.

Be kind to others: Not that I'm not already, but we can all do better. You know all those times you pass someone in the office hallway or on the sidewalk and keep your head down or look the other way? I think it's time to say "hello" and smile on more of these occasions. There's only maybe one chance in a million that person is an ax murderer. I'll take that chance.

They might even smile and say "hello" back.

Happy New Year, everyone, and here's to a great 2012 in Menifee.