I recently learned that fireworks were first used to commemorate the beginning of the American Revolution in 1777. Regardless of where you live or who you are, celebrating our Independence Day is an excellent opportunity for all of us to come together and take pride.
When I reflect on this and the birth of our Nation, I think of equality and liberty. Today, that sentiment seems more critical to all of us. We are all fortunate to have the choice to celebrate today’s significance.
One of my daughters gave me a new digital photo frame. I absolutely love it. It displays around 17,500 photos from around the world. It updates automatically, so I always have the latest memories at a glance. My frame sits on a desk near my workspace, making it easy to enjoy the images without moving. It’s like having a continuous, colorful story of my life unfolding 24/7.
The collection includes people, places, flowers, sunshine, beaches, celebrations, and even more meaningful moments, such as funerals, snow, cathedrals, street signs, and reminders that our memories are just seconds away. Watching the images appear and then fade into the next random one is simply magical. Since I’ve taken nearly every single photo, I can instantly recall where each one was taken and what was happening at that moment. What an excellent way to travel without leaving home.
Growing up, I always looked forward to the Fourth of July fireworks at Marina Green in San Francisco. It’s funny how, most years, dense fog would hide the spectacular show, so we could only hear the loud booms and catch a glimpse of faint colors in the sky.
It was a little disappointing, but it became a part of our tradition. Visitors to San Francisco during summer might not realize how surprisingly chilly it can get. Many arrive dressed in warm-weather clothes, only to find themselves reaching for sweaters and sweatshirts soon after.
Mark Twain captured this perfectly when he said, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.” I completely understand what you mean, Mark.
After watching this new series, I’m convinced. I’m going to drag my old, creaking, body parts to the Miyagi Do karate center; I’ll plead for help. I know Mr. Miyagi wouldn’t turn me down.
I was going to head to the Cobra Kai Dojo, but I think that they are too badass for me. Besides, they don’t have any members my age, and I surely don’t want a tattoo. This series is enjoyable to watch; it reunites Johnny (the previous loser) and Daniel (the winner) for a karate-thon. In the new series, both Daniel and Johnny are in their 40s, dying to face off again, hardly spring-chickens, but super-enthusiastic. I’ll start working out in advance of my application to Miyagi. Perhaps I’ll start tomorrow or the day after. I’ll take Tylenol just in case.
My dearest friend is a tenured professor, a teacher of early childhood development (which is why my antics don’t surprise her), and a librarian.
We both love to read; she knows I learned to read at a very early age, and I read everything that catches my interest. She’s somewhat critical of my fondness for a well-known newspaper based in New York City; however, we manage to respect each other’s preferences.
Naturally, we love book stores and libraries. One day, we were wandering through a well-known chain bookstore that, sadly, is no longer in operation. At one point, I said to her, “Wouldn’t it be great if we could take brand new books home, without buying them, returning later for more?” She turned to me and said, “You can visit your local public libraries more.” Now you see how valuable her early childhood development skills are to our relationship.
When I was a kid in San Francisco, we got through life without being concerned with the things that are around today. Now, every day I read about people’s current concerns that were unheard of when I was growing up. I didn’t know a single person then who was a vegan, lactose-intolerant, concerned about GMO issues, or allergic to gluten products.
We weren’t concerned with bottled water (or the bottles). At home, we had tap water in the kitchen and bathroom, and best of all, we drank from a hose. It all seemed fine to me. There were plenty of drinking fountains at school and in public places, and not a single person I knew died from contaminated water. Or, by the way, ever had their “eye put out” by a pencil? No one had a car seat; seat belts were for future airplanes. Cars had metal bumpers that did a superb job of protecting them. They actually protected passengers and prevented significant damage to the vehicle. I recall one car (I think it was a Buick) that had huge, torpedo-shaped, pointed bumpers. Now that was classy.
My mom shopped nearly every day, as did my grandmother. Like it or not, we ate everything served; if you didn’t like it, too bad. We’d sit there until the offending item was gone. While my mom’s cooking wasn’t restaurant-quality, it included fresh vegetables long before boutique Fresh Market stores emerged. Our corner grocery store was the equivalent of a modern-day Kroger. It was about half a block from our house, and my mom dispatched me regularly for whatever we needed. My favorite thing to watch was a gas flame resembling a large Bunsen Burner. It was used to singe pin feathers off the skin of fresh chickens. We had never heard of packaged chicken.
