Just Keep...

November is upon us. Where did the year go? This is typically the month that we all give thanks to someone or something. And, it’s quite common for people across America to start acting a bit nicer to one another. (Well with the exception of when you’re trying to find a parking spot at the mall close to the door so your don’t freeze your ass off that is.)This brings me to this week’s blog.

The other day, I don’t remember if it was a Tuesday or Thursday, I saw a homeless man pushing a shopping cart along the sidewalk. His prize possessions spilling out of the purloined metal cage faster than he could bend over and pick them up. This is the trigger for today’s blog.

A few weeks ago I saw a homeless man and woman fighting in the middle of the street. She was screaming at him and he was screaming at her. Each of them oblivious as to what the other was saying. They then started to slap each other around, that is until a police drove by. Then the woman headed East and the man headed west. This is one reason for today’s blog.

A man was standing on the corner preaching what he thought were Bible verses. They weren’t, how do I know? Simply put, I don’t think it says anywhere in the Bible that Jesus took a flame thrower to the car that was blocking this man’s alley/home. Then again, if Jesus had a flame thrower in the Bible he may have had a lot easier time of convincing the Sagesies and Pharisees that he meant business. This is another reason for today’s blog.

Recently, a skate park was opened up in the City of Portsmouth. I and a few of my co-workers had the opportunity to drive past the place several times. We saw kids on skate boards and riding their bikes on the ramps and having fun. There were also some homeless people sitting on park benches watching the kids. Another reason.

People, we are not in 1982 anymore.

I remember not too long ago, in another life it seems, I was living in Wisconsin, be-bopping my way through my high school years in a daze caused by both legal and illegal substances. Days spent fighting with my sisters, Mother, Father and even some friends. Which followed by nights spent sleeping in abandoned cars, tree forts, houses of soon to be ex-girlfriends and on occasion at the Jesuit Brothers dormitory or the Nuns Dormitory of a local Catholic High School.

In those long and lonely hours I would reflect on my current plight and the causality of how it is I came to be homeless for a few short hours, days and sometimes weeks. Back then, in my juvenile mind, my situation was never my fault. I was always the victim. Never mind the fact that I failed to mow the grass or take out the trash. Never mind that I skipped not just one class in school but several days. How could it be my fault if I cussed out a teacher, a cop, a neighbor? I was innocent. I was just a kid who didn’t know any better. I was a victim of my circumstances, no one was around to love me, care for me, and teach me right from wrong.

What a pathetic loser I was.

Sometimes, Ok, most of the time, I’m amazed that I ever even made it not just to the age of 43 but that I made it past my 20^th birthday. Why? Simple, that teenage kid is still living inside of me and he still has a whole lot of that angst left in him. Yeah, occasionally he rears his ugly, pimply faced head and screams “OH! PITY ME!” And when he does, I just want to take a gun and blow his brains all over the interior walls of my skull. (Hm, can one commit mental homicide on ones younger self?)

Honestly, I don’t know how it happened or why it happened but I didn’t succumb to the numbskull that ruled my life in the late 1970’s, through the 1980’s and even an early part of the 1990’s. I made it out of the predicament that I’d brought on myself pretty much unscathed and with a determination and will that keeps me going to this very day. When everyone in my life tells me to give up, that I’m not going to amount to anything, or I’m destined for failure, I dig down inside of me and continue doing what I’m doing, what I know is right. And more times than not I succeeded.

I wish I could say I knew where I got this drive from, but I can’t. I know there are people in my family who are the same as me and some in my family that are on the complete opposite compass point as me. Maybe I learned it from them. Maybe… But I don’t know.

I see people in bad situations, like living out of a stolen grocery cart, or fighting with their homeless, alcoholic street husband, or a person so separated from reality they make up their interpretation of the Bible. And it makes me NOT want to end up like them. It makes me want to work harder, do better, be someone that doesn’t give up.

