You probably have an elevated level of skepticism when it comes to guarantees. In most cases it's a time limit, mileage or hidden prerequisites that slant the guarantee in favor of the manufacturer. Then, even when you've met all the criteria, try to actually get the retailer to honor it. Good luck.

So when I headed to Sears Sunday with my broken Craftsman ratchet, I was expecting a few hoops to jump through. After all, the rachet was part of a set given as a wedding gift over 30 years ago. But Craftsman has an unconditional guarantee - if it breaks, return it to Sears for a replacement. Yeah, right.

I went to the customer service counter and simply said - "this rachet is broken," and added "what do I need to do to get it replaced," thinking perhaps I needed the original sales receipt or would have to mail it in or some such nonsense.

The woman behind the counter took the rachet (without saying a word) and started rooting around in a couple of bins under the counter. Then she began comparing my rachet to several in her bins. Nothing seemed to match.

Still in doubt, I said, "so it's true?" "

"Yes," was her response as she continued to look for a match.

After comparing several, nothing matched and I began to have this sinking feeling that if there wasn't something in her bins, I was going to have to start hoop jumping. But she just called over the manager and told him there was nothing in her collection that matched my rachet. He took my rachet, walked over to the shelf stock, compared it to one on the pegs and handed over a brand new rachet.

"That's it? No complicated paperwork, no special order, no first-born clause?"

"Yer set," said the manager.

Bravo, Sears!

On a side note, I'd just like to thank my good friend Bob for this wonderful wedding gift from way back in 1978. At the time I thought it was an odd gift, but over the years, it is truely the one thing that has endured. The marriage broke up but I got the Craftsman rachet set (still complete with every piece). And thanks to Sears, it should go on into the next generation.

Many of us Baby Boomer men have been collecting the things that define us for a lifetime. From tools to trains. We started with a little corner of the basement and somehow this collection obsession has evolved into the places we go to be - well, men.

I'm assuming here, but to many women, our spaces look disorganized, random and down right filthy. But pick up any random thing in my man-space and get a story (or an excuse about why I kept a broken thing-a-ma-bob). Frankly, it only looks like a mess to someone else. Need trumps order, nostalgia naturally gets dusty and whether or not I can actually find something is irrelevant.

Someone recently suggested that she could do wonders with my office helping organize, categorize, sanitize and de-randomize. Fine for her, but if I'm relegated to a single room, it's going to be the way I want it - and the way I want it is exactly the way it is. Free-form.

The pile of gravity-defying stuff at the door isn't there because I like stuff so much, it's a physical barrier. It says (very loudly) "you really have want to come in here." Besides, the element of risk adds a certain masculinity to the cave entrance, I think.

Which brings me to a book - written by James B. Twitchell called "Where Men Hide." Last Sunday, we attended the opening of an exhibition by the photographer who Illustrated the book - Ken Ross. Ken is a friend who's been a photographer and teacher (and by the way is retiring this year). While I connected with the words - the photographs had me nodding in appreciation for the various ways we men decorate our grottos.

I actually believe I have genetic disposition for this sort of thing. My father had his own space (at the farthest reaches of the basement) where he hoarded a collection of off-sized pieces of mahogany salvaged from the Chris Craft plant down the road. According to dad, the short cut ends of planks were piled so high in the factory yard it looked like one of those giant salt mounds at the DOT garage.

Dad saw the value in gluing up all those little pieces into bigger pieces - which supposedly were to become something grand one day. But looking back, I think it was the mere fact that he had those treasures - and not necessarily what he was going to do with them.

Then there was Mr. Draper, our next door neighbor. Mr. Draper (I don't know his first name because he will forever be "Mr. Draper" to a five-year-old) had what could only be described as the palace of men's spaces; called simply, "The Doghouse." He had a WWII Jeep that ceremoniously guarded the entrance, and the mother of all workbenches on the back wall.

He would let my brother and I sit in the Jeep, toot the horn, pretend to drive and occasionally turn on the wipers (individually controlled with their own tiny electric motors).

