The conventional wisdom associates sports fans with testosterone and the Y chromosome. It always has. That's why Sports Illustrated gets away with devoting an entire issue every year to chesty women in skimpy bathing suits, and why the pages of ESPN the Magazine are more likely to mention Anna Kournikova's looks than Venus Williams' backhand. Men sit around all weekend drinking beer, eating potato chips, and watching the games, while women roll their eyes and go shopping. Mia Hamm and the WNBA notwithstanding, sports are still a guy thing. Right?

I haven't done a survey and don't particularly feel like surfing the net looking for one, so I'll just concede that it is probably true that men are more likely than women to be interested in sports. Whether this is nature or nurture is a discussion for another time. What I can tell you is that in spite of the stereotype, there are in fact many women out there who not only watch and enjoy sports but are very knowledgeable about what they're watching. The difference is that we manage to combine the traditionally masculine aspects of the ardent sports fan with a very girlish admiration for the physical attractiveness of the players.

My personal sports history is that of a passionate spectator. Though I spent a few years as a kid on a local alpine ski racing circuit, I wasn't very good at it. My claim to fame is that I frequently came in a distant second to Pam Fletcher, a fireball from another team who would eventually become a successful World Cup downhiller and go to the Olympics (only to break her leg before she could compete). But I loved watching ski racing on television, mostly the slalom and giant slalom (there was as yet no such thing as Super-G) as the downhill was a little too free-form for my taste, though Franz Klammer ruled. At the same time, my younger brother was playing youth hockey, and in addition to going to his games, the family would spend evenings together watching the Boston Bruins back when they were good. Every four years, of course, there was the Olympics, and I would watch just about any Olympic event, from figure skating to diving to cross-country skiing and the decathlon.

And then there was baseball, which would eventually lead me to a diverse group of women who were as passionate, as knowledgeable, as obsessed with the sport as any man I have ever known.

I first became aware of the Boston Red Sox in the '70s, vaguely at first. By the fall of 1978, the beginning of my first year in high school, I was hooked, along with a few classmates from the all-girls school we attended. The inside of my locker was decorated with pictures of my favorite players. I collected baseball cards (which in a moment of insanity I would later give to my brother, who just this week lost them all in a basement flood). Later, when I was in college, it was I rather than one of the guys whom my friend Dan asked to go on a road trip to Boston to see his Blue Jays play at Fenway Park. It was around that time that I cancelled my long-time subscription to Sports Illustrated when my feminist sensibilities could no longer tolerate the swimsuit issue. But I stuck with baseball.

With the boom in popularity of the internet and a multitude of message boards even a technophobe can love, I found a whole world of fans who were every bit as zealous as I. And what do you know, a good chunk of them were women. We now call ourselves the Hunk Hunk Sisterhood (also known as the "BOSTONS"—Babes Offering Support To Our Needed Sox—the moniker under which we periodically send postcards of support and encouragement to slumping Sox players throughout the year).

It was on an overnight with the Sistahs that I learned of the capture of Saddam Hussein, at a PawSox game with the Sistahs (and one brothah) that we heard about the big brawl at Fenway between Captain Tek and Slappy McBluelips, and at two consecutive spring trainings with Sistahs where I got to know other online friends from all over the country I hadn't met yet. We do like to talk about the players', um, physiques, but mostly we talk baseball—who made the roster, whether the new acquisitions are better than who they replaced, how a particular pitcher's velocity was in the last game. The same things the guys talk about. Some of us even keep scorecards at the games, which completely intimidates the non-scoring men sitting nearby.

Sports may be the men's turf, but we women hold our own just fine, ignoring the testosterone and going straight to the game itself. We are accustomed to the occasional condescending comment ("Wow, you ladies are real fans!") but it doesn't bug us. Or at least it doesn't bug me. I've been solicited for interviews by British radio, Canadian television, and local print columnists. In fact, this Sunday, I will make my second annual appearance on ESPN. And not once has the subject matter been the novelty of an ardent female fan.

We've come a long way, baby. But we still know how to have fun.

Despite all that could be written about the Terri Schiavo starvation/dehydration case (the amount of misinformation that has cropped up is stunning) there isn't much point now that she has died. Let's just point out that in one of his final acts as her husband, Michael Schiavo kept from Terri the people who have known her longer than anyone else in the world.

Moments before the announcement that she had died, Schiavo's parents, Mary and Bob Schindler, hurriedly entered the Pinellas Park, Florida, hospice housing their 41-year-old daughter.

The couple had begged to be with their firstborn while she drew her last breath, but police denied their request, said Brother Paul O'Donnell, a spokesman and spiritual adviser for the Schindlers.