Maybe it’s a combination of both, but whatever it is, wherever I learned it from, however it got ingrained in my thick headed Polish skull and absorbed into my DNA, for that I am thankful.

Because it’s what keeps me going, keeps me focused even when I don’t think I can go on anymore. When I just want to stop working, fighting, moving, and struggling, The drive and determination of my youth make me go back for more and try harder when everyone says to stop, lie down and just take it. I DON’T. Well, that and a healthy dose of fear of failure.

Have a great week.

Geology 101

Rocks have been used as a term to describe many things over the years and recently I was compared to one. Which, got me wondering about them, in my own sort of way that is. And, it pretty much goes like this:

Paul was the Rock that Christianity was built on.

Charlie Brown got a rock for Halloween.

Rock and Roll can soothe the soul, a lyric from a song.

Rock and Roll aint noise pollution, is a great song.

Rocky was a movie about a fighter.

Rock of ages, another great song.

Rocky Mountains.

Marble is a type of rock and Michalangelo carved David out of marble.

Stick and Stones can break bones but words can kill a soul.

Solid as a Rock, another song.

Rock and Roll Damnation, yet another song.

Rocky Mountain High, again, another song.

Geology is the study of Rocks.

There are three types of Rocks, Igneous, Sedimentary and Metamophic.

Some rocks are over 250 million years old. (THAT IS WICKED!)

When a man gives a woman a Rock she usually says “Yes”.

When a woman gives a man a Rock it usually means he has to buy a new windsheild.

Some of the first tools man ever used were made out of rocks.

Rocks have been used as building tools for man ever since he came to be here on Earth. Some of the most ancient structres known to the modern world, Stonehenge, the Pyramids, were built solidly out of rock.

I just realized, I could go on and on with facts about rocks and their many uses to civilization and man. So in the intrest on not boring you kind folks to tears, I shall try and refrain from sticking anymore facts in here. Now, I’ll just go on and write about my own particular views of rocks.

Most rocks are jagged, hard and dense. They are also older than we realize and some even come from outer space. That’s pretty cool if you ask me. Also, if you take a rock that’s a bit rough around the edges and stick it in a cool mountain stream, over the course of the next 10,000 years you will have a very nice smooth, rounded pebble. Or, if you put that rock in the ocean near a beach it will eventually be pounded into fine sand. And we all know that millions of people all over the world enjoy going to the beach and digging through the sand. Lying on the sand. Burying themselves in the sand. Absorbing the cast off heat of the sun through the sand. Letting that heat, warm the cold confines of ones soul.

Another thing you could do is take that rock and stick it in the desert and watch over time as the wind, rain and sunlight bleach and erode away all the cold roughness of it. Eventually making it into an even handed, smooth, almost blazing white piece of granite. Then again maybe the rock has been kept under earth, experiencing massive pressure and heat, only to be transformed into a rare and precious gem stone.

So? Exactly how do I stack up to one of these examples? I have no clue. I’m taking the comment as a compliment and moving on with my life. I do know that I am a bit rough around the edges, and that age has smoothed some of my sharper points. I know that I can be cold and heartless at times but then again I can be just as charitable and warm at other times. I am built solid and rarely do I break. If you ask my coworkers, I don’t really have feelings and almost every insult or joke made at my expense is ignored or laughed at. They are not allowed to penetrate the thickend skin of granite I have accumulated over my life. Then, there are times when I’m as dense and senseless as a slab of concrete and other times where I sparkle with brilliance. (This being one of the former and not the latter times. Yes, I make a joke at my own expense. So laugh.)

In conclusion…

We are all rocks of varying degrees. We have a tendency to crumble like sandstone and stand tall like a mesa. We can be as dull and uncharacteristic as a pebble on the interstate in the desert or as shiny and faceted as a diamond in the jewlery store. We are who we are. Each and everyone of us as different as the gravel on the road and just as jagged. We are as smooth as the stones in the mountain streams and as warm as the sand on the beaches of the Carribean. We are all as alien to the new people we meet as the meterorites that fall from the sky. But, know that inside each of us there is a gem, a statue, a masterpiece, just waiting to come out. It just takes time and paitence.

