The Menu Tonight is HOT!
The Menu Tonight is HOT!
It never occurred to me that perhaps our family celebrated holidays more than the rest of the world did. In our lives, as soon as one holiday wrapped up, another one was just around the corner.
Some holidays were ‘kid-driven’, festive events like Christmas, Halloween, and our birthdays. These were events when the excitement swirling in all us kids was so intense that the event guaranteed to be celebrated full-force.
Then there were the ‘Mom-driven’ holidays. These were holidays much of the rest of the world ignored. Yet as a direct result of Mom’s inspiration, we Quinn kids learned to celebrate them. Yes, without our mom, those ‘minor’ holidays would have slipped by unnoticed. Thanks to her, our family and many friends have all been imprinted with some very unique holiday memories.
Such was the day when my friend Bonnie gave me a ride home from high school. I met Bonnie in seventh grade when my Catholic school closed and I was integrated into the public school system. We were both in band, and became good friends. It turned out that Bonnie was a dental patient of my Dad, and she had known him for several years.
During high school, I shared a carpool with several friends. We rotated between Sharon driving a big green tank of a car that only a nun could love; Scott piloted a rocket ship disguised as a Ford Bronco; me behind the wheel of Ralph the Jeep; and Bonnie occasionally at the controls of the red and white Volkswagen van known as the Bettymobile. The carpool rule was that you had to be ready, because the vehicles barely stopped when kids loaded up or were dropped off.
One particular afternoon, I had a book that Bonnie needed. I was the last one to be dropped off, so when the Bettymobile pulled up to our house, I invited Bonnie to come inside.
A single step inside the front door threw us into the usual whirl of activity caused by everyone going about their daily routine. When Bonnie and I rounded a corner by the built-in telephone desk, we found my very modest, extremely conservative Mom busy cooking.
“Well hi! You must be Bonnie. It’s so nice to meet you!” Mom was her ever-pleasant self.
“Uh, hi.” Bonnie was never the least bit shy, but could only muster a primitive grunt. Bonnie had never met my Mom until that very moment.
Maybe it was the blond wig. It could have been the white Go-Go boots that were far below the hemline of the tight mini skirt Mom was wearing. Neither Bonnie nor I could tell what was cooking, but one thing was clear — the main dish looked pretty hot!
My Mother, in her ever-classy style, extended her hand to shake Bonnie's. Mom’s freshly painted red fingernails sparkled. The huge collection of rings, bracelets, and necklaces she was wearing rustled seductively when she moved. Whenever Mom smiled, a thick layer of bright red lipstick framed her teeth. As I moved closer, I had a flashback from my Montana history class. The thick mascara and layers of makeup Mom was wearing was exactly what General George Custer must have seen when Sitting Bull and his Braves charged in wearing their best war paint.
Since the day we met in junior high school, Bonnie had never been at a loss for words. However, on this afternoon she was speechless. I ran downstairs, grabbed Bonnie’s book, then hustled upstairs to usher her outside. I wanted her gone before the ‘homebound hussy’ who was cooking in our kitchen could engage her in more conversation.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Bonnie,” I choked out once we got outside. “Are you driving tomorrow? Or is Sharon?”
Bonnie stared. She didn’t answer my questions. It was clear that meeting my mother on that April Fools’ Day afternoon had made an impression. It has also answered some of Bonnie’s own questions.
When she reached to open the VW van, Bonnie’s eyes were wide open.
“Well,” she said as she opened the Bettymobile, “NOW I finally understand why your family has nine kids!”
Springtime in the Age of Tariffs
Springtime in the Age of Tariffs
Spring is in the air, and confusion abounds. Just turn on the news, and it’s impossible to know what is up and what is down. Everyone is looking for some solid plan to keep them sane. To help ease your worries amid the craziness, I offer some free suggestions from my own experience of relaxing way to enjoy spring.
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TRY SOME FISHING
GET YOUR BAIT:
Fishing is the perfect way to get in touch with nature. You will need bait, so I suggest you skip the pricy bait shops and catch your own worms like my father did. You’ll need a long electrical cord with a plug on one end, several foot-long metal rods, and some insulating material. My dad (a dentist) used denture acrylic, but I suggest you find something safer. Cut the cord in several spots, wrap a hot wire at the top of each rod, then insulate the connection.
On a wet lawn (water it first if rain is in short supply), shove the unwired ends of each rod into the grass in a line. Plug in the cord, and presto! Shocked worms zoom to the surface, and kids watching who have their hand on the ground get a jolt. Gather the worms and get ready to fish!