Michael Schiavo, Terri's guardian, controlled who could visit her and when.

Terri Schindler-Schiavo is finally free of him.

I got the following message by e-mail today. I've seen it many times before, but it still amazes me.

I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid. Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch taem at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Such a cdonition is arppoiately cllaed Typoglycemia :)-

Amzanig huh? Yaeh and yuo awlyas thought slpeling was so ipmortant.

The only thing I'm not sure of is whether "typoglycemia" is a real word.

Americans spend an average of 100 hours a year commuting to work, according to the U.S. Census Bureau. I heard this factoid reported with downright alarm by a local radio newscaster this morning.

Americans spend more than 100 hours commuting to work each year, according to American Community Survey (ACS) data released today by the U.S. Census Bureau. This exceeds the two weeks of vacation time (80 hours) frequently taken by workers over the course of a year. For the nation as a whole, the average daily commute to work lasted about 24.3 minutes in 2003.

After reading this story, I'm not sure if it's talking about the time it takes to get between work and home, or the whole round-trip commute. But even if it is the former, 24.3 minutes doesn't seem unreasonable to me.

Hear me out. My drive to work each morning is 15 minutes, exactly 7 miles from my driveway to my designated employee parking lot. Living one town away from where I work, I consider mine to be a short commute, with the option of taking a state highway or the Interstate in roughly the same amount of time. The longest drive to work I've ever had was 30 minutes, give or take a few depending on traffic. A few years back, I considered a job in Boston that would have meant a one-hour drive each way, or at least that much time on the commuter rail and connecting subway lines.

I know several people who drive at least an hour to work. One former co-worker lived an hour and a quarter away from the office, and that was coming in at 7:00am so he didn't hit rush-hour traffic. One of the other men in his department had a similar commute from the opposite direction. My mother's job requires a 55-minute drive about half the time (the other half is spent in a local office) and that doesn't account for the occasional accident-induced traffic jam.

Would I rather be able to walk a half mile to get to work? Of course I would. But what's so bad about 25 minutes in a car in the morning? I can listen to music or the daily news; riding public transportation, I could read the newspaper or a good book. Any of which would be time better spent than, say, being glued to the television.

Graduate students at Columbia University want to form a union. As in a labor union, so they'll get paid a fair wage for what they do.

When I was in college, the student paid to study, she didn't get paid. I understand that some graduate students hold teaching assistantships, but isn't that in exchange for a break on tuition?

And if that isn't the case, isn't it part of their training? Student nurses, for example, do clinical work as part of their program of study. It's on-the-job training.

Seriously, if I'm all wet here, someone let me know. Because I don't get it.

Isn't there some way to stop this all-campaign-all-the-time madness?

The next presidential election is more than three years away, but that isn't stopping some potential White House candidates from getting an early start in Iowa.

I can't be the only person who wants to crawl into a cave after reading this. Stop the insanity. Really.

Roman Catholics whose parishes were closed due, in large part, to years of mishandling of important matters by the management of the Archidiocese of Boston, are attending Easter masses at which married priests are presiding.

"I'm really happy to see the people standing up and wanting to be heard, wanting to have a say in what happens to them," [the Rev. Ronald P.] Ingalls said. "People used to just quietly grumble when things like this happened to them, but now they're speaking up and doing something about it."

Fr. Ingalls, who left the active ministry in 1971 and was married eight years later, was speaking about what progressive Catholics see as one of the most disturbing trends in today's church: the stubborn insistence of the hierarchy on maintaining the prohibition against married priests, even in the face of a dire priest shortage and resulting church closings. He celebrated mass today for former parishioners of Sacred Heart Church in Natick, Massachusetts.

It's like a new Easter, the people of God refusing to give in to an authority seeking to control their community's life of worship. The irony is that such resistance, which is becoming more and more common, would probably never have happened if the people in the pews hadn't been shaken from their complacency by the horrific scandal of sexual abuse by priests. Like the crucifixion of Jesus, the abuse of children and teens by the priests they trusted was unjust and evil. But somehow, the Spirit of God is allowing something good to come from it, as the faithful are participating in the sacramental life of their church in spite of the obstacles in their way. Like the earliest followers of Jesus, they may not fully understand what is happening or why, but they are letting their faith lead them.

Early in the morning on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary of Magdala came to the tomb. She saw that the stone had been rolled away from the entrance, so she ran off to Simon Peter and the other disciple—the one Jesus loved—and told them, "The Rabbi has been taken from the tomb! We don't know where they have put Jesus!"

