Wolf Pack and Trouble in Outer Space.

(Sing this humming and snapping your fingers to the Addams Family theme song - it'll make more sense that way).   

"They're Hairy and they're kooky,

Mischievous and spooky,
They're altogether ooky,
The Dahlin Family."

Du, du, du, du..snap snap

"Their house is an Aslyum
When people come to see 'em
The inmates are a screa-um.
The Dahlin Family." 

That's just my family by the way, add to those numbers the Harding Avenue Gang and the Wolf Pack had numbers to be reckoned with.  On one hand, think of the damage that could come from assembling an unruly crowd of that size. Entire small countries have been toppled by less. On the other hand (on a more positive note) - the vast number of hippies in our Venice Tribe also lent itself to the possibility of...say...putting out a fire - should something go awfully wrong. I said "positive" not "realistic"!


Q. And what is "Murphy's Law?"
A. If something can go wrong, it will go wrong!

Problem was, that chaos always seemed to reign over order, and boy, did we cause a lot of problems.

While everyone in the neighborhood was gathered in our dining room (the room with the hospital-bed and bumper-pool table), Gustav my oldest brother and the oldest Blaser-boy from next door came up with a brilliant plan. What you have to remember is, that during this time in the sixties, everyone was all jacked-up and excited about exploring outer space and landing on the moon to gather green-cheese.

As I mentioned before, a new TV show came out two nights ago called Star Trek "Going where no man has ever gone before" add that to a couple TV shows which had already been out now for about a year, 
My Favorite Martin and Lost in Space, it was plain to see that rockets-to-the-moon and space travel were indeed on the forefront of everyone's mind.   

Every stupid fifth-grade-boy in the world already had the twisted theme song from Lost in Space memorized, so they could they could inflict silly grammar-school torment on a smaller kid. They would sing, "It's about time, it's about space, it's about time to..." SMACK "...slap your face" slapping their latest victim in the face at the opportune moment - then laugh at them for falling for it, and then running away in order to avoid adolescent retribution.  I probably don't have to tell you that the Wolf Pack (though, far too old for this kind of thing), was particularly fond of the ending part. The part where they slapped a younger sibling (like me) in the face.

300 slaps! You'd think, I would have caught on, right?   Duh!

Anyway... we were in the middle of the "SPACE RACE" with the Russians and they were winning. They had already landed a spacecraft on the moon and the United States seemed to be falling behind - landing on the moon seemed to be light-years off at a distance at our snail's pace!  This was all part of the Cold War and we were losing!

When we were still using monkeys, I wrote a letter to Washington asking if they wouldn't mind using any of my brothers in their rocket experiments. I told them it would be okay since they weren't a whole bunch smarter then chimpanzees (Oh, I made no mention about letting the monkeys out of the zoo). 

When we started to use real-live human-beings, I wrote another letter asking again - if they wouldn't mind using any of my brothers. I told President Johnson that they wouldn't have to feel too sad if we lost one of them should something bad happened, since I had like 28 big brothers. My dad said we had plenty to go around if something should ever happen to one of us (that's why I didn't think they cared if  they had left me at Salton Sea - I'm the second from the right in this picture - Oh and that was about a third of the group that were crammed in the station wagon and trailer, also pictured in the background. Blog Post: May 13, 2013). 

I never got a letter back from the President or from NASA. That was a disappointment!

Anyway, at this time we were sure there was life on Mars and it seemed like every week some hick-couple in an old Ford pick-up, out in the middle of the boondocks, saw a flying saucer - we called 'em UFO's - that's short for Unidentified Flying Objects.

It was always down an old, dark, two-lane highway,  far outside the city boundaries with no witnesses, where the aliens always seemed to abduct poor Clem in his jump-overalls or his wife Ethyl.

In pictures printed in the front page of the newspapers the UFO's looked like Frisbees, blurry footballs, a hat and one even looked like a cigar, but everyone was sure Martins had antennas and lived among us.

The Viking Tribe leader figured out a way to venture smack dab into the middle the UFO craze. They got dad's Polaroid camera, gathered up all of the necessary equipment and were destined to make local newspaper history.  This was one story, that we hoped would make it on  the front page of the paper, unlike all of the other times we ended up there, only to the embarrassment of my poor mom and dad.