HEAD OUT FISHING:
Fishing is best done by sneaking out of the house and going alone, but if necessary, it can be done with kids. If you do take them, be prepared for anything. My ‘Little Brother’ Mike once caught a fish, then completely descaled the poor creature while pulling it out of the water and dragging it along the shore as he ran to get away from it.
Having a kid practice casting at home before going fishing might help. My younger brother, Patrick, once tried that trick. He cast his hook out of the yard and across the street. Unfortunately, he snagged a neighbor who was walking by. Despite hours of practice, hooking the Reverend was a catch greater than any Patrick ever made while fishing in water.
WALK ON THE BEACH:
There is no better free and fun adventure to occupy your kids than a walk on the beach. They can get muddy, find stinky things to poke, and collect washed up junk they want to take home. Eventually every walk on a beach will involve throwing rocks into the water.
As rocks are not (yet) subject to tariffs, rock throwing at the beach is much less expensive than playing Little League baseball. It is also more competitive at any age. “How far, how fast, how big, how much it splashed” — every toss is a competition. Eventually the fun will shift to skipping rocks along the surface, as the competitors try to outdo each other with their finesse of tossing flat rocks.
The final throws of the day are what make rock throwing at the beach a lasting family memory. It is the event that fires up the crowd the most. It kicks off when your kids start tossing rocks at each other. Back and forth, yelling and screaming, threatening each other.
This competition runs nonstop until one of three goals is reached:
A) The youngest kid gets smacked with a rock and cries;
B) A rock hits an older kid, who then relentlessly punches the younger sibling that threw it; or
C) The adult who craves a stress-free day at the beach chugs their beer, throws the can at the kids, then jumps in the car and drives away alone.
CELEBRATE EASTER:
The challenge of celebrating Easter in the Age of Tariffs is obvious. First, the price of eggs has been “reduced” to new record-high levels. Second, the word on the street is that the Easter Bunny got whacked from his job. The Silly Wabbit was told to name five constructive things he’d done at work in the last year. He just hopped around the question and didn’t bother to answer. And that was that.
So how can you share a meaningful Easter with your family? First, grab a first aid kit and a plastic bag. Go back to the beach to get your rock-tossing kids. Entice them into the car with snacks, then let them eat as you walk on the beach and fill the bag with rocks.
Then dump the kids at home and go buy some spray paint and candy. On the night before Easter, have an egg coloring party with your kids. As they sit at the table glued to their phones ogling over TicTok influencers, sneak into the garage. Paint the rocks, grab the candy, and hide the rocks and goodies on a small area of the lawn.
WAKE UP & REJOICE:
Early Easter morning, while the dew still covers earth, roll out of bed. Go outside and poke the worm shocker into the grass near the Easter ‘eggs’ and candy. Plug in the shocker and go make some coffee. Then, as the family rises from their beds and steps out into the yard, watch from the porch as they reach for candy in the wet grass. As the electricity passes through their fingers and up their arms, you will rejoice in knowing they are learning a valuable truth.
From that day forward, your kids will understand. They will know that when it is Springtime in the Age of Tariffs, each new day brings another unexpected shock.
Hang in there, laugh often, and stay safe! DJQ 3-11-2025
Give Us Equal Time During the ‘Doggone’ Holidays
It all begins with an idea.
Rescue dogs Lucy (left) and Mo waiting for McCoy, December 2004.
Merry Christmas
This month features a guest writer’s work from my archives. In December 2004, my shelter dog Lucy filled in as a guest columnist for my op-ed column in the Peninsula Gateway newspaper. She penned this jewel, which was her debut chapter for her yet-to-be-written, future best-selling, and likely-to-be-banned book, Bible Stories for Semi-Believers.
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Talk about horrible timing. It was one of the biggest nights in history, and guess who got left out of the big story? The dog!
It was the first Christmas. Joseph and Mary had been turned away from the Inn and were camping in a stable In Bethlehem. Just as they were getting settled in their campsite, the festivities started. They were still trying to get comfortable when, low and behold, Jesus was born.
Mary and Joseph were thrilled, but unfortunately things soon got a bit tense. A bunch of shepherds and angels started hanging around. They kept singing loudly and praying non-stop. Then some obnoxious kid with a drum walked up beside Jesus and started pounding out drum solos. The commotion tipped off the press and before long a reporter from the Bible showed up. The rest is history.
