Problems

...and I have a ton of problems.

Like many of you, I have my fair share of day-to-day challenges. Though I try not to think about them too much, there are times amidst the grind of daily life when I cannot help but lament such hurdles and dwell on the many external ingredients that helped create them. While this has become an all too frequent pastime in my relatively pain-free existence, it’s something my father never seemed to do at all.

Though my dad hadn’t finished high-school when he joined the Navy in 1936, he returned from WWII and the Korean War with an almost unexplainable appreciation for his excruciatingly average life. Becoming a master electrician with training he acquired largely in the Navy, he possessed a deep love for his skilled trade and the good life provided through that important and honest work.

Like many blue-collar construction vets of his time, my father was deeply patriotic and quite socially conservative. I believe the last democrat he voted for was LBJ (believing Goldwater was just too extreme), but he loved his union (the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers) and despite his individualism he believed to the core that he had a far better existence because of wages and benefits provided through collective bargaining than anything he would have attained alone. In many ways, I think he embodied the principles of a lot of his generation, and at least to me, he was a man’s man who loved his wife, his family, his work, his union, and his country at levels I don’t have the writing talent to convey. Though it probably seems corny, I think he saw himself as a truly rich man.

One of the traits that always tripped me out about my father, was the fact that he had almost zero tolerance for complaining or self-pity. Though his life had been far more difficult than mine would likely ever be, he didn’t have much patience for general bellyaching, and he certainly had no time to listen to me complain about much of anything. Though he never said so, given his experiences living through the Depression and taking multiple Kamikaze hits on the USS Ticondaroga, I suspect my life must of looked like a cakewalk to him. That was one of the problems with his old-school rigidity…he just didn’t appreciate all that I had to deal with in the modern era.

                                              
The U.S. Navy aircraft carrier USS Ticonderoga (CV-14) lists to port in the aftermath of a kamikaze attack in which four suicide planes hit the ship, 21 January 1945.

When I was a teenager, and felt quite certain there was empirical evidence to undisputably prove I was truly all-knowing, I had the unflattering habit of blaming any percieved trouble or crisis I might be having on just about anyone or anything but me. Thinking back, it is amazing how much I knew from about 13 to 25, and how much clarity I had when it came to identifying the flaws of others. Though I had experienced little in the way of real life, I had developed this uncanny ability to have the answers to just about everything. As those of  you know that are cursed with this gift, this type of supreme knowledge comes at a price. Sine I indeed knew so much, I was always aware when the world was conspiring against me. Thankfully, knowing my father had little patience for my insights, I wisely muted much of my tendency to whine about my problems…especially when he was arround.

Thinking back on it, my lack of complaining to my dad might have been less of a calculated attempt to hold back than the reality that he and I really didn’t have many substanative converstatons in those years. As I remember it, I was just too busy. Oh sure, there were times when we’d talk about safe subjects like the Dodgers or the weather, but for a long period we strayed away from anything too deep. He just didn’t have the benefit of my clarity, and anytime we tried to talk about anything too heavy, his inability to see things through a fresh set of lenses was invariably quite frustrating.

There were about six times in my life (it probably happened at about two-year increments between 13 and 25) when the passage of time would result in my getting amnesia about his inability to understand the nuances of my challenges. Usually, while we’d be out in the garage together (he’d be puttering or working while I lifted weights in the gym he built for me), I’d forget his disdain for whining and launch into some longwinded diatribe about my latest dilemma. As I remember it, it was likely about an idiotic teacher, some stupid former friend, an incompetent coach or worst of all some shortsighted girl that didn’t truly appreciate the attributes of a gifted young man. Despite my father’s lack of understanding and insight into problems brought on by others, he would always listen. Sometimes, it was amazing how I’d go on and on while he just kept working, nodding his head occasionally, and listening to me vent without ever interrupting.

When I was finished, he would usually ask a couple of questions for clarification. It was always clear by his line of questioning that he had been listening intently, and it would often seem as though he was finally gaining a further appreciation for both my problem and my justifiable status as the victim. Then, after a couple of minutes of his questioning, he would ask in some variation of ways (so it never seemed familiar) how bad I wanted to truly understand the root of the problem. Once I had expressed a strong desire to listen to any advice that might help me correct the situation, he would then stop what he was doing, walk over to me, and ask me one more time if I wanted to know the source of the problem and any possible remedy. Once I assured him I did, he would tug on my sleeve and guide me over so I was looking directly into the mirror that covered the west wall of the gym area.  We’d stand there a minute, then he’d point at me and pretty much say the same thing. “Now…if you really want to find the problem, stand here long enough and it should become clear to you. If you stand here long enough, you’ll probably find an effective solution too.”

