As I walked out the door a final time, I tried to recall my earliest memories from my childhood home. Nothing really came to me.   I was only 5 years old when my family moved in, so my sketchy recollection is to be expected. Moving day is probably one of those shiny memories of my childhood that is covered in a muck of outdated passwords, old locker combinations and things like “negative b plus or minus radical b squared minus 4ac all over 2a.” That’s the quadratic formula. It has really come in handy over the years. The front yard. We once had a massive slip-and-slide out there that attracted kids from all over, and I'm not sure the grass ever recovered. Whatever the reason, I don’t remember a lot about my first few years at the house. But at least my last few days there are fresh memories. They’re from a few weeks ago, when I flew to Arizona to get a final look at the old digs and help my parents move into a retirement community. My parents don’t seem to ...

The Olympics aren’t the crowd-gathering, world-unifying spectacle they once were. In our whiz-bang, attention-splintered culture, the 17-day event is too long-winded, too story-driven, too much longer than a YouTube clip. The Olympics are now kind of like, hmm ... Let's call them the cargo shorts of the sports world. Still easy to find. Still offering some value. Just not really in fashion. But it’s been years since I’ve worried about trying to be cool, so I’m comfortable admitting that I enjoy the Olympics. I’m also comfortable in cargo shorts because, despite the fashion trends, my personal trends still require carrying stuff around. * * * The Olympics aren’t what they used to be, but that’s partly because there used to be very limited television options. Back during the Summer Games of 1984 in Los Angeles, the first Olympics I remember watching, the quest for gold was the clear entertainment leader. My parents had finally broken down and signed up for cable TV, whic...

The people in my neighborhood are generally the friendly sort, but you won’t get that vibe when you approach their homes. There might be a welcome mat out front, and possibly some cute wooden cutouts and whimsical garden decorations, but then you’ll meet the bouncer at the door. “No soliciting.” Sometimes it’s a homemade sign; sometimes it looks professional. A few are really bold,   with that big, screaming red slash that we’re used to seeing on no-smoking signs. Many of them include the word “please,” adding some politeness to the message that we don’t want to hear about a free roof inspection, or a TV/phone/Internet bundle, or an unbeatable price for pest control. Pest control? But Mr. Salesman, you are the pest. Ha-ha … zinger!   Yeah, well it’s not so funny when you become the pest. And last month, I became that pest as I sold mulch door-to-door with my 10-year-old son, Cooper. * * * So how did it go? Cooper was raising money for his baseball team,...

One of my favorite scenes from A Christmas Story is when 9-year-old Ralphie visits Santa at Gimbels department store. The line is long, the elves are bitter, and Santa is more like Ebenezer Scrooge than jolly ol’ Saint Nick, responding to Ralphie’s request for a BB gun with “you’ll shoot your eye out, kid.”   It’s possible that I had a similar experience. I don’t actually remember a bad Santa visit, but here’s the thing: I don’t remember any Santa visits. That’s strange, right? Maybe my coping mechanism is to suppress painful memories, which would also explain why I have only vague recollections of dancing in public. 2006: The first Wixon boys Santa photo with Ryan (4) and Cooper (18 months) The Santa visits I remember well, and I hope to always remember well, are those of my kids. The visits started nine years ago, and in all likelihood, this will be the last year. My oldest sons are 13 and 10, and at this point they’re just going through the motions for their little...

Michael Hogue/The Dallas Morning News Well Americans, another Thanksgiving is at our doorstep, along with family and friends and an abundance of reasons to be thankful. Actually, let’s go with a “cornucopia” of reasons to be thankful, because I believe it’s standard practice for every Thanksgiving column to include that word. Food and family. It’s such a feel-good combination. It’s like hugs and kisses. Smiles and laughter. Cowboys joy and intact Tony Romo collarbones. And, when you think about it, Thanksgiving food and family kind of resemble each other.   No, I don’t mean Uncle Larry actually looks like the mashed potatoes. But isn’t he a little lumpy and soft in the middle? And lovable, of course.   That’s what I mean. The family and friends around the Thanksgiving table often share characteristics of the food on the table. Here’s a sampling as we count our blessings and search for the pants with an elastic waistband.   Here's the piece I wrote for Th...

A version of this column first appeared in The Dallas Morning News and on DallasNews.com. Please check out the site . ------------ During my son’s recent visit to the pediatrician, the doctor checked his eyes and ears, heart and lungs, and everything that’s part of the annual checkup for a 7-year-old. But before pronouncing my son ready to roll, the doc should’ve checked on one more thing:   Nathan’s schedule for later that day. Not even two hours after the “well visit,” with his lips still red from the customary goodbye lollipop, Nathan broke his arm. He was playing football at the park and slipped and fell while making a catch. The official family description, which I provided on our next, much-too-soon visit to the doctor, was that Nathan “dropped like a sack of potatoes.”   An expensive sack of potatoes. In the span of five years, that’s four broken bones for my three sons. Ryan, age 12, has broken his nose and foot. Cooper, age 9, has only broken a pinkie,...