Hello and Happy Thanksgiving!
It's funny how our minds work. This morning, after a conversation about Thanksgiving dinner, I thought of a friend of mine on the far left coast. I had the opportunity to visit with Zay and her husband a little over a year ago and thoroughly enjoyed their hospitality. I was on a tight schedule and I only spent a day and a half in their Hobbit neatly tucked into the heavily wooded hillside near Santa Clara.
During my visit, Zay received a package from UPS (I think). She brought it in the house and opened it. I remember that she was, if not excited, she was at least very glad to receive it. It was evidently the last piece of her Thanksgiving dinner puzzle. Zay’s smile broadened as she carefully reached into the brown box, her fingers carefully making their way through the packaging material. I’m sure the furrows on my confused brow swirled into a huge question mark as she pulled her hand from the box. I finally saw it; I saw a mason jar filled with . . . well . . . filled with stuff. The stuff was coarse and granular.
Upon recognizing my confusion, she explained that it was the brine mixture for her turkey. This was foreign to me. I don’t know anybody here in the Pennsylvania Dutch country that soaks their turkey in brine. Very likely there are people that do it, but nobody I know. The mixture of salt and spices are then dissolved/mixed in water and the turkey is marinated in it before being placed in the oven. It sounds very interesting and something I would like to try sometime. Let’s face it; turkey is not the most flavorful meat in the world and adding the bouquet of flavors from the brine has to be an improvement. Oh yeah, it just might be safer than that hot oil thing too.
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This Thanksgiving will be bittersweet. Rolling into this week our small family was flying high on the wings of the accomplishments of my two granddaughters. Then yesterday my son and his pregnant wife excitedly went to the doctor’s for their first chance to hear the tiny baby’s heartbeat; except . . . there was none.
This little creature of God never got a chance to know how much it was wanted. I, for one, have never known two people that are better candidates for parenthood. They deserve to have a child. If only things could be different for them. . .
The reality is, I have a lot to be thankful for, and at the top of my list are my granddaughters (my daughter’s daughters). My younger granddaughter (11 years old) is a gymnast and the older (14 years old) is a soccer goalie. The most important thing is that they both get A’s in school. The older sister always has gotten superior marks but the younger has traditionally struggled; to the point where they almost held her back a grade two years ago. As it turns out, they discovered she has Attention Deficit Disorder – how they discovered it is a long story, I’ll just say her gymnastics coach had a lot to do with it. So, now she is on meds and Bingo! Straight A’s and she can focus better in gymnastics. She won the state title (Level 5) in spring and won two events and the “All Around” in her meet this past weekend.
The older and her mother (my daughter) just got back from Tampa last night. Her team had qualified to represent the Mid-Atlantic States in the Super-Y League North American soccer championships. They went as the number two seed from the region. They won their bracket in the preliminary rounds (the tournament started last Friday) to move on to the semi-final elimination round. They won 3-2 after two overtimes to advance to the championship round yesterday. Unfortunately, they lost 3-1 in that game against a very dominating, well-coached team (this team went through the tournament undefeated). Older’s team took a lot of positives from the tourney: 1) on their way to winning their bracket, they beat a team that hadn’t been beaten in 14 months; 2) in the semi game, they trailed 1-0 for most of the game but found a way to score in the last 30 seconds to send it into overtime – they didn’t give up and hang their heads like they usually do, they are learning how to win; 3) and this is no small point, being second in North America ain’t bad!
So, yes, this Thanksgiving will be a bittersweet one, but life goes on. We are, I believe, a strong family and hopefully we will be able to focus on the positive moments we’ve experienced.
Wishing everyone a great Thanksgiving, a very enjoyable, love-filled Christmas, and all my best wishes for a prosperous, healthy New Year.
Thanks for reading me,
Don
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
My Past-port
Printed next to a picture of me that I hardly recognize is the date 22 SEP 94. Next to that the Date d’experiation 21 SEPT 04.
It’s been almost fifteen years since I got my passport in preparation for our trip to London. [It was a great trip; $499.00 got us a round trip flight and a weeks lodging in The Royal Hotel in downtown London. Ahhh, yep, good times!] That passport saw a lot of miles, not many compared to some, but much more than others.