It’s funny, though he pulled the stunt no more than a half-dozen (probably less) times over the course of my lifetime, he did it with enough time in between that my self-absorbed focus never allowed me to see it coming. Damn he was good.

Years later when I began working at the IBEW International Office, a friend and mentor must have spotted my propensity to blame others. Thankfully, he shared the following poem.

The Man in the Glass

When you get what you want in your struggle for self

And the world makes you king for a day,
Just go to a mirror and look at yourself,
And see what that man has to say.

For it isn't your father or mother or wife,
Who judgment upon you must pass;
The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the one starring back from the glass.

He's the fellow to please, never mind all the rest.
For he's with you clear up to the end,
And you've passed the most dangerous, difficult test
If the man in the glass is your friend.

You may be like Jack Horner and "chisel" a plum,
And think you're a wonderful guy,
But the man in the glass says you're only a bum
If you can't look him straight in the eye.

You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years.

And get pats on the back as you pass,
But your final reward will be the heartaches and tears
If you've cheated the man in the glass.

Dale Wimbrow (c) 1934
1895-1954

My father has been gone for over five years now, but there are times when I wish he was still around to point me into that glass. Even now, when I’m perplexed at how I ended up at the center of an unpleasant situation, I am amazed how often I eventually recognize I had complete control of the wheel all along the way. When I take the time to read that poem or to think of my father’s simple yet sage advice, it’s astonishing how much better I can make things almost immediately by simply correcting the one thing I can control. Me.

Not sure what you’re doing this weekend, but whatever it is, I hope it’s good. You’ve probably been working pretty hard, so please take some time to recharge these two days with the people (and pets) that you love.

Not sure what today's song has to do wtih this story...but  too be honest...I just wanted to hear it. BTW...I did not have time to proof this so I apologize in advance for any typos and mispellings.

Have a great weekend. 

You get what you need...

Get in the game

…and Division I college football starts in about 41 days.

For me, the best thing about late July has always been the comfort that comes from knowing that college football is not far off. Though the season doesn't start in earnest until early September, knowing that it's right around the corner is simply reassuring...at least to me. For whatever reason, this time of year also makes me nostalgic, and consequently I cannot help but look back at my own noteworthy collegiate athletic experience. If you’ve been receiving these weekly emails for some years today’s story might sound somewhat familiar; however, as Paul Harvey was prone to say, today you’ll get the rest of the story.  

Like a lot of you, I attempted to play several sports in high school. In my case, it was football and baseball. Unlike a lot of you, I really wasn't very good at either of them. As a matter-of-fact, last time I checked, I still held the record for 22 passed balls in one varsity baseball game. When I wasn't in the outfield or pitching I was a catcher, and for those of you that don't know baseball, you may want to bow to me in the hallway because let's just say it was a truly phenomenal accomplishment. For those of you that do know baseball, yes the story is true and it was much uglier that anything you're imagining so please don’t share what you know with the folks that don’t.   

Though my varsity baseball experience was more of a recreational thing (the football coach was also the baseball coach and he graciously let me play), my real sport was football. In the spirit of consistency, I also wasn't very good on the gridiron however there was one element of the game at which I somewhat excelled. Ever since I was a little boy, my father spent an inordinate time with me tossing a football. He'd often suggest, usually during halftime of a televised Los Angeles Rams' game, that we go out in the yard and toss the ball around. One thing he always had me do, even as a little tike, was punt the ball. He would work with me meticulously, and though I didn't like hitting and tackling (it hurt too much), by the time I reached Hamilton High in inner-city Los Angeles, I really was pretty decent at punting the ball.

Amazingly, I was provided the opportunity to go on a couple of recruiting trips, and eventually ended up at UCLA (pretty much explains their fall from top 20 prominence). I reported to camp on August 16th, 1980, and for me, the opportunity to play at the Division I level was surreal. After several days of rigorous strength and conditioning training, I was finally given the chance for which I'd spent a good deal of my life preparing. I had envisioned the outcome since I was a kid, and looked forward to the response as I booted the ball 65-plus yards through the air.