Sending Donny next door to borrow a dry-cleaner bag from his dad's closet, the Dahlin's put all the other necessary stuff in a pile on the front sidewalk now officially deemed "Area 51"

McDonald straws, birthday candles and of course a Style Queen, hot-air, hair-blower for the initial lift off.

Although the original plan did involve UFO's, it didn't originally include a fiery crash landing on the roof of the Lennon house. We took our extensive resources and laid them out in  "Area 51." Little did we know, however, that in the very next hour or so we would have a "Roswell Incident" on our hands that endangered the entire Lennon family.  


Kids NEVER TRY THIS! EVER EVER EVER.

Until Next...

God Bless

上帝，造物主。

Gud velsigne

God zegene

Dieu vous

Бог благословит

Gud välsigne

Dios te  bendiga!

 

CHEWBACCA and The Template of Doom

For all of you around the world who are joining Markie D's journey through adolescence, you can see that this is much more than the iconic, How I survived Catholic School...but rather, how this poor little guy survived at all.
              Thank you for joining me!
These 100% true stories take place in the seed bed of the tumultuous 60's cultural revolution in America.  My mother-in-law warned me, "Markie D, aren't you afraid of what people in other countries might think of America?" My reaction is, "They might actually want to know what was taking place over here at this time in history!" 

The year is 1966, John Lennon just declared that the Beatles were "Bigger than Jesus," long hair was in and all the kids were quoting Captain Kirk (from Star Trek) "Beam me up Scotty."

The United States and the Soviet Union were like two fifth graders in a schoolyard standoff in something called the Cold War. 

The Civil Rights movement was in full swing, rioting and Viet Nam Protest was happening all over the country. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."

Markie D was 10-years-old and in fifth grade... but to understand his psychosis, you probably need to go back in the blog and read about the "The Zoo," "Salton Sea" and "The Hamper."  When Mrs. D. wasn't teaching school at Saint Marks, she came home and locked herself in her bedroom and watched episodes of Bonanza, I love Lucy, Bewitched and The Beverley Hillbillies (and of course got her dose of the Lennon Sisters on the Lawrence Welk Show every Saturday night). Meanwhile the Wolf Pack (that's Mark's older brothers) were calling the shots at the Dahlin family asylum.  They were creative, intelligent, mischievous beyond imagination and totally unrestrained. HELLO?

We left off last time...with Markie punching poor Billy in the face and was now fearing the consequences of the wrath of Mr. Lennon or that Billy might join Ulrich's "Small-Men Army of Anarchy." 

Having barely survived the first day of Fifth Grade in Sister Godzilla's class, Markie D was about to discover THE MOST TERRIFYING NEWS OF HIS LIFE on Tuesday.  It wasn't about the threat of nuclear warfare or Viet Nam, it was something far worst, it was about his second oldest brother's college schedule (which had everything to do with what happened in the school yard at the end of lunch time to poor Michael C). 

Markie D ran home for lunch, saw a snake in the palm tree next to the Smith's house, which he knew that had escaped from the attic cages of his old, turn-of-the-century 3 story home. It was not the rattlesnake that put the entire neighborhood on high alert for the past week...so Markied D wrestled the gardersnake from the palm fronds and took it home.

When Markie D descended the stairs it was like a cold chill that blew in horror movies just before the knife repeatedly stuck it unsuspecting victim. Bjorn (another made up name to protect the guilty), stood in the direct path between the service stairs and the toaster.

Markie rounded the corner and Bjorn's eyes lit up and a crooked smile broke across his face like that of the Grinch when he looked down on Whoville after stealing all the presents. The Terrifying News was that Bjorn, now in college, had Tuesday and Thursdays off during Markie's lunch hour.

From the look that Bjorn gave...Markie knew he was in trouble...he just didn't know how much at the moment. Besides the fact that there was 8 years between them, Bjorn was tall and Markie was small. Bjorn a hairy-hippy viking who towered above 6 feet and Markie was the smallest boy in fifth grade - at barely over 4 feet and not more than 70 lbs dripping wet.

Mark gulped when Bjorn asked him if he knew what a "template" was. He knew it was a loaded question and attempted to throw out positive pheromones, like he tried to do with the attack rooster in the backyard.

"A template is a plastic thing you draw around, right?"  Markie said... trying not to reveal his fear...as if he could will himself to be released from Bjorn's sinister tractor beam.


