Guys, offer a holiday hand

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t arrived in the mail, compliments of a good friend. "Christmas Ease -287 Top Tips for a Delightful Stress-Free Holiday" by Michelle West, certainly piqued my interest, but it was, I thought smugly, just a bit premature. It was only October when I found it in my mailbox. The days were still balmy. Leaves clung to the trees. Roses bloomed on the vine. Christmas was eons away.

I stacked the book on top of another my friend sent, on how to get rid of cellulite. I realize now that if I'd opened both when they arrived I would not be in the shape I'm in today.

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Fisher Price people don't kill kids; guns do

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Usually I read these things and take them for what they are: a warning that once I would have memorized, but that now I just peruse. I don't have little kids anymore. I don't need to worry about toy safety.

But the story was about Fisher Price's Little People and though it has been years since I picked up the cow and put him back in his barn, and arranged the plastic children in their swings, I finished the article because of all the toys my children had, Fisher Price Little People were my favorite. Even the words on a printed page evoke nostalgia.

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`CARETAKERS' ALWAYS ON CALL

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A social worker would call her the "primary caretaker." You probably know someone like her.

She's the one daughter in a family of five, six, ten who, when her mother gets sick, packs up her pre-school kids - even if they have colds, even if they're in the middle of a birthday party - to drive her mother to a doctor, pick up a prescription, stop at a market, then go back to her mother's house and whip up something for dinner.

Or she's the one with the full-time job who visits her father every day on her way home.

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Report calls for abolition of DSS

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The state Department of Social Services should be dismantled because it is "inherently conflicting" for one agency to provide both child protection and family support services, according to a new report.

The report, issued by a committee of child advocates, academics and citizens, recommends the state establish a new Department of Child Protection to investigate child abuse and neglect.

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Money doesn't buy manners

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So there you are at the theater, with your family, having spent a couple hundred dollars for the privilege of sitting in the rear of a balcony, now called a mezzanine, because at $55 a seat, mezzanine has a far sweeter sound. The French word is elegant - and also deluding.

But you don't care, because this is a Special Occasion. You're here to relax, to enjoy yourself and become immersed in the performance.

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Look how sensitive we have become to the sounds around us

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The noise has stopped, finally. Or is it only an intermission?

I look out the window and see the men across the street, talking together. Half the yard is still covered with leaves. They and The Machine have been working for hours. The whining, unremitting drone awakened me early, far too early on a non-work day. The sound was like pain. I wanted to run from it. But I couldn't. It filled the house. It filled me.

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Molly at 13: It's Just a Stage

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Molly at 13: It's Just a Stage

If she were a person, she'd be 13 now, a teenager, seeking her identity, testing boundaries, being a bit of a pain in the neck. Her behavior in human terms is, therefore, perfectly normal. She is just going through a stage, I tell my husband who didn't buy the stage bit for his kids and now refuses to accept it for a dog. She is totally out of control, he counters. And guess whose fault that is?

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This rape no crime

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You have to see this through three sets of eyes.

There's Frankie Rodriguez, 19, hot stuff, a right-handed pitcher last season for the Red Sox' Single-A Carolina League affiliate in Lynchburg, Va. Scouts look at him and see the majors. His career prospects are soaring. He can taste success.

Of course, he attracts fans. Young, pretty girls cheer him on the field and wait for him after the game. He has his choice. On the night of Aug. 24, he gives a pair of girls who've followed him from game to game all summer long, a ride home. One of the girls says she doesn't want to go home, that she'd rather go to Rodriguez's apartment instead. When she gets there, she asks her friend to leave Rodriguez's bedroom so that they can have sex. Afterward, he drives both girls home.

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Sorry, can't make that meeting. I plan to hibernate this winter

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We are talking about going to bed early and pulling the covers over our heads and closing out the world and hibernating until May.