I remember it like it was yesterday, a new gold metallic Bruin helmet freshly drilled with a gunmetal gray drop cage.

I was standing there at the special teams segment of practice (the last part of regular double-day sessions) with over 100 of some of the best players in the nation when coach Donahue called my name. I confidently jogged out in front of the group, marked off 15-yards behind the long snapper, and called for the ball.

Now, in my three years at Hamilton High School, the one thing we didn't really have was a good long snapper. During my entire high school career, I don't believe I fielded more that 10 snaps where I didn't have to short-hop the ball. Sometimes the guy could float it back without bouncing, but usually I had to catch it skipping off the ground at least once. Actually, I became a pretty decent short stop.

In 1980, UCLA had a very, very good long-snapper. When I called for the football at that very first practice, it was hurled at me like it was shot out of a freakin' howitzer. To be honest, I'm not sure you could throw a ball that hard from 15 yards. The ball, which seemed like it was traveling about 80mph, slipped through my hands barely touching my fingers and the nose of the football came right across the top of my new drop cage and caught me right on the bridge of the nose. My head snapped back, I tumbled backward losing my balance and fell awkwardly to the grass. The impact of my head slamming the ground caused my helmet popped off and I could feel blood starting to stream down my face. This description cannot do it justice, as it truly was genuine cartoon material. As 100-plus football players laughed hysterically, I looked up to see coach Terry Donahue standing there and with an amazed and amused look on his face. He looked down with is arms crossed across his clipboard and said, "son, I don't think I've ever seen it go quite that bad."

When I got to my feet Coach Donohue was actually very encouraging and I'd love to tell you I went on to NFL greatness. Sadly though, I'm not sure I've ever fully recovered from that experience. Though I was in prime physical condition, and while I literally prepared much of my life for that specific moment to kick the ball, I was clearly unprepared to catch the ball. As a result of that failure, my college football career pretty much crashed and burned right there as I literally let the opportunity of a lifetime slip right through my fingers.

As I suspect you might imagine, it took me a long time to recover from that debacle but the following spring I had a chance for redemption and it came with the announcement that there would be tryouts for the UCLA baseball team. While I couldn’t catch real well (see above), I had developed the ability to throw a fairly decent knuckle ball. It was something that few young players could do, and while my ball didn’t have a ton of movement, I could pitch it consistently with very little in the way of rotation.

Determined to make up for my football failures, I drove my red 1972 Ford Pinto (yes...it was as cool as it sounds...great 8-Track system) over to UCLA’s Jackie Robinson Field on the assigned day of tryouts. Though I was nervous for sure, I was looking forward to putting the punting horror in the rearview mirror once and for all. The closer I got to the stadium though, the more nervous I got. When I arrived, I was struck by all the baseball talent milling around the parking lot. These were some genuine studs, and much of their gear alone seemed to be worth substantially more than my automobile. As I sat there in silence and watched the legions of young ballplayers walk to the field, I was overcome with the fear of another failure and never got out of the car.

What's the value of all this to you? To be honest, I don't know either. I guess if you’re thinking of starting an NFL franchise or a MLB expansion team, I’ve saved you at least one recruiting phone call.  However there may also be a lesson here that has something to do with being prepared and taking risks. We all have opportunities in our life, and when faced with the chance to do something special, there is something to be said for preparing, and then climbing over the rail and entering the arena. I don’t have a lot to show for my failed UCLA football career, but the willingness to try has left me with some entertaining (though unflattering) stories. Other than the shame and the haunting that comes from chickening out, I have nothing to show for the day I sat paralyzed in the baseball parking lot.

Looking around today, there are plenty of challenges and more reasons than ever to stand on the sidelines. For true competitors though, there is no better time to be on the field. This life is so much shorter than any of us ever thinks, so if you have an opportunity to do something extraordinary anytime soon…don’t just sit there...get in the game.

Have a terrific weekend and enjoy the song (may take a minute to load).

Get in the game...

Vacations

...and if you haven't already, it's time to take a vacation.

A co-worker and friend mentioned to me yesterday evening that he was planning to take the vacation he put off last year. When I asked him if he intended to go to the same place, he said yes...Tuscany. That got me thinking about this, and though you may recall some of this if you've been receving the Friday emails for a couple of years, the setting really is magical so I thought it warranted yet another more descriptive visit.

