"Simmer down Clyde, simmer down."

I found myself giving this ridiculous warning to my daughters on several
occasions recently. They eyed me skeptically each time until I explained
that this was a reprimand I heard from my own father several thousand times
from age 4 to 22.

They were puzzled by the phrase "simmer down" and of course, Clyde is not
the popular name it once was, I suppose.

I told them that it meant then, and it means now, "slow down, take a breath,
and don't do anything stupid." Clyde was just a more common name in the '30s
and '40s than it is now. Anyway, "Simmer down Clyde" is sound advice. I wish
I followed it more often.

I have learned that I am beginning to say things similar and act a bit like
my father, and yes, turning into your parents is scary. Dang scary.

My father was a hard working man who cut his teeth living through the
dustbowl, depression and World War II. And I figure a person experiencing
those world-changing events could end up a bit unpredictable.

And my dear old dad? As solid as a rock 99.9 percent of the time. But the
other point-one percent? Crazy as a mad hatter.

For instance, at a Lion's club event back in the mid-'70s some of the other
Lions dared anyone to swim around the dirty, muddy moat in the park near
where they held their monthly summer steak and potato dinners.

There were no takers until they ponied up a $75 "prize." Then my dad
unceremoniously stripped to his underwear and swam leisurely around the moat
as if he were on a beach in Waikiki. Oh, and FYI, both men and women were
attending the event. I'm sure that white V-neck T-shirt and those
tighty-whities dad sported were pretty scandalous.

He then calmly climbed out, collected his cash, put on his clothes and had a
beer.

When he learned of the bet, my older brother was mortified. That is, until
dad gave him half of the take.

I know I inherited much of dad's ability to do the unexpected. I often
surprise friends with activities and hobbies that cause them to tilt their
head and say, "are you OK?"

I recently completed two 90-minute sessions of heated yoga. Some of the
positions a man is forced to attempt during a yoga session are not, how can
I put this, very attractive.

The ladies all look fantastic no matter what type of squatting or animal
pose (rabbit, camel) they get into. However when a man grabs his ankle and
leans forward like a majestic tree bending in the wind, it's hard to watch.
You are supposed to monitor your own form in the mirror. I typically must
avert my eyes lest I catch a glimpse of myself, dripping with sweat tipping
forward like an old, rotten oak or elm.

Did I mention the men have their shirts off? Oh the humanity.

As I stared at myself in the mirror I figured my dear old dad would never
have been caught dead in a heated yoga session with his shirt off. But why
not? Perhaps his near naked swim through a disgusting muddy pond was a
pre-cursor to my current path of humility?

I wondered this year as I cast my ballot for president and senator if I was
following in the footsteps of dad with my political beliefs as well. I would
imagine many of us voted with our hearts and heads but those were
undoubtedly shaped by the people we lived with for the first 18 years of our
lives.

So, if you find yourself saying and God forbid, doing things just like your
dear old dad (or mom for that matter) this is simply the way it is going to
be. We are all eventually going to turn into our parents. Get used to it. No
worries, OK?

Unless, however, you are ever dared to strip to your underwear and take a
swim in Round Lake.

If that happens my advice to you is to simply, "Simmer down Clyde, simmer
down."