But there was something missing from that history. You see, the most practical member of Joseph's traveling pack that night was the family dog. Joseph had made the mistake of reserving a room at an Inn that didn't allow pets, so the family was forced to camp in the stable. It had been a long trip to Bethlehem. The family was tired and the dog was hungry. So 'Holy Rover' wandered off looking for food. As luck would have it, the dog missed the birth of the long-awaited Messiah.
When Jesus was born, Holy Rover was behind the stable rummaging through the garbage. It was bad enough that Man's Best Friend was out tipping trash cans when all the family Christmas photos were taken. But then Holy Rover trotted back into the stable gagging on a chicken bone, and the Bible reporter had seen enough. He was so disgusted he erased all mention of the dog in his story. Thus, Holy Rover was forever stricken from the Scriptures.
What are we dogs to do? For over two thousand years we've been trying to correct this omission, trying to get our fair recognition during the holidays. Yet we can't get a break. It’s not just the religious traditions – we dogs are ignored in every doggone holiday legend.
The Santa Claus legend is a good example. Have you ever heard about Santa's dog being in his sleigh? NO! Mention Santa and all the talk is about reindeer and elves. No one says a word about his dog. The truth is that Santa travels with a dog, a BIG dog! Because anyone who makes a living sneaking into other people's homes at night has a dog. Santa's dog is a pit bull from the shelter that wears thick chains. Think about it – if a homeowner finds Santa prowling around their living room in the middle of the night, what good is a reindeer?
Then there's Frosty the Snowman. No mention of us dogs in that tale either. As the story goes, someone puts a hat on Frosty and the next thing you know he's trespassing all over the neighborhood.
Every self-respecting hound knows it wasn't a warm day that ended Frosty's rampage. It was the neighborhood dogs. They were the heroes! They kept lifting their legs and ‘marking’ Frosty. We dogs ended the crazy snowman's romp by turning Frosty into a ball of yellow slush.
All of this is no coincidence. It's a doggone conspiracy! It’s because humans want to keep our K-9 simplicity out of your holiday celebrations. It is high time to shift your thinking.
Start celebrating the holiday season the way a dog does. First, get to know your neighbors. Walk into their yard and use it as a toilet. They'll be out greeting you in no time. Then take a nap. When you wake up, entertain yourself with simple holiday pleasures. Knock over the Christmas tree just for fun.
When it's time for the holiday feast, don't fret about the menu. Just jump around hysterically and be happy you get to eat. For a festive twist, knock the dish out of the server's hand and pretend the flying food is from a piñata. Most importantly, help a neighbor. Share your good fortune with someone who needs your attention.
Here's what my kennel-mate Mo and I plan to do this year. We'll sit outside waiting for our neighbor Bob McCoy to pass by on his daily walk. We'll listen once again to his non-stop insulting shelter dog jokes.
We know McCoy needs our attention, so we plan to share our own brand of holiday cheer with him. We'll bark, growl, and chase McCoy right back to his house on the other side of Raft Island! Thanks to us he will finally learn, as Santa did, the value of having a REAL dog to protect his backside!
Best of all, when we chase McCoy we will be re-enacting a dog’s forgotten role in the Christmas story. Mo and I will do exactly what Holy Rover did that night when he charged after the drummer boy and the singing shepherds. We'll remind you humans that Peace on Earth begins after the family dog goes wild and chases away your uninvited holiday guests!
From our pack to yours, best wishes for a festive holiday season. Enjoy your holidays!
Lucy the Shelter Dog, 2004
A Month of Gratitude
It’s November, a month that prides itself in being shifty. The short dark days drag by, yet yet by the end of the month we find ourselves waking to the start of the pre-holiday season.
When looking at it logically, it seems bizarre that we start the holidays with a day of giving thanks for all we have in our life. Then BINGO! The clock strikes midnight, the stores open, and the world shifts into a month-long frenzy of shopping, buying and exchanging more material stuff. Hopefully, this year we can all pause long enough during the chaos to relax a bit and appreciate our special friends and neighbors.
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Last month, I shared a story about a Halloween stunt I pulled on my Little Brother Scott in 1980. This year, I also shared time with Scott on Halloween. This year, however, the time was much more somber. On Halloween I was at Scott's bedside in a hospital after he had a semi-truck accident at work.
The piece below is a tribute to the wonderful man and brother who was a gift in my life for the past 44 years.