"No, let me show you" replied Bjorn in a threatening tone that gave away his intent.

Frozen by fear, Markie could not move. This was like one of those moments in his dreams where his feet would not comply to his demands to run away. Bjorn's grin stretch from ear to ear as he approached the little fellow who had retreated home for a piece of sourdough toast in lieu of packing a lunch this morning.  

Bjorn's words sounded as scary as the doll in the Twilight Zone when she said, "My name is Talking Tina and I don't think I like you." It was just one brother and Markie figured he could take them one at a time...but Bjorn lulled Markie D into a hypnotic sense of false security with his even, soft tones. Bjorn said, "This is a template" and grabbed Markie by this temples between his strong thumb and other fingers. Bjorn squeezed almost lifting Markied D off his feet. He squeezed and he squeezed and Markie D blacked out, went limp and crumpled to the floor... in a unconscious pile of flesh and bones. "Restless dreams I walked alone. Narrow streets of cobblestone."

Markie's head spun as he slowly faded back into consciousness... Little did he know this would be a ritual he would have to endure every Tuesday and Thursday for Bjorn's first college semester. "Hello darkness my old friend"

Clinging to the edge of the bumper pool-table for support - though semi-alert and dizzy, Markie managed to make it back to his feet.  He staggered his way past the stacks of National Geographic magazines, successfully toasted his Pioneer sourdough bread and happily headed back to Saint Marks with his warm, buttered toast.

Michael C. please don't do what your about to do next - this is just a warning: DON'T MESS WITH HIS TOAST!  Next time, apparently, poor Michael, the bully, didn't get the memo!

God was kind to Mark and gave him special coping mechanism that, though feeling alone - like a rock, an island...like Mogwli lost in the jungle and raised by the Wolf Pack...despite how he was treated or should I say mistreated...He was a happy little soul who lived in his own little world.

He'll grow up to have certain character flaws... memory loss... learning disabilities, but eventually - by the grace of God, the little guy will be Okay! :) 

Please don't read this... Mrs. Simpson and the PEE-PEE incident!

In my Blog, I’m still talking about my first week in fifth grade where I ended up in Sr. Godzilla’s class. She did not fail to live up to the terror her Saint Marks’ grammar school nickname invoked. 

So far (if you have tuned in and read some of my stories) you realize that our family was just NOT normal.   

We lived in what many would consider a GOOD CATHOLIC neighborhood and felt that between the Dahlins and the four other Lennon families nearby - our wonderful and obedient parents did everything they could to fulfill the Dominion Mandate of Genesis chapter 1 “Multiply and fill the earth.”  Between those five homes (alone) we had something like 53 kids and could have populated a small city all by ourselves (Wait...we did have a small city all by ourselves).

My mom had a baby a year and the Lennon Family (on the corner) are in Ripley’s Believe It or Not for having 11 kids (all of whom are born in different months – statistically, that’s an anomaly).

The only problem with the Dominion Mandate in Genesis Chapter 1…( besides the command to have lots of babies) is also the command by God to “Subdue and Rule over the world.”  That was probably a good idea at one time, but then after sin entered the world that’s where everything went wrong and Vikings were invented to pillage, plunder and terrorized the civilized world i.e. "to take dominion"

While the Lennons were obediently having children and appearing on TV every Saturday night on the Lawrence Welk show, my older brothers were busy wreaking havoc - also obediently keeping the command to subdue and rule i.e "to dominate" our little corner of the world.

Being something like 7^th or 8^th or whatever number I was in birth order (the last male child), I imagine that I was left to change my own diapers and feed myself from scraps that were either thrown to me in the corner or food that had fallen off the table.

I was like Mowgli, the lost child, being raised in the jungle. Our house was literally a jungle not only with kids and strangers who lived with us… but also the four legged creatures, reptiles, and birds that we brought home. Just look at that picture above... there I am in diapers holding a piece of 2 day old toast that I probably found on the ground...yum... yum!

I don’t blame my parents one bit for checking out, but that might be one reason it allowed the Wolf-Pack to reigned holy terror at Saint Marks (as well as in our neighborhood).  This might also explain the reason why the nuns at Saint Marks School felt they had to take out revenge on me.  By the time I came along, those poor nuns had enough of the Dahlin infestation that plagued the school for at least the last ten years.

