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 for Christmas. 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 having to move. 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 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.
As a kid, I had a radio resembling this one beside my bed. Every night I’d turn it on (it had some wheezing sounds at first), and the dial would lite up. I’d begin to turn the dial and listen to different stations until my mom would finally come in and say, for the hundredth time, “Turn that thing off.”
My radio was a magic carpet. There weren’t many radio stations at the time, but I listened to music and classic programs, like Inner Sanctum, Straight Arrow, and my favorite, The Lucky Lager Dancetime Hour. My radio enabled me to imagine how the actors looked, and the scenes could be anything I wanted.
A super radio program called “Hawaii Calls” featured Webley Edwards. Wow, what a name. He hosted and played a wide range of Hawaiian music (which fit right in with my love for pineapple juice). He brought the sounds of Hawaii right into my bedroom on Vallejo Street. When I first visited Honolulu, I could see and smell everything I had imagined it to be. Thanks to that small, fantastic radio, I was introduced to a world far beyond ours. Who knew then I’d explore and enjoy so many places, experiences, and people in areas I could only imagine existed as a child.
Sorry, Mom, I’ve never actually turned off the radio in my mind.
My daily devotional message appears on the first screen, thanks to my smartphone. By now, I shouldn’t be surprised when the passage touches on something I was thinking about.
This morning, I was thinking about the terminal illness and the ultimate death of my friend’s wife, and my dear friend who committed suicide. It’s something that pops into my thoughts most of every day.
Today the verse was Ecclesiastes 3:1,7: “There is a time for everything and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die. A time to tear and a time to mend.” The passages cause me to pause; while so many Bible passages are difficult to understand, this is clear and helpful.
My friends and their families live every moment with the power of these passages in mind.
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.
Are we there yet? 