The thing that struck me funny about the date was the year, not the fact that it was 1994, but that it was just plain 94, nine-four. That was back before we thought the world might come to a stop because computers would get confused and think it was 1900 again. It was also before I even heard of something called Multiple Myeloma that would eventually turn my world upside down. And, of course, it was before 911, which really did both stop the world and turn it upside down.
Although I might have shown it a couple times to cross into Canada, and more importantly, get back, the last I needed it was in 2001. Ever since that time, it laid quietly at the ready (you know, “just in case”) in a safe deposit box at the bank. 21 SEP 04 came and went, I never received a friendly note from Uncle Sam saying,
“Dear Don,
I just thought you might like me to remind you that your passport is expiring in a few months. Please call me, I’ll be happy to help you renew it.
Love, Your Uncle S.”
Nope; no note, letter, telegram, e-mail, phone call, or printed obituary; the little blue and gold book just quietly expired, unknown and un-remembered by anybody. I took solace in the fact that it wasn’t alone when it expired. It was nestled safely between its friends U.S. Savings Bonds and old life insurance policies. Nevertheless, it expired without a thought on my behalf of Big Ben, The Cliffs of Mohr, The Slate Grotto on Valencia Island, or the Irish Mad Cow Disease scare in ’01.
Truth be told, I didn’t need it or really want it. You see, I discovered something even better than traveling to Europe, or the Caribbean. It is called the U.S. of A. Our country offers so much and most of us poo-poo the idea of traveling domestically. I don’t mean a weekend down the shore (that’s “going to the beach” if you aren’t from the PA/NJ area). I mean a pile-the-luggage-on-the-roof-and-the-kids-in-the-back-seat, see the countryside vacation. Take Johnny’s picture in front of the World’s Largest Ball of String, marvel at the patience required to construct Roadside America, or have lunch at the Diner-saur park where hulking metal dinosaurs watch you eat and “Pink Ladies” serve you.
Is flying off to an island where the people speak a dialect of English I can hardly understand really that much better than eating a burger and having a salt-rimmed drink, watching the sunset at the southern-most point of the US? Or . . . what about eating a steak and drinking a glass of wine while your restaurant slowly rotates high above the city of Seattle. Have you seen or done that? [Does it seem to you that I equate good times to eating?]
Chapter after chapter and volumes stacked on volumes have been written about the scenery and people of Alaska and Hawaii. Put it on your To-Do list, reading about those places is for sissies, do it! How about the center of our country? Starting with the great arch in St Louis (that engineering marvel is on my bucket list by the way) and the monster Mississippi River to the unbelievable eroded rock formations farther west (you have to put Bryce Canyon on your list if you haven’t been there).
This past fall I checked off another line of my list. Being a car guy, driving California Route 1 (the Pacific Coast Highway) in a convertible at a better than brisk pace was almost as good as . . . well, never mind. Let’s just say the only time I wasn’t smiling is when I came upon a lumbering mini-van, but as soon as I was able to get by, the smile always returned.
Now that you’ve endured my See America First Sermon I have to tell you why I’m even talking about my expired past-port. You see, I just got back from getting my picture taken so I can renew it. Last night I printed out the required form, now all I have to do is send the signed form, two 2”x 2” photos (with the measurement from my chin to the top of my head between 1” and 1 3/8”), and a check to Uncle Sam. Then, after a brief four to six weeks I’ll have my new and improved passport in hand. Improved? Yep, not like my old one at all, this one will have a smart chip not so secretly embedded within the layers of the back cover. How James Bondish is that?
So why, you might be asking yourself, am I getting another passport? The answer is simple . . . just in case!
Please remember all our veterans this weekend and through the rest of the year. My grandfather fought in WWI. My Dad fought in WWII and was at Pearl Harbor when the Japanese came knocking. I too am a veteran of the regular Army, but I’m not aware of any Army band that defended a border. Keep the real veterans in mind like my grandfather and my father. While you are at it pray for those people wearing our uniforms and are in harms way. They are there, and in many cases hated for being there, all because of the decisions of others. These young people deserve to be back home as soon as possible.
