Lawrence Welk, Now, That Man Was an Artist

I love my nephews, Adam and David. Being their uncles is one of the greatest gifts Life has given me.

Yesterday, I spent most of Christmas dinner laughing and joking with Adam. That's what usually happens when we're together. We joke, we laugh.

My mom--who goes out of her way to seat each next to one another, to avoid shouting over another family member and ruining his meal--says it because we're so much alike, which is kind of her to say, but isn't really true. He's polite and smart and funny and honest joy to be around. I'd like to be him when I grow up.

After dinner, I went over to spend equal time with David, who was pushing the tolerance level on the sullen teenager pose, sitting by himself, tuning us out, listening to music on his portable CD player.

I went over, tapped on the right side of his headphone, and asked whom he was listening to. "Eminem," he said. With a chill born of utter disappointment, I gave him that look that fogeys through the ages have reserved for moments like these, the one that says, "Son, you are dead to me now."

His mom got a look in turn. With nary a word, I communicated everything I needed to say with one steely glance: "I suspect you haven't been as faithful to my brother as you've been letting on. I'm on to you, Sister. Watch your butt."

But don't let all that fool you. This was still one of the better Christmases, the Loman family has had.