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Chris Fabry
Married to Andrea since 1982. We have 9 children together and none apart. Our dog's name is Tebow.
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Where We Are Now

After finding and remediating mold twice in our Colorado home, we abandoned ship in October 2008. Because of the high levels of exposure, our entire family was affected. After months of seeing different specialists for all of the problems, we came to Arizona to begin comprehensive treatment to rid our bodies of the toxic buildup. In August 2009 we moved into a larger home, four bedrooms, south of Tucson, north of Mexico. I am doing my daily radio program/ writing from that location. Thanks for praying for us. We really feel it.

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Wednesday, February 16, 2011
I did something yesterday I never thought I'd do. I took a set of 5 contracts to the bank to have notarized. A young man, probably in his mid-20s, invited me to sit down and sign where all the sticky labels said, "Sign here."

"Is this a real estate deal?" the young man asked.

"No, it's an option contract for a book I wrote." Whatever that means. I have no idea. They tell me it means some day in the future a movie might be made of my book, June Bug. It's taken more than a year just to get the contract signed. I can't imagine how long it would take to write the script and hire actors. And then you have to order coffee and cater the movie set. I could be old and washed up by then. But signing the contract was exciting. I never dreamed anyone would be interested in making a movie out of something I wrote.

Wait. That's not true. I've dreamed it about everything I've ever written. I dream they'll make a movie out of my grocery lists. I just never thought the opportunity would come. And here I was, in my shorts and Ohio State hat, in my hour of triumph.

"Cool," the teenager with the notary stamp said. "Are you retired?"

I stared at him, too dumbfounded to answer. When I gathered my wits I said, "No, I work every day. I write every day." Retired? I had my two youngest with me. Did he think they were my grandkids? Retired? I should have whacked him with my cane. Whippersnapper.

My father's birthday is today. He's 91. He's retired. He uses a walker now. He was 41 when I was born. You can do the math.

I signed the pages and explained the book's plot. He was so interested he forgot to stamp one of the contracts. So I handed it back to him and then put a gold star on it when he finished. And gave him a red sucker from the counter. He was excited.

Retired? I'm not even 50. (For those who can't do the math.)

My wife, later, suggested that because we live near a military installation there are people who are retired at younger ages, which makes sense, but I didn't have the heart to ask her if she thought I looked like a retired military man. General Patton didn't have all this sagging skin and underdeveloped muscles.

Maybe I need a haircut. That's what it is. When it gets longer, it looks more gray. It ages me. If I could only find my bifocals to read the phone number of the local Supercuts.


Maybe the next time I get my dentures resized or have that prostate exam I can ask them to give me a trim.


You've heard of laughing all the way to the bank. This was the opposite. I was limping away, weeping. Gnashing the teeth I have left. Just to show him I drove straight to FedEx but couldn't remember why I was there. Lucky I had my grandsons with me.