Remember, without those that fought for us, we may not be able to drive from Down East Maine, to the Upper East Side, to East L.A. without the use of a passport.
Thanks for reading me,
Don
It’s been almost fifteen years since I got my passport in preparation for our trip to London. [It was a great trip; $499.00 got us a round trip flight and a weeks lodging in The Royal Hotel in downtown London. Ahhh, yep, good times!] That passport saw a lot of miles, not many compared to some, but much more than others.
The thing that struck me funny about the date was the year, not the fact that it was 1994, but that it was just plain 94, nine-four. That was back before we thought the world might come to a stop because computers would get confused and think it was 1900 again. It was also before I even heard of something called Multiple Myeloma that would eventually turn my world upside down. And, of course, it was before 911, which really did both stop the world and turn it upside down.
Although I might have shown it a couple times to cross into Canada, and more importantly, get back, the last I needed it was in 2001. Ever since that time, it laid quietly at the ready (you know, “just in case”) in a safe deposit box at the bank. 21 SEP 04 came and went, I never received a friendly note from Uncle Sam saying,
“Dear Don,
I just thought you might like me to remind you that your passport is expiring in a few months. Please call me, I’ll be happy to help you renew it.
Love, Your Uncle S.”
Nope; no note, letter, telegram, e-mail, phone call, or printed obituary; the little blue and gold book just quietly expired, unknown and un-remembered by anybody. I took solace in the fact that it wasn’t alone when it expired. It was nestled safely between its friends U.S. Savings Bonds and old life insurance policies. Nevertheless, it expired without a thought on my behalf of Big Ben, The Cliffs of Mohr, The Slate Grotto on Valencia Island, or the Irish Mad Cow Disease scare in ’01.
Truth be told, I didn’t need it or really want it. You see, I discovered something even better than traveling to Europe, or the Caribbean. It is called the U.S. of A. Our country offers so much and most of us poo-poo the idea of traveling domestically. I don’t mean a weekend down the shore (that’s “going to the beach” if you aren’t from the PA/NJ area). I mean a pile-the-luggage-on-the-roof-and-the-kids-in-the-back-seat, see the countryside vacation. Take Johnny’s picture in front of the World’s Largest Ball of String, marvel at the patience required to construct Roadside America, or have lunch at the Diner-saur park where hulking metal dinosaurs watch you eat and “Pink Ladies” serve you.
Is flying off to an island where the people speak a dialect of English I can hardly understand really that much better than eating a burger and having a salt-rimmed drink, watching the sunset at the southern-most point of the US? Or . . . what about eating a steak and drinking a glass of wine while your restaurant slowly rotates high above the city of Seattle. Have you seen or done that? [Does it seem to you that I equate good times to eating?]
Chapter after chapter and volumes stacked on volumes have been written about the scenery and people of Alaska and Hawaii. Put it on your To-Do list, reading about those places is for sissies, do it! How about the center of our country? Starting with the great arch in St Louis (that engineering marvel is on my bucket list by the way) and the monster Mississippi River to the unbelievable eroded rock formations farther west (you have to put Bryce Canyon on your list if you haven’t been there).
This past fall I checked off another line of my list. Being a car guy, driving California Route 1 (the Pacific Coast Highway) in a convertible at a better than brisk pace was almost as good as . . . well, never mind. Let’s just say the only time I wasn’t smiling is when I came upon a lumbering mini-van, but as soon as I was able to get by, the smile always returned.
Now that you’ve endured my See America First Sermon I have to tell you why I’m even talking about my expired past-port. You see, I just got back from getting my picture taken so I can renew it. Last night I printed out the required form, now all I have to do is send the signed form, two 2”x 2” photos (with the measurement from my chin to the top of my head between 1” and 1 3/8”), and a check to Uncle Sam. Then, after a brief four to six weeks I’ll have my new and improved passport in hand. Improved? Yep, not like my old one at all, this one will have a smart chip not so secretly embedded within the layers of the back cover. How James Bondish is that?