Crunchy Goodness

I like my job. No, let me rephrase that, I love my job. (Nope, I am not trying to convince myself or you. It’s a simple fact.) But, like with all jobs there are some duties about it that are certainly more pleasurable than others. For instance, I am terrible at paperwork, especially my time-sheet. I seem to goof that thing up every which way a person can. (See, contrary to popular belief, I am not perfect.) Now, this weeks addition is not about the things I don’t like or am not good at or even things I goof up on, daily. Nope, this is about Autumn. Oh, and my job too.

You see, about three times a year I have the distinct pleasure of getting paid to take a walk. That’s right. I get to take a nice stroll through Old Town Portsmouth and check on historical markers, graveyards and monuments. Make sure they haven’t been defamed, damaged or misplaced. Yes, occasionally they do get misplaced, usually into someones back yard or garage but we find them and persecute the evil-doers who’ve committed such heinous crimes against such a wonderful and historical thing. (<= Big time run on sentence)

I usually try to schedule these walks Ocober, January and May. Why? Simple, cool weather. Care to guess as to which one of these three walks is my favorite?

If you said October, then you’re correct. But, I have no prize for you. Just my blog…

Walking through Old Town is an amazing experience for me. The history that leaks out of the bricks of the buildings is absorbed into my pores like sunshine. The Autumnal weather makes that joy even more spectacular.

What always strikes me first though are the sounds. The crunchy, crisp breaking of the dried leaves under my shoes, the rustling of the wind through the skeletons of the trees, the Geese honking on they semi-annual trek South, the caw of the crows looking for food mingled with the wrens sweet chirpin the bushes assualt my brain like a symphony. I could go on decribing the sounds of the neighhorhood that resides on one of the largest working ports in the world but I would be here for hours.

The smells are the second wave of mental intrusion, well, the smells that invade the wonderful aroma of my cigar I usually smoke on these strolls of solace. Wood burning stoves blowing smoke up into the sky with an aroma that just screams of headiness and home. Even the scent of gas furnaces being fired up for the first time with their noxsious poison is welcome, like a long lost friend you’ve just run into at the store. In the air I can sense the deteriorating foilage under foot all damp and musty, which brings a smile to my face. The sweet smell of the last cutting of the grass for the season has a different feel to it. It feels heavy and sorrowful it knows a long slumber awaits.

The sights are next, the beautiful colors of Mother Natures last gasp of life is truly a spectacle to behold. Orange, red, brown and green all blended together makes a person feel as if they are walking inside a fireworks display. The trees desparetly try to maintain their diginity while the seaons change only to fail in the attempt and become just skeletons of their former beauty. A beauty that realy does not fade, it transforms into a new, minimalistic beauty of itself. Brown, gray and black fading into each other, waiting in hopes of some white to come from the sky. Another line forms on my face.

These walks, if taken by a tourist or casual citizen should take no more than an hour or two. For me? About 90 minutes is all I can stretch out of it before my cell phone starts ringing. Usually it’s my supervisor asking me how much longer I will be and have I noticed any damage or missing markers. My answer is usually in the negative and I am always unhappy on my walk back to my office to fill out the reports.

But I always have my memories.

Perseverence

If you have read yesterday's blog then you should understand that this is the first part of that blog. Both of these, I suppose essay's, were born during that dinner. I wasn't going to post this because it is extremely personal but I feel it needs to be said. I hope you like it and if you get something out of it, all the more better. Thanks for reading.

It’s no secret that the Church that I attend and am a member of has suffered some great losses over the past two years. I could easily blame the state of Pennsylvania but that wouldn’t be fair to the great people who live in that fine state. Why? Is that your question? Do you really want to know? Why would I or could I blame the Keystone state when they have offered us some of the great inventions, statesmen and geniuses in American history… Simple, whenever I go to that state something happens that lets out a deep, dark, repressed secret that others in my church hold against God, our leaders or whatever Pastor or Preacher that is sitting in the role of teacher at the very moment when the storm of lies, hate, arrogance, ego, and pride hits them like a 1994 Mike Tyson punch to the face.