Back then I didn’t know why I felt hated even on the first day of every grade I moved up to, but have since figured that out (at least that’s a hypothesis I’m floating as a theory), which leads me to the embarrassing story that happened in the third grade at the hands of Mrs. Simpson. 

The Lennons: The best Catholic Family in the history of the world.(see Blog Post of 4-28-2013: The Best Catholics in the World ).

The Dahlins: Well, let's allow this picture to speak for itself.

If you have had a chance to follow this blog, then you're well aware that my poor parents checked out and let my brothers (the inmates of the Dahlin house) run the asylum… By this time, our family had let the monkeys out of the zoo, reeled in the old grouch next door in a horrible prank, left me behind at Salton Sea that ended in a highway patrol chase… and the Wolf pack lured me into a death chamber that used to be a diaper pail  for an extreme "twofer." It doesn’t take a rocket scientist, to see that our family was unique, creative, diabolical and totally in touch with our inner-Viking (that followed God's command to subdue, take dominion and rule the world). 

A year after the JFK assassination when the cold war with Russia was at its zenith, Miss Sims – turned Mrs. Simpson was the substitute teacher in my third grade class.  She was going to give a test! I had to go pee and should have gone when we came in from recess. I didn’t and needed to go real bad...REAL BAD!

The mean substitute, Mrs. Simpson stood on top of Sister Shawn’s desk and declared that the floor  was like water and swarmed with angry and hungry alligators that loved to eat Third Graders… especially blonde-haired boys!

Since I learned to live in my imagination as a way of escape… I actually saw the alligators swimming around my feet and snapping their sharp teeth at my Keds sneakers. Dramatically, Mrs. Simpson barked out shrill warnings as to the demands of her test requirements.

There was to be absolutely no talking, “What-so-ever!”

There was to be no cheating, “What-so-ever!”

AND nobody – not one person could, at any time during the test, -could  never, at any time, -ever-ever raise their hand “For any reason, what-so ever!”

Look  up gullible in the dictionary and this is what you will find.  Gullible [ˈgʌləb^əl]  adj Markie D i.e Easily deceived or duped.

I looked around to see if any of the other normal kids saw the ferocious alligators.  I was terrified, BUT HAD to go pee-pee really, really bad. However, Mrs. Simpson (the Sub, the one in authority) said that if I raised my hand for any reason the alligators would eat me. I was afraid and spent the entire time of the class set aside for the test contemplating as to whether her hungry alligators would eat a kid who raised their hand - if that particular kid just wanted permission to use the restroom!

Everyone was busy taking the test… I was busy watching for alligators and trying to hold back my bloated and pressurized bladder.  
      10 minutes of torture – not one answer put down on the test. 
      20 minutes of torture – not one answer put down.

I was holding my popo...and doing the pee-pee dance in my seat.  Feet wiggling, behind squirming, hand pinching! I sat for 30 minutes of torture – still contemplating whether a kid could raise their hand in order to go to the bathroom or if that meant it would upset her hungry alligators. 

40 minutes of torture and I just couldn’t take it anymore.  I eased up (just a bit -on the grip on my fire hose) and decided to relieve some of the pressure.

Pssst...Psst... went small amounts of warm yellow fluid that ran down my leg. UGHhhhhhhh! That didn’t make my bladder any happier – NO! Instead, it made matters worst and hurt even more.  Bad decision!

By the time a kid got to third grade – no kid in the history of world ever PEE’D their pants - No…that was something for Kindergarteners. Without one answer on my test I was feeling helpless and stupid like a 5 year-old.

Pssst-Pssst – went more of the yellow liquid.  “Leak over the starboard side captain!”  I shouted in my head! 

I couldn’t hold anything back anymore and let it all go!  I managed to do a controlled sinking and let everything do down the right leg and into my right shoe.

There I sat in a giant puddle of yellow pee… and luckily for me, no one noticed....so far! 

Could I get out of this alive or would Michael Boyle point it out to everyone.  Someone had to smell the sea of urine that flooded the entire area around my desk – but at least I didn’t raise my hand…I won!

Sure, I would get another F on a test, but at least I might have beat Mrs. Simpson and her third-grade-eating-alligators.

Only problem now was: could I escape this mess undetected? I decided to run home for lunch and change pants hoping that Ronnie or Pat or Rick Arredondo wouldn't spot the yellow ocean I left behind and call me out in front of everyone.