We used to have this amazing social media platform—imagine a 4-party telephone line! It was just wonderful; four families sharing one phone line, each with their own distinct ring. It’s funny to think that everyone was listening in on each other sometimes. That was like instant social media, way before the 5G speeds people are eager for today. I could go on and on about thoughts like this. I know many others have similar childhood memories, and it warms my heart to see how small things can create such meaningful connections. To everyone who has supported me along the way, I truly appreciate you!
Thanks to my mom, I learned to read at an early age. A large part of her teaching included her reading of our morning newspaper to me, while she sounded out the words. By the time I began kindergarten, I was already a whiz at reading. While print newspapers are nearly fading away, I read several newspapers every morning. The New York Times has more digital readers than home subscriptions.
With everything being available online, reading in schools is no longer as important as it was in years past. I don’t think anyone in my family reads anything; no books or newspapers. While I understand why people don’t read, it seems to me they are missing a valuable part of knowledge as a whole.
Several months ago, I joined a group of my fellow men’s group members from the Church to prepare breakfast for local high school students. It was my maiden voyage in the project; I cautioned this new effort since my only previous skills came from obtaining the Cooking Merit Badge when I was 11.
The kitchen in our Church would be perfect for a medium-sized restaurant; it has a huge gas stove with industrial-sized burners. I soon found myself assigned to frying about 100 sausage patties using two large cast-iron frying pans. Hardly the equipment for a timid, inexperienced chef.
I live in the South, so sausage is crucial for any breakfast project. I had to get these patties cooked perfectly; no overcooking allowed. At the mid-point of my effort, one of the more experienced team members leaned over and asked me if I’d used the meat thermometer to check the proper cooking temperature for each patty.
I looked from the pile of cooked patties to my colleague and confessed, No, I hadn’t. Just as I wondered what I’d do to correct this fatal mistake, he laughed and said he was kidding. Whew, crisis averted. Everything went well, and 35 high school seniors soon lined up for the meal. They didn’t seem to mind that we were serving sausage patties, pancakes (another team member is the pancake king), and eggs for lunch. I’d not seen the damage 35 teenagers can do to a food line in quite a while; it was a marvel to behold (one healthy young man ate 12 pancakes).
For me, this was fun, and I’m now a permanent volunteer; however, I did realize that I’d be a lousy line cook in any diner, especially Waffle House.
My friend, Fred, was one of them.
I stood alongside members of Fred’s family and friends to honor my friend for the last time. He was a neighbor, church companion, daredevil driver, an enthusiastic gardener, and a wonderful dad and husband.
He lived right up the street from me; he and his lovely wife, Ruth, drove by endless times each week. If they could see my car in the driveway, they’d invariably stop by to “visit,” as they say in the South. In Church, Ruth would often sit behind me, and Fred, in his self-appointed role of photographer-in-chief, would busy himself snapping photos of anyone who came into his view. They were loved and respected by everyone.
While Fred had so much to be proud of, he spoke most enthusiastically about an “Honor Flight” that he and other veterans were able to take to Washington, DC. The flight and all expenses are paid by a local merchant. The group flies round-trip to DC on a chartered plane and is met by volunteers who take them on extended guided tours of the military monuments and sites in Washington.
He simply could not stop talking about the trip and what it meant to the group, as well as to him personally. I happened to be at the airport here when one of the flights was boarding for a trip (not Fred’s). Before boarding, the veterans were like children on their first outing; they were so excited they couldn’t sit still. When the plane taxied out for take-off, two airport fire trucks came alongside, giving them a gigantic 2-barrel water cannon send-off. It was a beautiful sight; everyone around me cheered as loudly as possible for them.
Fred, I miss you; I am so proud to have been a part of your final ceremony.
In a city like Rome, art, history, and the Spiritual World are all intertwined. or most visitors to Rome, Ground Zero is St. Peter’s. This is a Church that soars and surprises. While the dome is legendary, in a quiet alcove, you’ll see Michelangelo’s most famous sculpture, carved from a block of Carrara marble, The Pieta.
This sculpture radiates an incredible sense of peace, even from behind the protective glass. After a horrible incident in 1977 where an individual damaged the Pieta with a hammer, it was encased in bulletproof glass.
It wasn’t always protected like that, and when I first visited to see it, I could stand right next to it, feeling the smooth marble and touching the small marble band where Michelangelo had chiseled his own signature for all to see. This is the only sculpture he signed. I took this photo during my last visit to Rome. While I couldn’t touch it again, I could certainly feel its power.
Are we there yet? 