About 116 kilometers south of Florence, there is a Renaissance hilltop town in southeast Tuscany called Montepulciano. As you walk on the well-preserved medieval streets into the walled entrance of the town, there is a restaurant on the left-hand side of the street named Cafe Poliziano.

The Restaurant...

As you walk through the main dinning room there is a balcony that overlooks a Tuscan scene complete with Italian villas, Cyprus trees and the rolling vineyards that produce the red Vino Nobilie di Montepulciano wine famous to the region. My wife, my cousin Michael (who lived in Padua) and I wandered into the restaurant one afternoon about two years ago, and spotting the recently vacated balcony, I boldly walked through the crowded dining room and sat at the lone table outside.

The Balcony

We were incredibly lucky to snare that rarified Tuscan perch, and on that epic day we did justice to our good-fortune by drinking copious amounts of red wine while dining on various cheese pasta delicacies of the region. At one point, after we were sufficiently stewed on Italian red table wine, we ordered our fourth bottle and asked the personable waitress where it had come from. With kind of a confused and somewhat annoyed look on her face, she motioned her hands over the balcony railing while proudly pointing at the vineyards below and said…“out there.” The wine was a 2005 Incanto Vino Nobile Di Montepulciano, and though I’m no wine connisuer, I feel compelled to share my personal story of what happened next.

          The Wine

 

She went through quite a process just opening the bottle and pouring out a few drops off the top. She explained why she did it in Italian, but my Rosetta Stone wasn’t mixing well with the previous 7 glasses so I didn’t understand much of what she said. Once she finally poured the Incanto into a glass, it was a shadowy ruby-red color with a semi-opaque core. The wine faded slowly into a fine garnet-tinged rim definition with high viscosity and as I raised the glass to my nose, I sensed a discernable hint of cypress over black cherries... mixed with an earthy minty character, a touch of crushed black plum skins and perhaps even a tinge of wood. Amazingly, there was also is a particular freshness springing from the glass, with an underlying aroma of freshly tanned leather. Once on the palate, the Sangiovese grapes were full-bodied with expansive crushed black cherries and plum. Soon, there were notes of wood (given my propensity to gnaw on trees and 2x4s...I reconized the lumber taste quicker than most others), earthy minerals and juniper…all clearly influenced by the location of the vineyards that sloped along the sides of the hills just below our balcony. As the wine swirled on the midpalate, it was classically Tuscan…bursting with dried cherry, herbs and woody black fruit with firm tannins. As I swallowed, the wine finished with a strong close driven by chestnuts dancing in plum sauce.

Now, I'm hoping you know I didn't write much of  that review (it was largely taken from a wine column that appeared in the newspaper) and if you actually believe I (or anyone else...including the wine columnist that wrote it) smelled or tasted any of that crap, then you need to spend a little less time in cities like Florence and more days in places like Fargo. I did love the wine though…mostly because it tasted exactly like…well…wine. Not sure how it tasted on my midpalate (not entirely sure where my midpalate is though I’m so hoping it’s in my mouth), but if I had to guess, I think it probably reminded me a lot of fermented red grapes. What I liked best was that it provided a really, really, really quality buzz.

As we sipped the Nobile, we asked the waitress if there were any good places to stay in the area. She recommended an establishment run by the owners of the restaurant, but after checking and learning it was booked for the evening, she suggested a spot by the entrance to town called Villa Chicolina. I won’t bore you with details of this magical setting, but if you’re interested,  it does boast of the best infinity pool in Tuscany. I suspect that may be true…but once again, if that matters to you too much, I’d suggest less visits to Sienna and more trips to Saginaw. Anyhow, If you are curious about Villa Chicolina, you can visit the Inn’s website via the link below.

The Inn

Not sure if you’ve had  your summer vacation yet this year, but if not, I’m hopeful you will take some time to disconnect from the electronic leash and simply chill. There’s still about seven weeks before school starts in most places, so grab some extended time or even some long weekends with family and friends. There has been much written of late about the rejuvenating value of time away, and as you pour your heart into your work, you should set some time aside for you…and the people you love.

This is a small thing, but you can actually take the first step this morning by taking a few minutes before the hurricane of the day to listen to some beautiful music. If you close your eyes, you can visit the balcony above (or any other place) in your mind while enjoying one of the world's most famous operatic gems. You may not care for this genre of music, but if you listen nonetheless, you will have a better day. Turn up your speakers...because this really is something special. Best of all...if you do, you are guaranteed to have a better day.

Now…seriously, how many honest-to-goodness guarantees to you actually get any more?