At that, Peter and the other disciple started out toward the tomb. They were running side by side, but then the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He didn't enter, but bent down to peer in and saw the linen wrappings lying on the ground. Then Simon Peter arrived and entered the tomb. He observed the linen wrappings on the ground, and saw the piece of cloth that had covered Jesus' head lying not with the wrappings, but rolled up in a place by itself. Then the disciple who had arrived first at the tomb went in. He saw and believed. As yet, they didn't understand the scripture that Jesus was to rise from the dead. Then the disciples went back to their homes.

—John 20:1-9 (Inclusive New Testament)

More than three years post-Taliban, women in Afghanistan are slowly beginning to regain some rights in spite of obstacles. It isn't easy in a male-dominated culture unlike what no American woman has ever known. But things are improving as women begin to train for jobs, even if they are primarily stereotypically female jobs. And while it doesn't take long to train women in a trade, the real problem is that it will take generations to train them not to feel submissive—never mind training men to abandon their sense of control.

"The women still have a long, long way to go. It's like every step they take forward, men are pulling them six steps back," Rodriguez said. "Some of the girls who work here dress modern, but have to cover up when they leave, because they are scared what men will do if they see them. God forbid one of her neighbors sees her."

But even amidst that attitude, some women are beginning to assert themselves, with the support of their families.

One woman escaped an abusive life from her husband's family. Just after her wedding, they pinned her down to tattoo her face with tribal markings. She was forced into the marriage and is deaf and can't speak, but with the help of her father, she's now fighting for a divorce and against the oppressive social norm of forced marriages.

Considering how long after the establishment of the United States for women to get any semblance of equal rights, no one should consider it a failure if it takes Afghan women as long. The important thing is that, in spite of all the obstacles that may lie ahead, they're on the right road.

Terri Schiavo's parents have failed in the last of their attempts to have their daughter's feeding and hydration resumed. Earlier this week, I got into quite a heated discussion on this issue in an off-topic thread on the Boston Red Sox message board. That exchange, subsequent news stories, and assorted personal recollections have prompted the following thoughts, in no particular order:

1. In the message board thread, I found that the people who were most belligerent and insulting in their defense of Michael Schiavo's position to also be the least likely to actually put forth information in support of their opinions. Perhaps that was because they lacked any substantial knowledge of the case, as in the woman who claimed that "The medical tests run on Terri indicate that she has no cognitive thought," and later identified these tests as EEG, CT scan, and MRI. (Those are physiological tests that can measure overall brain activity or the extent of functioning in specific locations in the brain; they are involved in cognitive testing.)
2. People who come down on the side of the Schindlers, Terri's parents, generally support Republicans and/or George W. Bush. They are incensed that an unsubstantiated claim as to her wishes is being ignored by people who obviously don't value life, and they advocate the intervention of the federal courts in an effort to overturn prior decisions. Oddly, these are generally the same people who complain about "activist judges" issuing rulings they don't like on issues like gay marriage.
3. Those who come down on the side of Michael Schiavo, Terri's husband, generally hate Republicans and/or George W. Bush. They are incensed that politicians would try to overturn a decision that has been supported in multiple court proceedings. Oddly, these are generally the same people who advocate repeated judicial, legislative, or executive intervention to overturn death sentences in capital murder cases.
4. Lost in all the partisan bickering is the advocacy for Terri's life on behalf of disability rights groups, who almost always come down on the side of Democrats and other liberals—but not in this case. Influential activist groups like Not Dead Yet see this not as a case of politics and procedures and who should make the decision on behalf of a patient, but rather as a barometer of how American society sees the disabled and places value on their lives in light of sometimes severely limited abilities.
5. Michael Schiavo began claiming ( after winning malpractice suits on his wife's behalf, I feel compelled to remind) that she once told him she would never want to be kept alive artificially. Those who agree with his decision content that it is highly likely that he, as the person with the most intimate relationship to her, would have had this discussion with her while her parents might not have. But how many 20-somethings do you know (Terri was 26 when she suffered brain damage) who have actually thought seriously about, much less made, end-of-life decisions? And if they do, at any age, isn't it a more serious discussion rather than an over-simplified remark? I am several years older than 26, and though I am aware of the importance of end-of-life decisions, have discussed with my family things like organ donation, and have a will, I have never discussed what should be done if I become incapacitated and I have not signed an advance directive or health care proxy. As irrational as it sounds, I have never felt the urgency to do so, especially when I was 26 and had no health concerns whatsoever.
6. Of course, it is quite possible that Terri Schiavo once said, perhaps in response to an especially tragic news story, "I would never want to live like that." My mother has also said several times, including when she was cleaning out my late grandmother's apartment, and in the presence of witnesses, that if she ever got to the point where she started hoarding useless junk like Gram did, that we should "get a gun and shoot me." If Terri's alleged comment to her husband authorizes him to stop having her fed, would my mother's comments also be taken seriously in a court of law? It almost certainly would not, nor would we ever be so brazen as to use it as a reason to shoot her.