May your holidays this year be filled with joy and gratitude. Thank you for your support.
Dennis "DJ" Quinn
The Brothers ~ Scott & DJ, August 2003
Sixteen Thousand Three Hundred and Three Days
A Tribute
It was Halloween morning 2024, a dark morning with pouring rain that was forecasted to turn to snow by afternoon. Near the end of a hall in the Surgery Intensive Care Unit of Hennepin County Medical Center, I peeked into a room. He was still there, lying in the bed. His eyes moved erratically behind closed eyelids that had not opened since the semi-truck accident ten days earlier. As medical monitors flashed on either side of him, I looked for hope, searched for anything that might have changed overnight. There was none.
His chest rose and fell as a machine pushed and pulled air through tubes that disappeared into his body through his mouth. In, out, in, out. The rhythmic puffs of air were the only sounds in the room. I shook his shoulder, rubbed his arm, and told him I was there. I told him I loved him. Then I sat on the couch at his bedside. There was nothing else to say, nothing I could do.
Exactly 16,303 days before, I knocked on an apartment door in Burnsville, Minnesota. When his mother Jennifer answered the door, I walked inside and met Scott, my new Little Brother in the Big Brothers Big Sisters program. On that evening we met years ago I was nervous, excited, and didn’t know what to expect.
On this cold morning in Minneapolis, 16,303 days after that first happy hello, I had come to say goodbye. The decision had been made to remove has life support systems later today. I was nervous, heartbroken, and once again, I didn’t know what to expect. The waves of grief that had been pounding me since I heard of his accident had eased a bit. It felt okay just to pause, to sit beside my Little Brother, and to reflect.
As I watched him breathe, a deep sense of gratitude arose inside me. I was aware of how lucky I was to have met Scott, and my mind filled with memories of times we had shared together. I closed my eyes, and saw flashes of sporting events we attended, of his little league games, and of us trying to reel in our kites as a severe storm roared toward us. I could hear the laughs we shared as I taught him how to drive, and once again felt the pride of standing beside him as his best man when he married Tammy. I remember the honor of being his son Michael’s godfather. I re-lived the adventures Scott and I shared traveling around Minnesota, and the vacations we took to Montana, Colorado, and Washington DC.
From our first outing for pizza in 1980 until our final time together in August 2024 when we spread his late wife Tammy’s ashes in Washington s Olympic Mountains, he had been my Brother and friend. He was a quiet, strong guy, who as a kid demonstrated determination and courage in living his life. Through our time as Big and Little Brothers, my commitment to him helped me find stability in my own life.
It was my great fortune to watch Scott grow to become a man who was a good son, husband, father, and grandfather. He showed enormous strength through Tammy’s cancer struggle, and gave unwavering support to his daughter Amanda during her health battles. Along with Tammy, Scott stepped up to provide a safe home and a firm foundation for his granddaughter Danielle. After Tammy’s passing, Scott’s own persistent effort pulled him through recovery from surgery that removed a brain tumor. He was the rock of his family, and he was an inspiration to me.
There have been a few times in my life when sudden events shook me to the core. Scott’s unexpected death was one of them. His passing knocked the wind out of me, and it rattled my spiritual foundation. It was one of those times when it did no good to ask WHY, because there was no answer.
The better question became WHAT. What did I learn? What did it all mean? What could I take from the time I shared with him?
Among my grief and my concern for what Scott s family will face on the road ahead, that Halloween morning at his bedside gave me time to appreciate what Scott had given me. He gave me the gift of friendship, hope, and joy. He was a Brother I was immensely proud of, and he was a great man. I will always treasure the laughter we shared together during our 44-year journey.
In saying goodbye and walking away from his bedside, the pain was immense. I walked away knowing deep in my heart that those 16,303 days we shared together were not nearly enough.
Rest in peace my Brother. I will miss you.
Happy October
It all begins with an idea.
Welcome to a month of beautiful fall colors, erratic weather and the tail end of the election season.
This month wraps up with Halloween, one of my all-time favorite holidays. It is an off-the-wall celebration that starts with the incredible sugar highs of childhood, then evolves into adult celebrations of unlimited forms.
I hope you enjoy the magic of October and the transition to winter.
Enjoy, stay safe, and thanks for your support!
Dennis "DJ" Quinn
Happy Halloween
This month I share the true story from Halloween 1980. It’s a life event shared by a couple guys that still brings us laughs today.
DJ Quinn with Little Brother Scott in October 1982
A Trick or A Treat?