Take a vacation…and have a terrific weekend.

And most importantly...the music

Abercrombie

…and believe it or not, the days are getting shorter.

About 35 miles straight south of Fargo, North Datoka, there is a small town on the Red River of about 300 people named Fort Abercrombie. In my mind’s eye, it is an idyllic facsimile of Mayberry, that once contained several gas stations, a bank, a Ford store, a blacksmith, a hardware store, meat market, laundry, café, grain elevator, grocery, truss factory, school, Lutheran Church and of course, a bar.

All the time I lived in the ever-changing environment of Los Angeles, I used to love my yearly pilgrimages back “home” to North Dakota. I would eagerly make the drive every summer, and with mouthfuls of sunflower seeds and bottles of cold Diet Coke, I’d roll my Ford 150  pickup across Wyoming (Evanston, Rock Springs, Rawlings, Casper, Douglas, Lusk) and into and across South Dakota (Hot Springs, Rapid, Wall, Pierre, Redfield, Watertown, Sisseton). After about 32 or 33 hours, somewhere on day two of the drive, I’d head up Interstate 29 and cross the border into North Dakota. As I entered the Peace Garden State, I could literally feel the clock turn back in time.

Several miles off the Interstate, right on the Red River that serves as the border to Minnesota, is the town of Fort Abercrombie. Abercrombie, or Aber as the locals call it, is a classic Midwestern small town. As you turn east onto Broadway off of “old 81,” you can look down the main drag and literally see the end of town on the opposite side. There are still some businesses on both sides of the road, with cars parked diagonally to the curb (more in front of the bar than anywhere else), and a city park that bookends the east entrance. Though I used to love town café owned and operated by my mom’s brother, it had long closed down by the time I made my yearly trips back to North Dakota. Thankfully, many of the town’s (and surrounding farm) locals still gathered each morning in the Town Hall (directly across the street from the old café) for morning coffee. Every morning when I would visit, I always looked forward to walking into that hall and receiving a greeting significantly warmer than anything I ever enjoyed back in LA.

Though people seem to come and go almost daily in my life both in Southern California and here in the District, I always had the comfort of knowing I could walk in and see the same old boys wearing the same old oil-stained overalls, faded Carharts, and dirty farmer’s Co-op hats. Gathered around the men’s table, Kenny Jacobson, Munce, the Herrick boys, Fritz Snyder, Philip Balmy, Sam Harsted, Carl Snyder, Mike Hagen, Eddie Miller, Chief, Maynard, Owen Meyre, Milt Greenier, the banker from Kent and my uncle Donald would sit there for hours telling really bad jokes, lamenting the stagnant price of wheat, talking about how much it rained, and generally solving most of the world’s problems. Some mornings, I would sit at the out-of-tune town hall upright piano and play “Red River Valley” or “Amazing Grace” and receive roaring applause…regardless of how many times they’d heard me play. No matter how insane things were in LA, it was a huge sense of comfort to know I could return to this pillar of stability knowing nothing ever changed…or ever would.

After going home every year from 1985 until 1998, I quit making the annual trip after I took off the tool belt and went to work for the local union in 1998. The work at the local union was too important, and the luxury of two-weeks off to make the long road trip really wasn’t possible. Thinking back, it was weird how almost overnight, something that was so much a part of my life suddenly got pushed to the bottom of the priority pile. Over time, I suppressed the urge to go back while I feverishly worked on the things I was so sure mattered so much more. I never really worried about it though, because I knew it would always be there.

I finally made the trip a couple of years ago, and after a speaking role in Fargo in 2007 I made the drive down Old 81 and spent a couple of extra days with my uncle Donald the summer…just before he passed away the following spring. As was the custom when we got together, we drove around the country on two-lane hardtop and gravel roads for hours and talked about old times. We traveled passed the different mostly abandoned family farms as my uncle provided a verbal genealogy of all the distant relatives. It was often too much to keep track of, and to be honest it was a little scary to hear that I pretty much seemed to be related to everybody.