After years of threatening, I finally joined the Women's Ordination Conference Yesterday I received an e-mail notice of a "World Day of Prayer for Women's Ordination into a Renewed Priesthood" (details currently available here), scheduled for this Friday. There are no gatherings being held locally (there are in several cities nationwide) but the point of the day is to pray, whether alone or with others.

We at WOC work to challenge all oppression within the church — including sexism, racism, and homophobia. In response to feedback from supporters like you, we added "into a Renewed Priesthood" to the events' title to emphasize our commitment to structural change. We do not want to simply ordain women into the priesthood as it is now. We call for a renewed priestly ministry that promotes justice, equality and liberation. By adding this phrase, we are also emphasizing our advocacy for a renewed priesthood inclusive of all those whom God calls, women and men, coupled and single, gay and straight.

It's a radical notion. The issue of married priests and optional celibacy is controversial enough, even though the Vatican says only that married men may not be priests, not that they cannot be priests. As a matter of fact, not only are married Episcopalian and Lutheran priests who convert to Roman Catholicism allowed to practice as Catholic priests, but many of the Eastern rite Catholic churches that are in communion with Rome allow married men to be priests.

Now women priests and gay priests, that's a horse of another color. It's hard to imagine which would pique the ire of the red hats more. Women, it is claimed, can't be priests because as women they do not "image Christ." Yet in Galatians 3:25-29, Paul points out, "But now that faith has come, we are no longer under a custodian; for in Christ Jesus you are all sons [sic]of God, through faith. For as many of you as were baptized into Christ have put on Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus. And if you are Christ's, then you are Abraham's offspring, heirs according to promise."

But where do gay and lesbian people come in to the equation? It does indeed seem farfetched that people who are considered "intrinsically disordered" by the church hierarchy would ever be permitted into the priesthood. After all, it is said, the Bible itself prohibits homosexual sex in Leviticus 18:22, which says, "You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination." Yet, as the Ontario Consultants on Religious Tolerance point on on their excellent discourse on religious positions on homosexuality, the Bible also prohibits a husband from having sex with his wife when she has her period, and mandates kosher food laws and the execution of adulterers and those who curse their parents.

I don't mean to suggest that the Bible is irrelevant. As a practicing Catholic Christian, I believe in the Bible. I believe its authors were inspired by God. I also believe that while God is inerrant, people aren't and weren't in scriptural times either. So did God really mean that the child who sasses his mother should be put to death? Someone who accepts the literal accuracy of the entire Bible would have to say yes. And then it would also be consistent to consider homosexual sex an abomination and, consequently, homosexuals unfit for ordination to the priesthood.

And if the Bible itself might have been screwed up to a fair-thee-well by the Old Testament scribes and second millennium translators, it sure isn't out of the question to imagine that the Roman Catholic cardinals could have it wrong on the ordination of women and on celibacy.

These are difficult issues with which to come to terms. That's why I will be praying this Good Friday, in spirit with others around the world.

I recently volunteered to design, set up, and edit (well, more like correct an occasional typo) a blog for my mother's friend and co-worker whose Army Reserve unit was activated and deployed to Iraq. The blog, Medicine Soldier, began with periodic e-mails he wrote to family and friend in an effort to give them a realistic picture of what he was experiencing. The e-mails were the unfiltered observations and thoughts of someone not subject to editing for the six o'clock news—or the censorship of the U.S. military.

If you visit the blog, you'll see that his posts are fairly innocuous from a security standpoint. He doesn't give away his unit's position, any operational details, or the identities of others. He has me cut uniform name patches and rank insignia from his pictures. He is respectful toward both his fellow service members and the Iraqi people he encounters, even when he talks about occurrences that bother him. In short, there is really nothing the military would need to censor. He is smart enough and responsible enough to refrain from writing things that would be considered inappropriate for an officer in the U.S. Army.

This morning, he e-mailed me privately, mentioning how surprised he was to learn via the Army Times that there are a large number of military personnel in the blogosphere, and not all of them are as careful as he is. This recent editorial illustrates a bit of the military's quandary: to censor or not to censor? It isn't a new question, but the answer is different from past wars.

In World War II and Korea, every letter a GI sent home was read and censored. Some arrived looking like lace because so many words had been cut out. Today, a soldier at a computer in Baghdad can post a blog entry available instantly to millions worldwide — with no security review.