A true story by Dennis “DJ” Quinn
At the ripe age of 23, I left Montana and took a job as a flight attendant in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The gig was great. It offered flexibility, lots of time off, and the chance to work flights throughout the US, Europe, and Asia. On my days off, I had plenty of time to kill, so I volunteered to become a Big Brother.
In March 1980, I was matched with Scott, an 11-year old boy being raised by his single mother Jennifer. Scott and I would get together for a few hours each week and hang out doing ‘guy things’. That included movies, bike rides, and going to sporting events. The idea was to share time together, build a friendship, and set a good example. Jennifer was enthusiastic about our match, and supported us in whatever we chose to do.
In October, I had planned to do something with Scott for Halloween. Unfortunately, I ended up being scheduled to fly.
“Hey Scott,” I mentioned the week before. “I’m not going to be here for Halloween. I have to fly.”
“That’s okay,” he responded.
“Are you going to go out trick-or-treating?” I asked.
“No. My mom is working late. I’m going to stay home by myself and give out candy.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“Yeah. I have it planned out. I’m going to hang up a sheet to turn the hall inside our door into a scary room. I’ll be inside with the lights real low. I’m going to dress up. Then when kids come in for candy, I’ll scare them.”
I laughed. “Have you done that before?”
“Nope, it’s the first time. I know it will work.”
“Well have fun. I’ll be thinking about you when I’m on my trip.”
The following morning I left on a 3-day trip. By the time I returned, I had picked up a nasty cold. I was scheduled to leave again the following day, but my head was congested and my ears were plugged. I called in sick for the second trip and went to bed. I woke the next day (Halloween) at home, feeling better but still congested. By midday, a restlessness started stirring inside me. Here it was Halloween, I was home with nothing to do, and I knew Scott was home by himself.
“How would I feel if I was home alone on Halloween when I was 11 years old?” I wondered. Would I want to be alone?” The answer was NO. So I decided to go surprise Scott. Since I needed a Halloween costume, that afternoon I headed to Target.
Two hours later, I was almost ready. As I wrapped the final three layers of masking tape over the four rolls of toilet paper that were strung around every inch of my body, The Mummy came to life. The Mummy added more tape around the neck, then a few strips over the top of his head. He made one more pass down his forehead, across his face to his chin, then back up the other side. Finally he taped in two oversized plastic eyeballs, each with dime-sized vision holes in the center. Red blood vessels ran horizontally across the bulging eye balls, adding the costume’s only color.
With every inch of his body tightly wrapped in toilet paper and tape, The Mummy looked in the mirror and bellowed, “Perfect!” Then, moving like the Pillsbury Dough Boy crippled with severe joint pain, The Mummy shuffled toward the car.
Twenty minutes later, darkness was falling as The Mummy parked at Scott’s apartment complex. Knowing Scott was handing out candy at his unit’s front door, The Mummy shuffled around to the back. In the darkness, he stepped on Scott’s patio and reached for the sliding door. Slowly, silently, he slid the door open.
Inside, a trace of dim light glowed from behind a sheet that was hung to separate the foyer from the living area. Muffled sounds drifted from inside Scott’s “scary room”. The Mummy moved one foot inside the apartment, then slowly followed with the other. Suddenly a voice bellowed from behind the curtain.
“Just take one!” Scott’s spooky voice commanded. The Mummy heard footsteps running away.
As the children ran off, The Mummy shuffled forward, inching nearer toward the curtain.
“Trick or Treat!” Another group of kids had arrived. Scott growled, the kids screamed, and The Mummy moved closer.
As the children grabbed their candy and bolted, The Mummy moved right behind the sheet. Scott was giggling, standing just inches away on the other side of the sheet. Scott was alone. He was relaxed. And he was waiting….
The Mummy grabbed the sheet, ripped it open and screamed. AHHHHHH! He moved toward Scott, arms outstretched, shuffling erratically. The Mummy approached Scott and screamed again. AHHHHHH!
Scott took one look, turned, and dashed out the door.
“SOMEBODY’S IN HERE, SOMETHING’S IN HERE!” His screams echoed down the hall. “SOMEBODY IS IN MY APARTMENT!”
The Mummy shuffled out into the hall. Scott stood at the far end of the long hallway dazed, confused, and terrified. All along the hall separating Scott from The Mummy, residents flew out their doors. They looked back and forth. No one moved. No one said a word. The moment was frozen in time.