The test was over and I discretely tried to pretend that nothing had happened…I tried not to draw attention to the man on the grassy knoll… and that there was no CIA conspiracy in this episode of Markie D and the embarrassing incident of the third grade PEE-PEE.

Clop… slosh, clop…slosh, clop…slosh, went one dry Keds and the other sloshing wet shoe filled with pee-pee that left a trail down the long narrow hallway. 

I was almost all the way to the front door when a second grader slipped in my oil-spill and slid into a group of first graders like a bowling ball that knocked down a bunch bowling pins. The incident triggered an investigation to see where the spill took place… I ran home, hid my pants, checked under my bed for the rattlesnake that went missing yesterday, hid in my room and never came back that day.  

This will go down as the day that Markie D beat Mrs. Simpson and her alligators. I WON! 

If you've read this blog post share it with a friend, but please don't tell Marilyn or Theresa or Andrea...or any of my grammar school friends - because it is still embarrassing! 

Until next time...  

Part 2 The TRAGIC TALE: The Epic Saga continues

PART 2. "BORN TO BE WILD"

This story involves dirt and bodies - too many bodies to count and an ice cold Popsicle (in particular, a red Popsicle).

It includes a hi-speed Highway Patrol chase and an old couple in a Ford truck (who might have been angels or maybe aliens).

(Part 3 will be titled: "The Fast and The Furious")

It includes a nickel...and the worst kind of tragedy a kid of, say, 9 or 10 could face at my impressionable age.  It involves a bunch of wild brothers and sisters and several passengers illegally riding in a trailer. The story includes a cover up, a reporter, the owner of a small diner, a cheese burger, a dented Dodge station wagon, the first day of fifth grade and Marilyn.

Before we go back to where we left off last time...  it's important to remember that this painful story has to be told as a flashback that was set in motion on the very first day of Fifth Grade.

When the normal kids were raising their hands as instructed by Sister Godzilla, to share whatever-it-is normal kids do over summer vacation, I slid down in my seat and tried the bestest I could (bestest is a 5th grader's word) to remain as anonymous as possible.  I sat like one of those possums pretending to be dead.

Think about this with me for a minute. What were my options? Was I supposed to wave my hand frantically, half-shouting, in excitement like the other obnoxious normal 10-year-olds. 
                     "Sister...
                           Sister...
                                Sister...
                                       Sister...
                                           Sister...
                                                 Sister...oh..oh..oh...oh...pick me! Pick me!"
There was nothing I could have said that either, wouldn't have gotten me into a heap of trouble, or stirred up this experience from a couple weeks ago that I was hiding from the world, that was bound to embarrass me... or to stir up feelings I was working hard to bury deep inside.

What was I supposed to say?  "What I did over summer vacation by markie d. Me, my little sister and our our two neighbors were electrocuted in our swimming pool by my ingenious older brothers. Oh yeah, that experiment went so well that they also managed to shocked the purgatory out of Sister Lucilla. By the way, did you know that nuns have hair under those habit-thingies they wear on their heads." Hahahehe
Ah, NO!

I didn't think that would go over so well.(See Blog post April/26/2013 "Electrocuting a NUN")

Should I have talked about the bamboo bow and arrows my brothers made that had sewing needles taped to the tips... and how, when they ganged up on me, I looked like a porcupine with quills standing up on end. NO! I needed to protect these innocent regular kids from that - it would be like bringing in the movie PSYCHO for a "show and tell" presentation.

...and, I certainly wasn't about to tell them about... SALTON SEA! NO "Keep your mouth shut markie d" ...and I did!

I didn't wiggle, I didn't squirm... I kept my pulse down so low, a mortician would have thought I was dead.

Shame is the great motivator to keep one's mouth shout. I didn't want a single person in the world to know what happened two weeks ago on our family vacation. I hoped to keep this whole nightmare a secret... a secret between me and, like, the17 people who were crammed into our station wagon and also those passengers who were illegally riding in the trailer on our little excursion from "H E double toothpicks."

I did it! I survived, the horrible "first-day-of-school-ritual." I made it out alive... yeah me! UNTIL...