But to behold his workbench was to look upon heaven itself. Each tool (hundreds, I'm sure) had it's own space on the pegboard - represented by a painted outline. The bench had a HUGE vice that could crush a head (yeah, we tried). And lining the ceiling were at least 1000 baby food jars with their lids screwed to the ceiling joist. Each jar filled with a single-sized screw, nut or nail. It was the perfect solution - visible, out of the way and accessible. Brilliant.

I'm sure Mrs. Draper was proud of how organized and efficient Mr. Draper was. But somehow I'm not sure he cared. It was a reflection of himself and a monument to a lifetime of collecting. Bravo, Mr. Draper.

If you'd like to purchase Where Men Hide check it out on Amazon.

I came across this opinion piece about the differences among the generations and about change in general. It got me thinking about the classic animosity Gen x-ers have towards us Boomers and how the same just isn't true about the Millennials starting to become adults and entering the workforce. The writer mentions talking to someone about a recent study:

The fellow said some experts predict there will be tension in the U.S. economy as the Boomers begin retiring in the tens and hundreds of thousands. Many of their jobs will be filled by Millennials. According to the study -- which like all massive studies only applies in general terms -- Millennials are more capable, brighter and more optimistic than either of the two generations that preceded them.

Well of course they're capable, bright, and optimistic--some of those front-end Millennials are our kids!

I was scanning a shoebox-size load of pictures from my father's vast collection and after scanning about 6, I decided there had to be a better way. I mean, 6 at a time on my little flatbed scanner, then into photoshop and finally burning them to DVD. Geeze.

Yes, Virginia, there is a better, nearly as fast (or faster depending on your scanner prowess) and worthwhile way to get all those photos scanned and safely on digital media.

So, at the risk of sounding like an infomercial, I found these guys who will scan, organize and burn all your photos to DVD (there's even a TV-DVD option) and believe me, it's WORTH every penny.

I was a little hesitant to send the whole shoebox, but they held my hand the whole way, even emailing me when the box had arrived. What I got back was a DVD full of memories - and another for my brother.

Now, the only thing we have to decide is what to do with the originals.

FotoBridge Scanning

There's something I often say to my kids when one or the other is whining about lost chances--"It's not too late until you're dead." Yet as I reach another birthday, I realize that I have mentally moved a great deal of life into the 'too late' category. It's not as if I consider an activity or an accomplishment and then reach the reasonable conclusion that I don't have the brains, strength, looks, appetite, (insert attribute here) for it. I just assume it's too late.

So, with the aforementioned birthday looming I decided to make a list of things it really is too late for me to do, assuming I even wanted to do them. I expected a really long list since I do sometimes walk around in a fog of wouldacouldashoulda.

Once I ruled out things I have absoultely no interest in pursuing, the list got really really short. Of course, I probably will not learn to be a jet pilot. But I don't want to be a jet pilot. I'm too old to be a major league baseball player--but I've always been the wrong gender for that.

I'm not too old to learn new things--maybe I'll learn slower, but since when was youth a prerequisite for learning a language, learning to bake puff pastry, playing boogie-woogie piano, or snowboarding? OK--the snowboarding thing may be a little out of reach. But it's not too late to live somewhere else, develop a taste for olives, dye my hair odd colors, or write a book.

In fact, with the exception of things is was too late to do from the moment I was born who I am, what is really out of reach? We may be limited by our interests or talents--I will probably not star in a Broadway musical--but that doesn't stop me from knowing all the songs and singing along.

When I was young and money was tight, I used to joke that I could always go to work as a stripper if worse came to worst (no--I couldn't really, honest). And you know what? That may be the single thing it's really too late for me to do. Oh yeah..and the baseball thing. And being president. That's about it. What's on your 'too late' list?

We're a little late with this story, but 'AARP the Magazine' (as it calls itself) came out with a study this year of 5 great cities for retirement and other cities to watch. I've often thought a city would make more sense than an isolated gated adult community where no one delivers Chinese food and your only transportation option is a twice-daily senior shuttle. It's an interesting list. Milwaukee??? Who'da thunk it?