“Scott! Scott, it’s me,” The Mummy yelled. No response.
“Scott, it’s me. Dennis, your Big Brother!” The Mummy was choking back laughter as he waved his tape-stiffened arm.
“It’s me Scott. Come on back here.”
Scott didn’t move. He just stared.
“It’s just me Scott. Your Big Brother.”
Finally, Scott stepped forward. It him took five minutes to walk down the hall. When he reached his apartment, he was still breathing heavily.
“You scared me so bad,” Scott hissed. “I couldn’t tell what it was!”
“I just wanted to come and wish you Happy Halloween!”
“I thought you were gone out of town!”
“I was supposed to be on a trip,” I explained. “But I called in sick. So I came to visit.”
“How…how did you get in my apartment?” His eyes were locked on the bulging bloodshot plastic eyes.
“Through the sliding door. It was unlocked.”
“Sheese!” he huffed as he let out a sigh. “You scared me. You really scared me bad!”
Scott finally settled down once we got in the apartment. More kids stopped by, a few looking for candy; most were just curious to find out what had happened.
“It was my Big Brother,” he told them. “He sneaked in and scared me. He thought it was a good joke.”
It was, in fact, a great joke. A fabulous prank. It wasn’t until The Mummy became Big Brother as he peeled off the toilet paper and tape on the drive home that I had second thoughts.
I can’t believe I did that. An 11-year old kid is home alone. Some guy with bug eyes all wrapped up in toilet paper and tape sneaks up behind him? What the Hell was I thinking.
Actually, what I was thinking was that it was hilarious. No telling what Jennifer would say when she came home and found out about the stunt. My guess was that she would laugh, which is exactly what happened.
That spontaneous Big Brother/Little Brother Halloween celebration was worth it. Scott is now in his mid-fifties, and we still laugh about that night. Each year his family puts up great outdoor Halloween decorations. Their primary focus is to scare the kids who show up looking for free candy.
Maybe I did set a good example on that dark Halloween night. It’s heartwarming to know that even though Scott still hates mummies, he loves celebrating Halloween by scaring kids. Just like his Big Brother once did.
Stay safe, and enjoy Halloween.
Welcome to Football Season
It all begins with an idea.
Happy September! This is the glorious month when Summer gives way to Football Season. Five months of non-stop football, a season designed to give Americans like me a distraction from election season. But, you ask, what about all the election ads on football broadcasts?
My suggestion? Take a deep breath and ignore the election fury. Then visualize all the money from those ads flowing into the pockets of a billionaire owner of your favorite pro team. Or better yet, picture the cash being forked over to the pay-for-play "student athletes" on your college team to keep them away from the transfer portal.
If that doesn't calm you down, try slamming down some of the beers advertised during the game. From the looks of it, apparently that is the sure path to a carefree life!
Enjoy Football Season, stay safe, and thanks for your support! Dennis "DJ" Quinn
Trying to cope with a college football fan?
It's a fact: For the next few months the college football fans in your life will slip into an alternate reality. They will adopt a tribal mentality, their lives focused on teams they worship in the spotlight of sports TV. Are these people driving you crazy? If so, this description from USA Today columnist Dan Wolken may help you understand:
...Every college football fan has chosen to invest their happiness, their money and their time in following a certain program. Sometimes that choice was merely the byproduct of going to college, or perhaps it was handed down from parents or grandparents. But at some point, everyone who becomes an emotional wreck every Saturday made a conscious decision to care deeply about a sport where 18-to-22 year-olds hit each other and toss around an oblong ball.
There's one problem, though, that they don't tell you about until it's too late. As a college football fan, your well-being is going to be disproportionately dependent on the choices that others make. Even worse, most of those choices are going to look very stupid in retrospect... (Dan Wolken, USA Today, Sept. 1, 2024)
Good luck, enjoy Football Season, and Go Huskies!
Getting High on God
By DJ Quinn
This little reflection is for my nieces and nephews to give them a better understanding of why all nine of us Quinn kids loved to go to church every Sunday.
In the days before mini-vans roamed the earth, God had created the Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser. This was a Hell of a station wagon, equipped with non-opening sunroofs above the “back seat” and tinted glass windows along the roof-line in the “very back”. Designed to carry six passengers and their gear comfortably, the Vista Cruiser was the perfect machine to carry the eleven members of the Quinn family to the our parish church, the Cathedral of St. Helena.
“How,” the next generation is bound ask, “How did they all fit? Where did they put all the car seats?”