As always, we also went into the Town Hall each morning for coffee. The first time we walked in on that particular trip, I was shocked at how different the never-changing scene looked that morning. For one thing, the crowd was much smaller, and most of the boys that had always been there…were not. It hadn’t seemed like it had been a whole lot of time since my last visit…and for a brief moment, I wondered what had happened between trips.  It took a couple of minutes to process it all, but suddenly it hit me that most of them had passed away. As I thought about it, I vaguely recalled my mother telling me at some point over the years amidst rushed telephone conversations as each one got sick or died…but in typical fashion I was far too busy to ever tally the numbers or take in the full impact of their passing. Thankfully, there was one regular I immediately recognized, and though he looked shockingly older, I was happy to see him there; mostly because he was typically among those most amused at my stories of rough-and-tumble life in Los Angeles. When I sat down at the table and said hello, he politely smiled at me and said “who are you?”

So, you’re thinking this is depressing, and repetitive and  you’re wondering how many times you have to be reminded that the people and things that matter to you most won’t last forever. Well, perhaps I’m once again guilty of looking only through only my lenses, but if you’re anything like me, you probably could use at least one reminder a week. So…here it is.

Another weekend is here and as the days grow shorter and we slide toward yet another Fall season (trust me…the flag football registration lawn signs are already going up), go out and have some summer fun. It’s going to be drier and near 90 each day so fight the urge to work and get outside and enjoy life. You’re only going to get one chance to live these next two days so try hard to make them matter. The people you love won’t be here forever, so if you can, find someone you care about and give them a hug. If you can’t find someone mortal to embrace…don’t sweat it. Instead, just let someone you love hug you.

The clock is ticking…so take about four minutes before you start your Friday to listen to Gillian Welch cover this seldom heard John Hartford song.

Listen to the lyrics. Just listen.

I wondered what happened betwixt and between...

The Fourth of July

…and Monday is the Fourth of July

When I was a little kid, my Grandpa Nelson (my mother’s dad) would get up early every 4th (he’d get up early everyday) and go outside of his eastern North Dakota Red River farmhouse to set off one firecracker. After it exploded, he would scream in his thick Swedish accent…“hurrah for the Fourth of July!”  That simple celebration was pretty much it for the holiday fireworks on the old farm…mostly because that’s all the family could afford.

For some odd reason, that ritual was one my own father copied in my boyhood home in Los Angeles. It was simple, perhaps even a little corny, but for some reason my dad, the son of German and Russian immigrants, just felt compelled to make note of this special holiday. Just like my Grandfather had done, I remember my dad going out on the morning of the 4^th, lighting one firecracker and shouting “hurrah for the Fourth of July!” Later in the evening we would have more elaborate home firework shows, but that is usually how the holiday started.

Not sure how you’re spending your July 4th, but in the hustle-and-bustle of today’s crazy world, there are probably more than a few of us that will barely slow down long enough this weekend to really think about the fact that we are celebrating our independence. Some of us will attend BBQs, go for boat rides, go on hikes, watch baseball, go camping, or take in elaborate pyrotechnic shows with so much on our minds that we’ll give little or no thought to the real significance of the holiday. Even today, on the threshold of this festive weekend, many of us will be so busy doing such important work that we won’t take any time to smell the roses…let alone take 3 minutes and 35 seconds to listen to the Friday song.

This is odd (at least it is to me), because so many of us have had a cavalcade of almost spiritually inspired signs lately literally screaming that life is way too short. For some, it’s come in the way of a challenging diagnosis, the illness of a friend or loved one, or the loss of a life that we know ended way, way too soon. For me, it is almost like some supernatural force is shaking a neon sign directly in front of my face that is literally pleading for me to slow down. For some set of reasons (none of which are flattering), I soon forget the messages…and almost within days…I allow the insanity of work and everyday life to erase any lesson offered by the otherwise crystal-clear warnings.

My Grandpa and Dad struggled in ways that I cannot even fathom, however despite their respective hardships, they genuinely loved this country at levels I don’t have the writing talent to describe. There is no doubt about the fact that we’ve got some work to do, but despite our nation’s relative young age and looming challenges…it's still a great place to call home. Let’s honor that fact by taking some time to appreciate all we have. At the very least, I’m going to try to think about that as I’m watching the fireworks show above the mall in our nation’s capital.

Whatever you’re doing this weekend, I hope you put down the Blackberry or shut off the laptop long enough to think about the 4th and the true significance of our young nation’s birthday. Above all else, I hope you’re able to do it with the people you truly love.

Few people probably actually do this, but if you start the day by closing your eyes and taking several minutes to listen to a song…you might just start the weekend with a smile.  

Hurrah for the 4th of July!

A holiday song just for you...close your eyes and smile...    (it may take a minute to start playing)