But…

But…

Sidetracked.

This really started off wrong, I wanted to start off with a nice quaint tale of a double date I had this past week. But something was said during that brief respite of life’s stress and worries. A comment made in passing as a matter of fact just to emphasize a point in the conversation, a comment that has been on my mind since I heard the words, something that I suspected but never voiced and it’s something that I have worried about and I know that others have made comments about. Now, it’s no secret that in my church our old Pastor fell from grace, hard. I’m telling ya,it was like watching King Kong fall off of the Empire State Building, it was horrific to watch even from the sidelines of standing on the camera box that I’ve been assigned. And his fall affected more people than I will ever know. And, just the few dozen stories that I’ve heard and witnessed firsthand make me nauseas just thinking of them. The variety of tales from people of all walks of life, the wealthy woman who comes from an affluent family who is so hurt by the lies and deceit of one person that she now refuses to ever step foot in any church for the rest of her life. The young, inner city youth who would wake up at 6 a.m. on a Sunday morning just so he could get a ride to church in the church van so he could play in the band who now has put his instrument up for sale on Craigslist because he can’t stand the thought of using his music to make people happy anymore just so another person can profit from the talent that God gave him. The ordained Pastor who sits alone at night now, crying and praying for the strength to forgive the betrayal against him, his God and his family. Always trying to do the right thing, be the penitent man and forgiving man that walks through the extremely thin pages of his tear stained Bible. The man who felt so distraught that it’s speculated that maybe the betrayal by his old friend, confidant and Pastor was too much for him to handle so he decided he couldn’t take living one more day. The proud waiter who has to field questions of the lies and betrayal to the church and it’s congregation to unknown customers who claim they know more about what’s going on without ever having stepped foot into the church they’ve now decided is a cult.

Come to think of it…

There does seem to be some truth to that, not what it is now but what it was then and what has been born of the ashes of the fallen leader. The rebirth, the birth, the Geneses and Exodus of the old leading to the new cult of personality.

People who only come to listen to the man on the alter and not what he’s saying, not what he’s teaching, not what he’s hiding. They only know that they want to be near him. His personality, his charisma, to be recognized and picked out by name while he stands on his alter that has been twisted, wrecked, torn and bastardized to not reflect the Word and its teaching but is only there to elevate him in the eyes of his parishioners so that his ego, his pride and his arrogance is fed and satiated for just a few moments but it never lasts, because those demons can never be fed enough even when there is nothing left they still hunger for more. These are the demons that will not just topple one man but all that follow him, believe in the man and put your faith in him and you will be devoured by those same demons.

No one person, in my opinion, is infallible, has all the answers, nor can any man be my Savior, my Salvation or my Lord. It upsets me when I see that people refuse to understand that. That some people would rather just point out all the bad, all the hate, the deceit and lies of Man and refuse to listen to the Truth, the love, the honesty and the joy of the forgiveness, grace and understanding of the teachings that come from the one place that seems incorruptible. Man sins, it’s a fact. Man makes mistakes, it’s a fact. Man is a victim of his own desires, it’s a fact. But… Man can forgive and be forgiven, man can hate and be hated, man can love and be loved, man can be sad or saddened, man can hurt and be hurt, man can heal or be healed, man can do what is right or he can do what is wrong. Man can follow the truth or he can follow the lies.