An understandable question from a generation of kids who have grown up believing automobiles don’t work unless every member of the family is strapped or bolted to the body of the car. For these children, who are afraid to even sit on the toilet without wearing a bicycle helmet, it is impossible to visualize 11 people traveling to the Cathedral in a single Vista Cruiser.
Our family went to the same Mass each Sunday. We went to whichever Mass was scheduled to begin 15 minutes after Dad woke us up. Nothing, nothing puts one in a holier mood than being told, “Get up, it’s time to go.”
Much chanting and speaking in tongues would take place as we tried to assemble ourselves and stumble to the Vista Cruiser. The final few minutes always included a body count to determine who was missing. Some kid just settling into their seat would have to jump out of the Vista Cruiser, run back into the house, and scream, “Hurry Up. We’re leaving!”
The fires of Hell were cooler than the mood in the Vista Cruiser as we roared out of the driveway. Dad would drive with Mom seated on the passenger side, and between them was the first kid to make it into the car that morning. The rest of us were jostling with each other in back.
A dark cloud of collective grumpiness would fill the back of the car as we pulled out. Yet each week, somewhere along Benton Avenue between Euclid and the Civic Center, the voices of sin would be silenced. It was there along this holy stretch of Benton Avenue that the Angel of the Lord, seated in the passenger side of the front seat, would reach into her purse. Confident she was doing God’s work, she would whip out the Aqua Net hairspray and unleash chemical warfare on the forces of evil.
Aqua Net, for the unfamiliar, is one of three over-the counter products resulting from a catastrophic chemical reaction that takes place in a factory somewhere “Out-of-State.” A tub of chemicals mixes, bubbles, burps and ferments. Then like magic the goo separates to produce Off! Insect Repellent, Emarude Perfume (a favorite of our Aunt Jean), and Aqua Net Hairspray--available in a pink, silver and black spray can decorated with a fish-net motif. Suggested retail price for Aqua Net back then was about 15 cents for a five-gallon drum.
As the sinners started to scream, the Lord’s Handmaiden started spraying the Aqua Net. First on her bangs, then a bit on the side. A quick glance in the mirror on the visor followed by a major blast at Dennis. Another “psssst” on her bangs, two quick sprays at Kelly, and a long, long squirt at Tim and Katie. One last quick pass over the other side of the hairdo was followed by a 15 second dusting of the back seat.
This was, of course, a glorious miracle as it was all done without Mom even turning her head. And Satan Be Damned! It was a mortal sin to roll down a window for air because the wind might ruin Mom’s hairdo.
Who needs car seats? By the time we reached the Cathedral we were all limp rag dolls, lying on the seat or floor, gasping for air. We could have had a head-on collision with a semi-truck and none of us floating in our Aqua Net stupor would have felt a thing. We arrived at church and piled out of the car. As we ran toward the church, we begged God for mercy and a little bit of fresh air.
Yes, the Quinns arrived at Mass. Dad looked relaxed, Mom looking dashing with nary a hair out of place, and we kids just looked at the massive stained glass windows in the cathedral. Higher than kites from inhaling Aqua Net fumes, all of us would watch the figures in those windows come to life.
The Saints would dance, whirl around, and do a few cartwheels. The Apostles would make faces at the priest and pass gas at the Last Supper Table. Perhaps it was a sense of deep spirituality that engulfed us. Most likely, we were all just really, really stoned. Whatever the case, before long we would settle back in our pews, take in the show, and begin to whisper our praises.
“Oh Jesus! This is great!”
Olympic Games ~ A Reflection
It all begins with an idea.
DJ Quinn’s reflection on Olympic Games played in the summer.
You might not understand what camping has to do with the Boston Marathon. But if you have ever camped with, or near, a family of nine kids, you might have seen (or heard) it happening.
It’s the competition. It was on family road trips that my siblings learned to compete. Mile after mile we fought for seats in the car. At night we wrestled for places to sleep. We had fist fights over the last donut or cookie. And when Dad pulled off the road to restore order, we fought over who caused all the chaos.
Our family camping trips were, in fact, a "Camping Olympics”. We trained at home, perfecting our skills in wrestling, running, and harassing each other. When we hit the road, our training paid off. Camping freed us to battle one another outside the confines of home, without our parents acting as referees.
My parents knew competition would be intense when we traveled. Before we left on a camping trip, they issued us Camping Olympic uniforms. These were sweatshirts, and each kid wore a different color. Color-coding prevented fights about who owned which sweatshirt. It also helped Mom and Dad remember who-was-who.