I wasn't alive during World War II or Korea—the first U.S. war of my memory was Vietnam — but it does appear that things have changed greatly in terms of the freedom to communicate that is afforded to members of the armed forces. The ubiquity of the internet could have resulted in a deluge of dangerous security breaches posted for all the world to see, but it hasn't. What it has done is show that mature adults are by and large capable of acting as their positions require and don't need mommies wielding the censor's pen to keep them in line.

Score one for the first amendment and the rights of those who put their lives on the line for the freedom of others.

Literally seconds ago, I heard a story on NPR News that the French National Assembly has voted to abolish the country's legislated 35-hour work week. I don't remember the last time I worked less than 45 hours, and I'm not even a workaholic by American standards. The kicker about France's arrangement is that it wasn't a guideline; it was a limit. Workers were not permitted to work more than 35 hours. This was their brilliant plan to combat unemployment.

It's official: the Terri Schiavo case has reached cult status in the media. You can't turn on the radio or television, pick up a newspaper or magazine, without reading something about her or the issues her case raises.

My opinion is that it is inhumane to deny someone food and water unless they are already dying. A recent personal example is my grandmother, who was in congestive heart failure and became so sick that she stopped eating and drinking. My mother and her siblings brought in Hospice, and she received medication to keep her pain-free until death.

But Terri Schiavo isn't dying. She isn't even comatose. What she is is severely brain damaged and profoundly disabled. Her husband wants to remove her feeding tube so as to starve and dehydrate her until she dies. The same way an infant who cannot feed herself would die without food and water.

What I find notable about the case is that the only person who is claiming that Terri would want this for herself is also the only person who stands to benefit financially from her death: her husband. But he didn't start claiming her wish not to be fed through a tube until three years after the incident that left her disabled, after malpractice judgments had been awarded. The malpractice awards, after the lawyers took their bite and Michael Schiavo himself got $300,000, were supposed to be used for Terri's care and rehabilitation. But once the money came in, her husband stopped spending money on her rehabilitation. Records show, in fact, that more than half of Terri's medical care trust fund has been spent on lawyers' fees that would have been wholly unnecessary if her husband hadn't suddenly changed his mind about her future, or if he just divorced her and moved on to his girlfriend of many years with whom he has children.

What exactly is the chronology of events leading to where the Schindlers and Schiavos find themselves now? It is too lengthy to effectively summarize here, but a timeline is available from the University of Miami that gives the basics. Much more detail is available from the Terri Schindler-Schiavo Foundation.

All that, of course, is water under the bridge. The feeding tube has been removed, and the question now is whether or not it will be reinserted. The federal judge who reviewed Terri's parents' request for an injunction ruled against them, but from reading the decision, it looks as if his hands were tied. He did not have the authority to rule on whether or not Terri should be starved to death; he could only rule on whether there were legal grounds to grand the Schindlers' request that the feeding resume, even temporarily. The situation is not unlike the occasional criminal cases of convicted felons whose innocence is later established by additional information, but the courts will not review it because there was no procedural error in the trial or appeals process. The individual may be innocent as a matter of fact, but guilty as a matter of law—and it's the law that takes priority.

So it appears that in this case as in others, the wrong decision is perfectly legal. After Terri dies, her husband will get the balance of her trust fund as well as anything else left in the estate, and will continue living his other life with a new woman and children. And those people most profoundly disabled, those who live literally at the mercy of others, will be left more vulnerable than ever. That can't be a good thing.

We're about a week late starting, but today three generations of Dens tapped maple trees and began collecting sap. Dad lead the way, Nephew helped, and yours truly captured it all on pixels for posterity. We hung three large pails and two plastic milk jugs modified for the purpose, and just a few hours later we already have probably a few gallons of sap. There would be more but one of the metal pails has a small pinhole in the bottom which I attempted to plug with chewing gum and another pail has a slow leak in the seam. After it's boiled down, Nephew will take his home-made syrup in to school and tell his classmates all about it.

Sap begins running in the late winter when the daytime temperatures are above freezing and the nighttime temps are below. This year the season started later than usual, but it looks like a good run so far. When you take the drill bit out of the side of the tree and the sap is already dripping, that's a good sign.

Collecting sap in buckets is the old-fashioned way. Most commercial sugarhouses now collect via a network of tubes instead, which saves them the time and trouble of having to go to each tapped tree and eliminates spillage from overflowing buckets. Maple sap isn't the sticky goo you get from, say, a cut Christmas tree; it's clear and watery, with just the vaguest hint of some kind of flavor to it. The sugar content is so low that it takes 30-50 parts of sap to make one part of syrup. If you want to make maple sugar, you're talking more than twice that amount.