So, here is the truth, as I see it;

The man who helped build my church and then tore it down due to his arrogance, ego, and pride is gone. We are rebuilding. We are holding things together with duct tape, zip ties and faith. We are the hard-core trying to rise above what has happened by always being available and open to whatever may come down the pike. We are using all of our energy and resources to make a better place not for us but for our children. We are trying to set an example and not be an example. We are fighting the odds the naysayers and hate-mongers that refuse to remove the blinders from their eyes and see that “YES! we have been hurt, but we aren’t letting that get the best of us. We will persevere. We will rebuild and we will be here next week, next month, next year, next decade…

We are…

Broken Bread

I went to dinner last week with my wife, my pastor and his wife. We ate, we talked and we had a very nice time. The conversation never lagged and the food that we ate was quite good. Now, to some people this may seem a normal, everyday occurrence and to some they just might find it odd, but to me, well, I find it just downright peculiar.

Why?

Simple… ok, maybe not so simple.

Allow me to explain:

First of all, I don’t really like to go out too much, as anyone who knows me can attest to. And, when I do go out it is usually for an event that has the words “Happy Birthday or Happy Anniversary” attached to it. Also, I mostly just like to spend my time at my house for the simple fact that I am paying my mortgage and bills so that I have a place to hang out. I am what is known as a “Home Body.” If I’m not at work then I am at home. No ifs, no ands and no buts’. I like my porch, I like my couch, I like my kitchen and I like my bed, so I don’t want to leave them alone.

So, when the invitation came to me through my wife that we were to meet our Pastor and his wife to break bread at a restaurant of our choice I was a little surprised. Not because they knew who we were, our church has a small congregation and it is nearly impossible to not know someone who attends and worships there. Also, my wife is involved in the music department and I am involved in the audio and visual department (I play with the cameras).

Second, I know that my Pastor and his wife have had a very turbulent summer, ok, it’s really been an INSANE YEAR for them but this past summer they pretty much spent it living in a camper at one of the local campgrounds. A very nice campground but if you had to spend 5 or 6 weeks living out of a camper and trying to run a church while you look for a house you nerves and temper would be a bit strained. So, just 2 weeks ago they finally moved out of the camper and into a new home. (Not newly built just new to them.)

And, in my way of thinking at least, a person or persons who’ve just moved into a house would not want to go to dinner in Portsmouth on a Thursday night at a restaurant they’ve never heard of and try to enjoy a meal at a table where I am one of the two guests. But they did. This really speaks to their mental facilities in these golden memory years that seem to be approaching them. (Maybe I will call the number of a good Psychiatrist for them) Heck, I have friends I’ve known for almost 20 years that would rather have bamboo shoots shoved in their eye sockets before spending time with me on an adult level. And I consider them GOOD friends too.

But I went, and I arrived about 30 minutes early, found a quiet table where I could sit with my back against a wall and see the entrance. The waiter was barely conscious of my arrival and my request for my water so I had to chase him down to place that order. He was hiding under the bar when I found him. Seriously, he was literally squatting under the bar. I gave him my order and headed back towards the table only to see my Pastor and his bride come through the door. I motioned to the table we were to sit at and after the initial greeting of handshakes and hellos we sat. The waiter arrived, slammed my water down and turned to leave. He was sweating, red in the face and looked like the mafia had just threatened to kill his family. He didn’t ask the new arrivals if they were thirsty or if they needed anything. He just turned and headed for the bar.

We called him back. Placed some drink orders and he left. What would you have done? He came back with their drinks and I ordered some appetizers just so I would not have to talk too much. This is a good thing in most cases. Which, looking back now, I should not have worried too much about. I mean, c’mon, I was dining with a Pastor and his wife! They make their living talking. And that’s what they did. I actually enjoyed listening to them and the stories they shared. When I was asked a question I answered it to the best of my ability and made a mental effort to not use the more colorful of language I have been known to use. We spoke of cars, books, fishing, and bike riding and camping. We also spoke of the direction our church is moving in and all the garbage we as a Christian Body have been through over the past couple of years.

Then my wife arrived and I was off the hook! She loves to talk and loves to tell stories. God, I love her. Once she sat down the waiter showed up looking a bit calmer and took our dinner orders and it seemed a bubble of healthy conversation and safety enveloped us. I relaxed.