The uniforms had strict wearing regulations, known as "Three in/Three out." No matter how much mud wrestling, swimming, or sweating we did, we had to wear the uniforms for three consecutive days. On the fourth day, they were turned inside-out and worn inside-out for the next three days. Our family Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser stunk like a moving locker room. When the uniforms finally were washed, they were worn Three in/Three out again on the trip home.
The Camping Olympics were held at "The Madison”. To this day, I don’t know exactly where The Madison was located. It was a God-forsaken spot in Montana, somewhere before the Madison, Jefferson, and Gallatin rivers hooked up to form the Missouri.
It was a desolate spot indeed. The Native Americans didn't want to live there. Lewis and Clark took one look and moved on. Early pioneers passed up offers of free land at The Madison. Except for mosquitoes, flies, and some snakes, we were the only living creatures ever to stay at The Madison. Which was exactly the reason my parents loved it.
The average temperature there was around 100 degrees in the shade. And since my parents never chose a camping spot with trees, the temperature in the shade was irrelevant. The Madison was scorching hot and was infested with rattlesnakes. According to my parents, the rattlesnakes were so big they “could swallow kids whole”.
Every day, Dad would head to the river to go fishing, reminding us for final time about the snakes before he trotted off. Being petrified of the rattlers, none of us would tag after him. In all the years camping at The Madison, no one (including Dad) ever saw a rattlesnake. But the lurking snakes did their job—they gave our father some quiet time alone.
Mom might have braved the rattlesnakes to go with my father, but she hated fishing. Her passion was organizing the Olympic games. With unlimited imagination, she kept us occupied and prevented us from killing each other. Minor Olympic events varied — some card games, relay races, and water fights. But in my mother’s eyes, the focus of our Camping Olympics should be baseball.
Baseball. Standing in the hot August sun, dressed in our sweatshirts, we swatted mosquitoes and played baseball. Each game started with the few siblings who were in a good mood singing The Star-Spangled Banner. The rest of us, who had been shoved out of the wrong side of the sleeping bag that morning, just stood there. That moment wasn’t about patriotism, it simply served to raise tempers and irritate the competition.
And then we played baseball. Green, red, yellow, and blue against black, pink, brown and purple. Three hits. Two outs, and a brawl about a strike call. A time-out called for more mosquito spray.
Then pink, green, red and purple played black, blue, brown and yellow. On and on it wore, inning after inning, day after day. Baseball. In the sweltering heat at The Madison, my brothers and sisters learned to hate baseball, mosquitoes, and rattlesnakes. But we learned to love competition, and in the long run, how to love one another.
The best part of Camping Olympics was that we competed for fun. Nobody really cared who won. Until that fateful night when our parents violated our Olympic code. We were sitting around the campfire when the folks announced they had a surprise. They pulled out the first-ever “Good Traveler Award”. My sister Mazie won that single award. The other eight of us tied for dead-ass last place. Which is the reason our lives have never been the same.
It wasn’t Mazie's fault, but that Good Traveler prize ruined our Camping Olympics. We still played games on later camp-outs, but by then Mazie was on a mission, always gunning for more prizes. Since the night she won the one-and-only Good Traveler award, she has run hundreds of races. She has won countless trophies, ribbons, medals, turkeys and even a cheeseball or two.
My other siblings and I have no use for prizes. The night all of us losers missed the award podium in the Good Travelers competition, our focus changed. We decided we would all compete for laughs and let Mazie run after the prizes.
Years after our last camp-out at The Madison, I was a spectator when Mazie ran the Boston Marathon. As she slowly jogged past me at mile #21, I jumped into the race to join her. It was like being back at The Madison. Everyone was hot. Everyone was sweating, stinking, and ignoring the yelling crowd. I even felt an urge to sing The Star-Spangled Banner to make Mazie run faster.
As we crossed the finish line in downtown Boston, my mind flashed back to The Madison. Mazie put her finisher's medal around her neck, then ran to a Porta-potty to throw up. I enjoyed the free food they were passing out to runners. As I stepped over passed-out racers and chomped on free donuts, I was thrilled that I had “finished” the Boston Marathon.
And in that post-race chaos, I heard my late mother’s sweet voice. She was whispering in my head repeating the sacred rule she tried to teach us at our childhood Camping Olympics. “Never forget kids-- the one who has the most fun wins!”