The only way to get at the sugary part of the sap, of course, is to boil it down until most of the water has evaporated. Sugarhouses use enormous rectangular pans over some kind of fire. Wood is the old fashioned way, but modern operations use other fuels. A sugar house will have multiple boiling pans, each of which has sap at a different stage of boiling. Just as one batch is finished, another is started. There are two ways to know when it's syrup: via eyeball or via thermometer. The eyeball method is unreliable because of the variations in color of maple syrup and the fact that hot syrup is very runny and doesn't resemble the viscous liquid that we are familiar with at room temperature. The thermometer is foolproof; when the boiled sap reaches a temperature of 7°F above the temperature of boiling water (which itself varies with altitude) it's syrup.

The only thing left to do is to remove any remaining impurities in the syrup. Any bacteria in the original sap are killed in the boiling process, but there may be a little sediment that has to be filtered out. The last time we made syrup, we ran the finished product through fine cheesecloth. I'm sure commercial sugarhouses would use a more advanced method.

But back to our little operation. My guess is that we'll end up with 1-2 cups of syrup when all is said and done, unless we can figure out a way to patch the buckets and store all the sap before boiling. Raw sap will spoil, and it's recommended that it be frozen until it's time to boil. At this moment we are gathering milk jugs, cartons, etc. to use for storage. I'll keep you all posted.

The following column, written by Lee Sataline, appeared in the Hartford Courant on June 13, 2000, at which time my cousin clipped it and put it aside for some unknown future use. She made copies and gave them to us after my grandmother's funeral yesterday. Grandma was a first-generation American of Sicilian descent; Grandpa, who died several years ago, was an Abruzzese immigrant who later became an American citizen and put up a flagpole in the front yard so he could fly the Stars and Stripes. They didn't speak Italian to their children because they wanted them to be American. Change a few of the details and this column could have been about their side of my family.

I was already in my 20s before I realized I, too, was an American. Although I was born in the United States and had lived here all of my life, somehow it never occurred to me that just being a U.S. citizen made me an American. Before the war (World War II), Americans to me were those people who ate peanut butter and jelly on mushy white bread that they bought in the A&P. Not me. I was Italian.

Everybody else in the neighborhood, the Irish, the Germans, the Polish, the Jews, they were A-meri-gones, as my folks called them. There was no animosity in this distinction, no prejudice, no anger. We just... well... were sure our Italian way was better.

For instance, we had a bread man, a vegetable man, a fish man and a fruit man. [The Den Mother's note: My grandparents also had an egg lady and a chicken lady.] We even had a man who sharpened knives and scissors right there at our house. The others, the A-meri-gones, they went to stores to get their food.

I pitied their loss. These Americans never knew the pleasure of waking up in the morning to find a hot, crisp loaf of warm Italian bread at the back screen door. And it always amazed me that my American friends and classmates only ate turkey, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce on Thanksgiving and Christmas. We Italians also ate turkey... but only after we finished the antipasto, the soup, the lasagna, meatballs, salad and whatever else our mothers thought was appropriate for the holiday. We usually had a roast too, just in case someone stopped by who didn't like turkey. And all this was followed by fruit, nuts, pastries, cakes and, of course, homemade cookies. No store-bought stuff for us.

There was another difference between us and them. We had gardens; not just flower gardens but huge gardens where we grew tomatoes, peppers, basil, lettuce, squash and more tomatoes [DM: And garlic]. We cooked them, we dried them, we canned them and we ate them. And everybody had a grapevine and a fig tree. Every fall we made homemade wine and lots of it. Of course our gardens thrived because we had something else the A-meri-gones didn't seem to have. We had a grandfather.

Now, it's not that Americans didn't have grandfathers, it's just that theirs didn't live in the same house or on the same street. They would visit their grandfathers. But we ate with ours and God forbid we didn't see him at least once a day. I remember my grandfather telling us how he came to this country as a young man "on the boat." How the family lived in a rented tenement and took in boarders to make ends meet. And how he decided he didn't want his children, five sons and two daughters, to grow up in that environment. All of this, of course, in his own version of Italian English.

So he saved, don't ask me how, and he bought a house. It would serve as the family headquarters for the next 40 years. I remember how he would hate to leave, preferring to sit on the back porch and watch the garden grow. And when he did leave it for some special occasion, he would want to return as soon as possible. After all, "nobody was watching the house."

