Columns by Greg Wallace
My kids are growing up, and I don’t like it. My son has now been around for two decades, and my 7-year-old girl will be turning 25 in July. At least it seems like it. Her latest attempt at adding years to her looks is by wearing those fake glasses that have lenses that don’t do anything. They look pretty good on her, and she knows it; but I told her that it’s a slap in the face to all of us people who have to wear glasses to be able to see. She looked down over the nosepiece of her new spectacles and informed me that she really didn’t care.
On the whole, I’m a much better kid than any of my siblings. They have been nothing but a constant source of worry and sorrow for my parents for as long as I can remember, where as I have been pretty much a complete angel all of my life. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
The trouble with nicknames is that you usually don’t get to pick out your own. Take me for instance. I would be willing to bet that 98.723 percent of people born with the last name “Wallace” have been called “Wally” at least once in their lives. It’s not a flashy nickname, but I like it.