So why, you might be asking yourself, am I getting another passport? The answer is simple . . . just in case!
Please remember all our veterans this weekend and through the rest of the year. My grandfather fought in WWI. My Dad fought in WWII and was at Pearl Harbor when the Japanese came knocking. I too am a veteran of the regular Army, but I’m not aware of any Army band that defended a border. Keep the real veterans in mind like my grandfather and my father. While you are at it pray for those people wearing our uniforms and are in harms way. They are there, and in many cases hated for being there, all because of the decisions of others. These young people deserve to be back home as soon as possible.
Remember, without those that fought for us, we may not be able to drive from Down East Maine, to the Upper East Side, to East L.A. without the use of a passport.
Thanks for reading me,
Don
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
An exercise in excess
After removing the fancy invitation from three envelopes and getting only one paper cut, I read . . .
Mr. and Mrs. ____ Request the Honour of Your Presence at the Marriage of Their Daughter
(I was too embarrassed to write back to tell them they spelled "honor" wrong.)
As I fumbled with the ecru colored card, my index finger awkwardly held outward, I tried not to get blood on the tiny satin rose and bow carefully affixed to the card. Through the pain of the nasty cut I smiled. The son of one of my dearest friends was getting married and I was invited. I was excited at the prospect of getting to see my old friend and his wife again. They are a special couple and perhaps I'll tell you their story in a later installment.
So . . . if you had lots of money and wanted to have a big wedding for your only daughter what would you do? I’m not sure what I would do since we were always on a shoe string. This weekend I found out what at least one family would do and that was drop what had to be $30,000 to $40,000 on maybe 150 people. It was an unbelievable affair. But, just because one has money doesn’t mean that the event will be first class. Anyway, that was my take on it.
Maybe I’m just “out of it” and I’m not hip to current trends, but, I still like the old traditions that make weddings such classic ceremonies. Being Catholic I was weaned on ceremony and ritual. This wedding had little of the former and none of the latter. First of all, the ushers didn’t usher. And, since I am so untrained in social etiquette, I ended up seating myself on the bride’s side. OK, I should have remembered that the groom is on the right but I didn’t know there was going to be a test, so I turned off my brain for the day. I expected that a young tuxedoed man would gracefully show this gray-beard where to sit, nope, that didn’t happen and I plopped myself down on the left side in one of the rows of shaky plastic folding chairs that were lined up with military precision on the manicured grass.
It was obvious that the bride came from money. The country club we were at was beautiful and was nestled between steep hills on all sides. I can’t really call them mountains but they did rise a couple hundred feet above the lake. There was a very exclusive community of homes carefully hidden in the trees around the lake. I’m sure the list of rules and regulations governing home building in this area was a phonebook thick. After I got home I looked at the area on a satellite photo from Google Maps and was surprised to see the lake was surrounded by about 25 or so homes. I remember seeing two. Having said that, the club did not reek of class. The walkway leading to the white vinyl arch where the ceremony was to be held was patterned cement dyed stone gray. It was handsome enough, but I just thought they should have used real stone. The arch, actually a rose trellis that you can buy at Home Depot, was scantly decorated with artificial flowers; some of which seemed to have been used before since they had a slightly faded appearance. Maybe they were an afterthought and were attached in haste shortly before the guests arrived.
I sat looking at the mirrored lake in front of me and listened as the balding, gray-haired man at the keyboard played background music at a tempo that made a dirge sound like rap music. I was soaking in the ambiance and wondering if I was the only one seated on the wrong side. I took solace in the fact that the social faux pas police were off today since they would have surly cited the ushers for not ushering me to the correct side in the first place. I was innocent and that was what would be my plea.
The ceremony was officiated by a Humanist Celebrant. He was the Humanist Chaplain at Rutgers University. I’m not sure exactly what all that means other than there was no particular religion represented, no reference made to Christ, or Budda, or Mohammad or any other particular deity, although he did mention God. Rather, he called on everyone to bring whatever philosophy they believed in to the ceremony. The rest of his words were very meaningful and I would give him an A-. There were more traditional parts to the service as it neared the end with the exchange of vows and giving of rings.