Dinner arrived and there was no respite in the flow of tales that were being told. Dishes were cleared and still more conversation. Dessert arrived and stories were revealed. Those dishes were cleared and the bill prepared. Still more was said. Laughter ensued and our bubble of happiness grew. The restaurant closed down, the barmaid was vacuuming and we still sat and talked. Eventually we rose from our table and made the way outside where we stood on High street and spoke for another half an hour. Something that none of us would have done 25 years ago.

Eventually, we said our goodbyes, hugs were traded, an invitation to have dinner again was offered and we went our separate ways.

I drove home in silence, following my wife, knowing it had been a good night all around. My nervousness about making a complete buffoon of myself had been waylaid against the rocky shore of my fears.

Will we ever dine again in that bubble of safety and love? I don’t know. I hope so.

Thank you Dr. Jim and Lynnette for a great evening.

Once a Year

If any of you, my dear readers, read my blog last week then you know that on Wednesday my daughter celebrated her birthday. She turned 11. Hard to believe that she is 11 but I have come to accept that nothing in life or on earth stays stagnant. So, her birthday was Wednesday, we had a small get together of family members and even a friend or two showed up to celebrate her birthday. It was nice, pleasant, cordial even. Everyone ate and had good conversation and walked away from the meal full and satiated. Even me, who did not have the opportunity to fully enjoy the madness and mayhem of all the company.

Which brings me to yesterday…

Yesterday was her “Official Party”. There were over 30 people invited, that includes parents of children that were invited and not everyone showed up. To which I say “Thank you Lord for that small blessing!” In all actuality, like with most people in this day and age, schedules of soccer practice, baseball practice, football practice, dance recitals and even wisdom tooth extractions take precedence over cake, pizza, soda pop and gift bags. Can’t say as I blame them. I would have tried to have gotten out of it if I could but I was tasked with being the photographer as well as being the father of the birthday girl.

Oh? You want to know more about the party? Less about me? Ok, well I will try to give you the short narrative on it. How’s that sound?

Ok, at the Mega-Mall in Norfolk there is a store, it’s a store for girls and women alike. The name of the store is “Charming Charlie’s” Now, whoever thought up this store also thought about men shopping for gifts for their women because the places is sectioned off into colors. There’s a blue section, a red section, a yellow section, a black and white section and even a green section. I am sure I am missing some colors but you know, it’s not important. The thing that is important though is that if a man, woman or child goes into the store and wants say a purple purse all they would have to do is go to the purple section of the store and low and behold there is a purple purse and any accessory a person could possibly think of to go with that purse. From boots to hats, watches and bracelets to scarves and leggings. It’s nutty, but makes perfect economic sense in a capitalistic economy such as ours. (Hmm, I wonder if I could open up a franchise in the Middle East. Let those women over there put the rich sheiks in the poor house.)

Sidetracked…

So, this store is set up so that any idiot with 2 brain cells that are still in viable working order can just hang out in a section and pretty much spend the mortgage payment on articles of clothing and gifts for themselves or loved ones. Pretty cool… if you’re shopping by yourself. When you have 8 pre-teens and 15 women shopping and you’re only one of two folks in the store with testosterone it pretty much sucks. Forget going to the bathroom, forget having an opinion, and forget that all you wanted to do was watch some football while sitting on the couch reminiscing of the glory days when your favorite team was on the road to the Super-Stanley-Cup-World-Championship-Bowl. Nope, now you find yourself in a store where women are sporting fedoras, boas, necklaces and 5 or 6 purses of varying shades of the same color and asking your opinion as to which purse/fedora/boa/necklace “Defines” them as a person. To which one of those last two brain cells you had immediately pulls out a gun and blows it’s little nucleus away leaving you with just one brain cell and a smoldering gun.