I also remember the holidays when all the relatives would gather at the house. There was music and wine, and tables filled with food. The women were in the kitchen, the men in the living room and kids, lots of kids, everywhere. I must have a million cousins, first and second and some who are not even related. Who cared? And my grandfather, grinning his mischievous smile, his dark eyes twinkling, would sit in the middle of it all, surveying his brood. How well they had done. A builder, a cop, a machinist, a businessman and one who continued his trade, masonry (there had to be one rogue in the family). And the girls had all married well and had fine husbands and healthy children. He had achieved his goal in coming to America. They were Americans.

When my grandfather died, things seemed to change—slowly at first, as aunts and uncles began to cut down on their visits. Family gatherings were fewer, and when we did get together, usually at my mother's house, something was missing. Today, we visit once or twice a year. Mostly we meet at weddings and wakes.

Lots of other things have changed too. Grandfather's old house is now covered with vinyl siding, and although one of my uncles still lives there, grandfather's garden and grape trellis are gone.

Our holidays have changed, too. The great quantity of food we once ate with no ill effects is now bad for us. Too much cholesterol, too much sugar, too many calories. And nobody bakes anymore.

The difference between us and them isn't easy to define anymore. I suppose that's good. My grandparents were Italian Italians, my parents were Italian Americans, I'm American Italian and my children... they're Americans.

Of course, I'm proud to be an American, just like my grandfather would want me to be. We're all Americans now—the Irish, the Germans, the Poles and the Jews. But somehow I still feel a little bit Italian. My children have been cheated out of a wonderful piece of their heritage. They never knew my grandfather.

Lee Sataline is a gastroenterologist in Cheshire.

One more note. I am glad I had my grandparents teach me about growing a vegetable garden and making homemade ravioli before it was too late.

In the ego-boosting moment of my recent Florida vacation, I was propositioned by a very attractive 24-year-old sailor in the hot tub at a barbecue at my friend's house. No, I didn't take him up on it, but that really isn't the point, is it?

Trust me, I'll be talking about this one for months.

Blogging will be sparse to non-existent for the next week or so, while the Den Mother takes a much-needed vacation.

An uncomfortable start to my trip. After working late last night, I spent a few hours doing laundry, packing, and putting together a funeral program for my 93-year-old grandmother who, though still alive, is starting hospice care this morning (Mom wants to be prepared). Then I grabbed 2 1/2 hours of sleep, got dressed, brushed my teeth, got travel cash from the ATM across the street (man, it was cold out there, and windy), and awaited the airport van. Said van arrived at 3:05am, about 5 minutes after I got an automated phone call from the airline saying my flight was cancelled. Weather.

It took 2+ hours in line at the airport, but I'm re-booked on a flight due to arrive in Florida before 4:00 this afternoon. It could be worse. I could have been one of the unfortunates whose flights were cancelled last night and had to sleep on cots in the terminal all night.

See you all at the end of next week.

I don't watch a great deal of television, and there are few if any programs I would go out of my way to watch. But there are a few I enjoy when I have the time. Law & Order (the one with no subtitle) is worth an hour, if just to watch the underrated Sam Waterston practice his craft. I also liked Jerry Orbach when he was on the show. So naturally I checked out the newest installment in the L&O franchise, Trial by Jury, on which Orbach was working when he succumbed to cancer not long ago.

The first episode wasn't bad. The concept is different: rather than seeing the case from the beginning of the investigation until the conclusion of the trial, we get plunked into the middle and see some of the messy workings of the judicial machinery in action. The police, so instrumental in the other L&O series, make appearances when necessary but are basically supporting characters (Orbach's well-known character, Lennie Briscoe, has retired from the force and joined the prosecutor's investigative service).

The cast is strong, anchored by Bebe Neuwirth, star of the big stage and the small screen who will be most recognized as the former Lilith Sternin-Crane of Cheers fame. Count me among Neuwirth's fans; no, I do not find her the least bit boring because she is understated. If you have talent, my thinking goes, you don't need to emote. I can't get a handle on her character, an Assistant District Attorney, after only one episode, but already the specter of some big event in her professional past has been raised and left out there to fester.

Unlike in Law & Order: [fill in subtitle here], there is not a male ADA in this one. Neuwirth is backed up by blonde non-bimbo Amy Carlson whose character has barely made a mark yet. The DA Investigators are the veteran Orbach and his partner played by Kirk Acevado, whose character is similarly undeveloped. Fred Thompson pulls double-duty as the District Attorney both here and on the flagship series. All turn in performances worthy of the series and its predecessors.

Unfortunately, it is obvious that Orbach was ill when he shot what turned into his final performances. Meaning no disrespect to the deceased, he looks—how should I put this?—almost embalmed. If you ask me, the make-up department did this guy wrong.