There was no receiving line and no throwing rice or birdseed or blowing bubbles or releasing butterflies or balloons. The bridal party simply walked from the place of the ceremony to the edge of the lake for pictures. As a matter of fact, I never met the bride or the groom (my friend's son). The rest of us adjourned to the rear to start an afternoon/evening of excess. First of all, there was an open bar – make that three bars – and when I say open I mean open! Anything you wanted was fair game. Throughout the day I had wine, beer, champagne, scotch and some B&B in my coffee after dinner. There were various food stations open right after the ceremony ended: cheeses, roasted veggies, hand-carved roast beef and lamb, different types of pasta, shrimp and chicken stir fry as well as tacos and fajitas. I followed the crowd and got in line, until I woke up. I wasn’t hungry, why was I standing in line like so many lemmings following the leader. I jumped out of line and walked along the 100’ of food tables, I stopped and asked the server at the pasta station, who was temporarily idle, if this was the meal or “just” hors d'oeuvres. I was told the actual meal was later. After about 45 minutes of talking and watching others grazing I decided to get a shrimp stir fry to “hold me over”.
We were finally called into the dining hall for a slide show and introduction of all the bridal party – like I really cared that the third usher dressed like a cowboy when he was four. Maybe if he would have seated me on the correct side I would have been more interested. In addition to the champagne for the toast, each table had a bottle of red and a bottle of white (sounds like a Billy Joel tune coming). I stayed away from those since by this time I was drinking scotch. The main course was fillet (med rare) and butterflied shrimp in butter-garlic sauce. Everything tasted great. I would be remiss if I didn't mention that the toast, given by the best man, my friend's younger son. It may have been one of the best I ever heard. It was warm and heartfelt yet interjected with tasteful humor. Bravo!
About the time they were cutting the cake the staff put out a dessert table with maybe 15 different types of sweet dishes. Everything from chocolate cake to cannoli. So, I had a selection from that table, a coffee with the aforementioned B&B, and then topped it off with the wedding cake. The rest of the evening was spent talking, joking, and dancing. Oh, by the way, they had a real band, no DJ here. There were two singers, trumpet, sax, keyboard, drums, bass and lead guitar, an eight piece band. They were a talented group and played an eclectic mix of music. Thankfully we did not have to endure the Chicken Dance, Macarena, or the Electric Slide. At 9:30 the band played their last number. That meant I was there for six hours and the reception lasted five and a half hours! I was ready to go back to my hotel by that time.
The food available would have been enough to feed an African village for a week. I wondered how much was wasted by people that thought they had to take it since it was available. The food was excessive and completely unneeded since very few people looked like they had gone hungry recently. Especially the five by five twenty-something that wore the black V-neck dress that plunged to her waist, her DD’s sticking out only slightly farther than her abdomen. I’m a red-blooded male, but, like the food, other things were excessive too and were a complete turn off.
Thanks for reading me,
Don
Mr. and Mrs. ____ Request the Honour of Your Presence at the Marriage of Their Daughter
(I was too embarrassed to write back to tell them they spelled "honor" wrong.)
As I fumbled with the ecru colored card, my index finger awkwardly held outward, I tried not to get blood on the tiny satin rose and bow carefully affixed to the card. Through the pain of the nasty cut I smiled. The son of one of my dearest friends was getting married and I was invited. I was excited at the prospect of getting to see my old friend and his wife again. They are a special couple and perhaps I'll tell you their story in a later installment.
So . . . if you had lots of money and wanted to have a big wedding for your only daughter what would you do? I’m not sure what I would do since we were always on a shoe string. This weekend I found out what at least one family would do and that was drop what had to be $30,000 to $40,000 on maybe 150 people. It was an unbelievable affair. But, just because one has money doesn’t mean that the event will be first class. Anyway, that was my take on it.