Only it's just talk. We can't hibernate. Morning comes; the clock says it's morning, but it's hard to tell. The day is gray. Our mood is gray. The trees are bare, black, bone thin. We are bone-weary. Burdened.

It's cold. It's damp. Thanksgiving looms. Then it's Christmas with all the shopping, spending, racing. For what? For whom?

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Faith sustains those Lacey left behind

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I expected him to be angry, furious, out of control. I expected him to be screaming and yelling "Why."

I should have known better. I have never seen him angry. Wounded, puzzled, defeated, yes. But I have never seen hate in his eyes.

Not the first time I met him, shortly after his daughter's death, when I drove to his house and sat on his couch and looked through albums filled with photos of a beautiful, smiling little girl.

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`Smart' car needed _ now (AND NOW WE HAVE WAZE!!)

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Rosemary calls for directions Sunday afternoon as I'm sitting at the kitchen table clipping a story about "smart cars."

Smart cars - as opposed to dumb cars - are automobiles which have built-in computerized road maps on their dashboards. Little sensors in the car's wheels actually measure distance traveled and a built-in magnetic compass instructs the driver of a car, in an R2D2 voice, how to get from point A to point B.

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Racism up close and personal

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Yves Alexandre writes simply and truthfully; I do not want to change her words. I want to repeat them because they beg to be heard; but I have to compress them because of space.

The 17-year-old student at Somerville High wrote her story for the September issue of the 21st Century, a newspaper published in Newton, written entirely by teens. Alexandre's story is compelling, a disturbing first person account of racism.

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The Waltons may be fictional, but loyal fans don't think so

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The Waltons may be fictional, but loyal fans don't think so

Fact and fiction. They blend. A person steps into the sun at high noon and he and his shadow are one. Both exist. Both are seperate entities, but for a moment they merge.

Schuyler, population 400, is fact. It's a tiny town nestled among the mountains in Nelson County, Virginia. Walton's Mountain is but a shadow of Schuyler, a creation of its most famous son, novelist and screen writer Earl Hamner.

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Stop the music! It costs too much

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A guy walks into a health club, smelling of onions and cigarettes, a clue that he's not stopping by for a workout, though God knows he could use one. He's also carrying a briefcase, not a gym bag, a sure sign of trouble.

He asks for the owner, opens his briefcase and when the owner appears introduces himself and hands him an attractive brochure, which has on its cover drawings of people dancing, people riding a stationary bike, a set of barbells, a racquet, goggles and racquetballs.

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It's after the birth of a child when the worries really begin

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I phoned her the other day to ask how her pregnancy is coming along.

"I'll be glad when it's over," she said in a weary voice. "I'm a nervous wreck. There are so many things that can go wrong. I can't wait for this baby to be born."

My friend is having her second child, but this is her third pregnancy. A year ago she miscarried, so all during the early weeks of this pregnancy the possibility that she might again miscarry kept her joy on hold.

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Higashi School: It means hope

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A child is born, a normal, healthy, beautiful child. He rolls over when he should, sits up like all babies his age, crawls, stands, walks, says "mama" and "dada," and when he smiles, he lights up a room.

But when he's about a year-and-a-half he stops using words, stops looking at people and doesn't reach out anymore. He doesn't smile. He frowns, screams, bites his hands, bangs his head on the floor and tears at his face and his hair. He repeats this behavior day after day.

What causes this? No one has an answer. Neither the cause nor the cure of autism is known.

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An anniversary of friendship

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I wish I could remember more about that Christmas Eve. I can recreate the room: We are at Caryn's parents' house, at their traditional after-church Christmas party, renowned for its homemade egg-nog. I can picture the punch bowl in the middle of the table, hear the clinking of glass and the laughter of the crowd, smell assorted colognes and the sweet scent of pine.

I can see Caryn's face, a child's face, no make-up, not even lipstick, freckles dotting her nose, a grin in her eyes. I can even make out what she's wearing: a plaid jumper, a white blouse. She is 19. She is a child.

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