Until Marilyn caught me in the hallway on the way to lunch. She cornered me (well, maybe she didn't really corner me, but it felt that way because she was like 4 feet taller than I was. Me, Ghering the Great and Ronnie Hart were the three shortest kids in our class). I was small and she was tall and there I was eyeball to belly button... metaphorically speaking, and Marilyn said, "I KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU this summer..." Gulp! My stomached churned. She said, "When we were sitting down for dinner and my father read all about what happened to you at Salton Sea in the newspaper."
                                                                         
At that very second, several things crossed my mind:
                  1)  In the newspaper.. My story? Yikes! Is that who that guy was in the diner?
                                   2) Do normal families sit down and eat meals together?
                                                3) And... Do regular people have conversations at the dinner table?

Marilyn brought up the tragic tale of woe, so now I am obliged to jump back a few weeks and tell you the whole "hot mess."

I left off last time with us spilling on to the hot, rough, pulverized volcanic-pumice (which was now nothing more that abrasive grit - that those imaginative developers claimed to be sand).

Though scientist had become proficient at developing Nuclear Bombs by this time in history they had only managed to come up with three ways of protecting ones skin from the harmful radiation of the sun's rays.
                        1) Stay indoors.
                        2) Coppertone - (nothing that had numbers like we have today. There was no such thing as number 8 or number 15, or 30, or 50 Those new-fangled options of  pampering ourselves just didn't exist back then).

 

or 3) Zinc Oxide

1) I'm not sure if the Lennons were ever allowed to go out into the sun. I had never really seen them outside playing. Maybe that's why their skin was so perfect...and to testify to that the Lennon Sisters are still performing to this day in Branson (because they weren't allowed outside and still look so good).

2) Coppertone cost money (who knows, maybe a buck-a-tube back then. We weren't going to spend that kind of money - No way. But our next door neighbor, the Blasers (who were part of the Lennon clan), actually went on regular vacations like normal people do and to tap it off, they ACTUALLY bought sunscreen.

3) As for the third option, we wouldn't be caught dead with that goofy Zinc Oxide! Instead, we shook our fist at the sun and grew up looking like a tribe of blonde haired-leathery beef jerky.  

We just weren't going to do it...besides IT WAS my mom who invented 50 sunscreen. Yep! When we rolled out of that old Dodge wagon and came wobbling out of that trailer with sea legs - the second we hit that stinky, sulfer,dead-fish smelling shoreline, momma had us dip in that salty water and roll in the dirt.

We looked like a homeless tribe of Australian blonde-haired Aborigines. When the intensity of that desert sun hit us, we looked like corn dogs that had been dropped in a gutter and forgotten about for a long time. 

While we were baking  like stir fry in our three inches of batter, I pictured the Blasers lounging along the shore of the crystal clear Kings River in front of The Kings River Resort Hotel coated in Coppertone and noses carefully painted with Zinc Oxide...

I pictured them having to rough it with room-service and air-conditioning if things got too unbearably hot.


On these long hot days we had to figure out what to do next. Would we hunt each other like we do at home or band together and capture some rattlesnakes that we could terrorized out neighborhood with. Fishing was always an option. We could walk out to the end of a small rock jetty and throw in our lines or just scoop up the dead fish off the shore line (I had to keep my vomit superpowers in check).




It was going to be a long hot (did I say hot)... a long hot weekend.  But I was covered in my stir fry batter of volcanic mud and I was happy. I couldn't wait to see how this latest adventure would unfold and I was a little sad, really - for the Blasers who would have to miss out on all the fun we were going to have.



Some dude, like 3000 years ago wrote in an ancient manuscript that "we are fearfully and wonderfully made" I like to call it - "crazy amazing." It's pretty crazy, how we're wired as emotional beings with intellect and creativity with all our chemistry, hormones and physiology wrapped up together in a bundle package.  And all of that - all of who we are...responds to life in so many different ways.  Life (or family vacations) don't always go the way we plan. Things just seemed to have a way of getting messed up, but we don't have to roll around in it like volcanic paste we smear all over our bodies. We have some degree of choice in our responses... "If life give us lemons, we can choose to make lemonade or choose to let it get under our skin and make us bitter."

Until next time... make lemonade! Don't sulk in self-pity. Think of things that you can be thankful for right now! Wherever you are, while reading this (whether at Starbucks or at home), just mention three things and share a smile with the next person you come in contact with. Besides lifting someone else's day- odds are it just may lift your day as well.