Maybe I’m just “out of it” and I’m not hip to current trends, but, I still like the old traditions that make weddings such classic ceremonies. Being Catholic I was weaned on ceremony and ritual. This wedding had little of the former and none of the latter. First of all, the ushers didn’t usher. And, since I am so untrained in social etiquette, I ended up seating myself on the bride’s side. OK, I should have remembered that the groom is on the right but I didn’t know there was going to be a test, so I turned off my brain for the day. I expected that a young tuxedoed man would gracefully show this gray-beard where to sit, nope, that didn’t happen and I plopped myself down on the left side in one of the rows of shaky plastic folding chairs that were lined up with military precision on the manicured grass.
It was obvious that the bride came from money. The country club we were at was beautiful and was nestled between steep hills on all sides. I can’t really call them mountains but they did rise a couple hundred feet above the lake. There was a very exclusive community of homes carefully hidden in the trees around the lake. I’m sure the list of rules and regulations governing home building in this area was a phonebook thick. After I got home I looked at the area on a satellite photo from Google Maps and was surprised to see the lake was surrounded by about 25 or so homes. I remember seeing two. Having said that, the club did not reek of class. The walkway leading to the white vinyl arch where the ceremony was to be held was patterned cement dyed stone gray. It was handsome enough, but I just thought they should have used real stone. The arch, actually a rose trellis that you can buy at Home Depot, was scantly decorated with artificial flowers; some of which seemed to have been used before since they had a slightly faded appearance. Maybe they were an afterthought and were attached in haste shortly before the guests arrived.
I sat looking at the mirrored lake in front of me and listened as the balding, gray-haired man at the keyboard played background music at a tempo that made a dirge sound like rap music. I was soaking in the ambiance and wondering if I was the only one seated on the wrong side. I took solace in the fact that the social faux pas police were off today since they would have surly cited the ushers for not ushering me to the correct side in the first place. I was innocent and that was what would be my plea.
The ceremony was officiated by a Humanist Celebrant. He was the Humanist Chaplain at Rutgers University. I’m not sure exactly what all that means other than there was no particular religion represented, no reference made to Christ, or Budda, or Mohammad or any other particular deity, although he did mention God. Rather, he called on everyone to bring whatever philosophy they believed in to the ceremony. The rest of his words were very meaningful and I would give him an A-. There were more traditional parts to the service as it neared the end with the exchange of vows and giving of rings.
There was no receiving line and no throwing rice or birdseed or blowing bubbles or releasing butterflies or balloons. The bridal party simply walked from the place of the ceremony to the edge of the lake for pictures. As a matter of fact, I never met the bride or the groom (my friend's son). The rest of us adjourned to the rear to start an afternoon/evening of excess. First of all, there was an open bar – make that three bars – and when I say open I mean open! Anything you wanted was fair game. Throughout the day I had wine, beer, champagne, scotch and some B&B in my coffee after dinner. There were various food stations open right after the ceremony ended: cheeses, roasted veggies, hand-carved roast beef and lamb, different types of pasta, shrimp and chicken stir fry as well as tacos and fajitas. I followed the crowd and got in line, until I woke up. I wasn’t hungry, why was I standing in line like so many lemmings following the leader. I jumped out of line and walked along the 100’ of food tables, I stopped and asked the server at the pasta station, who was temporarily idle, if this was the meal or “just” hors d'oeuvres. I was told the actual meal was later. After about 45 minutes of talking and watching others grazing I decided to get a shrimp stir fry to “hold me over”.
We were finally called into the dining hall for a slide show and introduction of all the bridal party – like I really cared that the third usher dressed like a cowboy when he was four. Maybe if he would have seated me on the correct side I would have been more interested. In addition to the champagne for the toast, each table had a bottle of red and a bottle of white (sounds like a Billy Joel tune coming). I stayed away from those since by this time I was drinking scotch. The main course was fillet (med rare) and butterflied shrimp in butter-garlic sauce. Everything tasted great. I would be remiss if I didn't mention that the toast, given by the best man, my friend's younger son. It may have been one of the best I ever heard. It was warm and heartfelt yet interjected with tasteful humor. Bravo!