Sidetracked…

Ok, all I was tasked to do was shoot pictures… Oh, look two preteen girls trying on 5 inch spiked heel boots… CLICK. Oh, and look a woman with 4 pairs of sunglasses in her hand… CLICK. And see that? The 3 women all tugging on the same scarf while the brothers and sisters of said scarf is sitting on a rack behind the semi-cage fighting women… CLICK. Ooo See that 11 year old with 3 cup cakes in her mouth, devouring them as if she was just released from a concentration camp in World War II… CLICK CLICK! And oh so many more wonderful little gems of digital photography. Some I am sure that will never be released to the general public. Simply because I fear the wrath of these women and children.

So, what else happened… My daughter smiled, she laughed, she cried, she ate too much pizza, too much candy, too many cup cakes and she spent too much money on accessories and clothes. She received gifts from loved ones and she felt cherished, loved and valued by all the people that came out to celebrate with her.

At one point she even led a small parade of her friends around the mall going from one store to the next. Once inside a store they would break up, conquer and divide like a swarm of locusts in a corn field in Nebraska. It was a joy to watch and a nightmare to experience and I can’t wait for the next one.

My daughter slept like the angel she is last night. The exhaustion of the day wore her out. Wore me out and wore my Bride out. Thank God we only have one child because I don’t think I could do this more than once a year. The heartbreak that I experience while I watch my daughter grow slowly into a woman is something that I know I share with all parents out there. But this is my pain and joy to watch and experience and I am going to savor these horrific/joyful moments for as long as I can.

Have a great week.

My Life Changed

There are so many themes that I can write about today that I am almost at a loss for words, today is my daughters birthday, I have the day off from my primary source of income and I have had an excellent week since we last spoke. I have watched my family play and grow in ways that fills me with a source of pride and happiness that most fathers and husbands feel in those fleeting moments of perfection that have become so rare in this day and age of lightspeed communication, errands and chores.

Fall is here and so begins my busy season of work. There are old exhibits to be torn down only to be replaced with the new. We have Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas and then the ever so popular New Years Eve festivities on the horizon for us all to enjoy, fret, and stress over. Ahh, good times indeed.

Sidetracked. I seem to have started to think about all that needs to be done instead of focusing on what it is I am here to do. Relax, enjoy and write this message to you all.

So, today instead of sitting on my front porch swing and pounding away on my keyboard, I have decided to take a journey to one of the last peaceful bastions of intelligent conversation, quiet introspective thought and excellent company. I am at Emerson’s in Norfolk, Virginia, sitting in a leather chair and enjoying a great cigar. No 65 degree cool weather and soft Autumnal breeze with singing birds for me today, I have traded it all for polished wood, soft aromas and pleasant conversation. And it seems to be working, this little experiment of mine. I am enjoying myself in a way I don’t normally get to.

This past Monday, Labor Day, my offspring and her friend took it upon themselves to use the long forgotten, dust covered sidewalk chalk that had been sitting lonely in the corner of a room somewhere and tattooed the sidewalk in front of our home. I sat on the porch swing in awe at the artwork that came from them with a grace and ease of well practiced artists of a forgotten time. Manet, Van Gogh, Monet and Cezzane could not have done a better job. I know I sat there staring at them with a look of amazed gratification on my face.

I remember the day my daughter was born and the look of wide eyed wonder on her face as the nurse handed her to me all swaddled up in a white receiving blanket with pale blue and pink stripes. I can only imagine that the look on my face was just as amazed. I have been told that I started to talk to her then and did not stop talking to her until my Father-in-Law took her out of my arms. Then, he started to speak to her with the same fascination and wonder that I had been doing just a moment before. Our wives forgotten, the sterility of the room forgotten, our focus was strictly on the future of our family. The future, the hope and the joy all wrapped up in a 6 pound 8 ounce package that just stared at us with a look of wonderment at the surroundings she was now in.

From that day to this moment, 11 years later, my daughter still brings with her wherever she goes a peace and happiness that seems to rub off on whoever is around her like a virus of tranquility. I hope that never changes.

Happy Birthday Goose.