My only other complaint is that the story didn't have the flow and balance that it should. There was the mother-of-the-victim character who popped in every so often, awkwardly, as a reminder of what the case was about. There was a terrific judge character (Candice Bergen) who came close to overshadowing the rest of the cast. And the episode formula—going behind the scenes with the multiple parties involved in the trial—is a bit bumpy, hopping as it does from one point of view to another.

I give them season one to work out the kinks before deciding whether or not the idea can take off. It may not be easy, as the cast has already had to make its first replacement, but I expect more consistency and quality from Trial by Jury than we've seen from the CSI spin-offs.

Imagine if Congress passed a law that was subsequently interpreted to mean that you could no longer put a political campaign sign on your front lawn, or sign your name to those ubiquitous "Dear Friend" cards, or ask people walking into the supermarket to cast their vote for your favorite candidate, without it being considered "coordinated communication" subject to regulation by the Federal Election Commission. Sounds absurd, but it looks like similar restrictions are about to be placed on a more modern but no less grassroots form of individual political expression: the Blog (hat tip to Smash).

Read the whole thing. The questions involved are murky, things like what constitutes a "donation" and what it means to link to an official campaign web site. To what extent the new regulations will affect personal blogs like this one as opposed to the more professional and coordinated blogs out there is unclear. But I can safely say that in a general sense, regulating a particular medium across the board is a dangerous idea and a sure affront to the first amendment.

Never again will I reply, when asked by my doctor if I want a flu shot, "No thanks, so what if I get the flu? I'm young and healthy—I'll get over it." I am young, I am healthy, and I am getting over it, but who wants to be sick like this? Not I, of that you can be assured.

My recollection is that I probably haven't had the actual influenza virus since I was a child. Like many people, I have had the so-called "24-hour flu" which is just a random virus with flu-like symptoms, many times. I should have been lucky to have such a weak imposter this time around.

Influenza is a particular family of viruses that cause fever, respiratory symptoms, body aches, and sometimes gastrointestinal symptoms, all of which are usually more severe and last longer than what is usually mistaken by patients for "the flu." It can be fatal, not because the virus itself is fatal but because it can spawn secondary infections that are, such as pneumonia. In the days before effective antibiotics (just as is true to a lesser degree today) it was those secondary infections that killed most flu victims. Like some other viruses including the common cold, influenza mutates and manifests itself in different forms from season to season. The strain that killed millions after the first World War was unusually virulent.

Despite the misconceptions of many, antibiotics are impotent against any virus, including influenza. The most effective way to combat it is by being vaccinated. But the efficacy of a batch of vaccine is dependent upon the medical community having properly guessed which strain will go around this year. Aside from that, you're just treating the symptoms, getting plenty of rest, trying not to get dehydrated, and suffering until it runs its natural course.

But enough about the clinical stuff and on to me, because this is my blog and it's all about me. The run-up to the flu involved a couple days of a vague feeling that I was fighting something, one night of stomach pains, and a day of the sinking feeling that something bad was inevitable. The highlight of Day 1 was the vast array of symptoms, which managed to hit all at once, impossible as that now seems. The only thing that helped was unconsciousness, but even that was interrupted by periodic regurgitation of what little was left in my stomach from the previous day, mind-numbing headache, fits of sweats and chills, the unfortunate sensation that my throat and bronchial tubes had been shredded, and aches that made my skin hurt when the blanket touched me. Day 2 featured joint pain so severe that the visual evidence to the contrary barely pursuaded me that my knees and elbows weren't blown up like water balloons ready to burst, plus the newfound knowledge that NyQuil tastes exactly the same coming back up as it did going down. The chest-wracking cough of Day 3 yielded a rather dramatic indication that there may have been a bacterial infection budding in these here lungs, but I'll spare you the details lest you be rendered forever unable to see the color green in quite the same way again.

So here I am on Day 4, having ventured out to the doctor for assurances that I am not dying and orders for some pharmaceuticals designed to avert the aforementioned secondary bacterial infection and ensure that I don't cough up a lung. I have just enjoyed a delightful luncheon of Knorr vegetarian bouillon and Worcester's own Polar brand ginger ale, with codeine cough syrup for dessert. And then it's back to bed, for the fourth consecutive day.

Note to Dad: Thanks for clearing the snow off my car, for driving me to the doctor, for making a supermarket run for my gourmet lunch, for picking up my meds and an extra box of tissues, and for reminding me to get a flu shot next year. I promise I won't ignore you again.

Note to the rest of you: The Den Mother now resumes her influenza-induced blogging hiatus until further notice.