About the time they were cutting the cake the staff put out a dessert table with maybe 15 different types of sweet dishes. Everything from chocolate cake to cannoli. So, I had a selection from that table, a coffee with the aforementioned B&B, and then topped it off with the wedding cake. The rest of the evening was spent talking, joking, and dancing. Oh, by the way, they had a real band, no DJ here. There were two singers, trumpet, sax, keyboard, drums, bass and lead guitar, an eight piece band. They were a talented group and played an eclectic mix of music. Thankfully we did not have to endure the Chicken Dance, Macarena, or the Electric Slide. At 9:30 the band played their last number. That meant I was there for six hours and the reception lasted five and a half hours! I was ready to go back to my hotel by that time.
The food available would have been enough to feed an African village for a week. I wondered how much was wasted by people that thought they had to take it since it was available. The food was excessive and completely unneeded since very few people looked like they had gone hungry recently. Especially the five by five twenty-something that wore the black V-neck dress that plunged to her waist, her DD’s sticking out only slightly farther than her abdomen. I’m a red-blooded male, but, like the food, other things were excessive too and were a complete turn off.
Thanks for reading me,
Don
Monday, May 18, 2009
Welcome
Being my first post I’m not exactly sure what to write. I have lots of topics in mind for future posts, but as for this one, I’m not really sure.
Future entries will include topics I have talked about in previous emails to friends – that’s the easiest way to get started I suppose. I will also include excerpts from travel logs I have written. However, I do not expect this blog will just be a repository for old ideas and tales of adventure or mis-adventure; I hope it will be a vehicle to explore new topics, thoughts or just expound on previously untold stories.
For the readers that don’t know me, just let me say quickly that I have passed that place called “middle age” and am currently marking time in the empty space that exists before the cusp of “old age” (I am not there yet, I am NOT!). My beard may be much more salt than pepper but my head is still covered with the darker hair of my youth, although it now has a “softer” appearance. The harsh darkness of my twenty something hair has given way to the softer look of understanding and acceptance by showing an occasional gray strand. That is significant to me. I look in the mirror and see the face of one who has been around the block with stories to tell and experiences to relate, but above my face I see the hair of a younger man and like to think that my thoughts are those of that younger man. Once I start thinking “old” I’m done!
I consider myself to be an under achiever. I am very proud of the things I’ve done and embarrassed by some of the things I haven’t done. Sometimes I wonder if my life would have been more exciting had it been the other way around.
I am a compilation of those important in my life. I have borrowed this and that from him or her and they have become the rich patina of my personality. It could be a certain mannerism or a little phrase, but whatever it is, it is borrowed out of respect for its originator.
I look forward to any response to this blog. Whether it be in support or disagreement, I welcome hearing from you.
Thanks for reading me,
Don
Future entries will include topics I have talked about in previous emails to friends – that’s the easiest way to get started I suppose. I will also include excerpts from travel logs I have written. However, I do not expect this blog will just be a repository for old ideas and tales of adventure or mis-adventure; I hope it will be a vehicle to explore new topics, thoughts or just expound on previously untold stories.
For the readers that don’t know me, just let me say quickly that I have passed that place called “middle age” and am currently marking time in the empty space that exists before the cusp of “old age” (I am not there yet, I am NOT!). My beard may be much more salt than pepper but my head is still covered with the darker hair of my youth, although it now has a “softer” appearance. The harsh darkness of my twenty something hair has given way to the softer look of understanding and acceptance by showing an occasional gray strand. That is significant to me. I look in the mirror and see the face of one who has been around the block with stories to tell and experiences to relate, but above my face I see the hair of a younger man and like to think that my thoughts are those of that younger man. Once I start thinking “old” I’m done!
I consider myself to be an under achiever. I am very proud of the things I’ve done and embarrassed by some of the things I haven’t done. Sometimes I wonder if my life would have been more exciting had it been the other way around.
I am a compilation of those important in my life. I have borrowed this and that from him or her and they have become the rich patina of my personality. It could be a certain mannerism or a little phrase, but whatever it is, it is borrowed out of respect for its originator.
I look forward to any response to this blog. Whether it be in support or disagreement, I welcome hearing from you.
Thanks for reading me,
Don
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