No Reservations

I find myself this afternoon sitting at my computer typing my first blog. That is not true. This is, in fact, my second blog. My first blog was just released a week ago. It was posted on my company website. Although parts of it were mine, I can’t say it was truly my blog. By the time that our marketing person completed editing it, it just had a few snippets of my original work. My original effort needed to include the appropriate keywords that would draw people to our website. It seems that SEO, that’s Search Engine Optimization for those of you who are new to inbound marketing, is everything these days. How else is anyone going to find your site in this endless expanse we call the web?

This first blog is really a cathartic exercise. I am sending out this message in a bottle into the digital void because today I feel abandoned on some desolate island. It seems that one of the few television personalities that I respect chose to end their life today. From the moment my palm-sized, grid connector alerted me to the breaking news, I have been struggling with the news of Anthony Bourdain’s premature departure from this fragile satellite we call home. How could someone who embraced living to the fullest want to leave before the credits?

I should not have liked this guy. The brash, chain-smoking, overtly opinionated, bad boy chef had far different formative years than myself. I never put a cigarette to my lips yet alone have an addiction to illicit drugs. Although I have plenty of scars I do not bear any tattoos. I was an altar boy for God’s sake. I’m pretty sure that if we ever had the privilege to meet, he would consider it a success if he found some way to get me landed in jail without remembering how I got there.

The reality is that I genuinely liked the person I saw on TV. In fact, I secretly wished I could be a little bit like him. I was naïve as to be envious of his job. I agreed with most of his politics. I appreciated his ability to relate with people from all different walks of life. Most importantly, I related to his understanding of what it means to be human.

One may assume that the static images displayed on this website mark the highlights of my travels. That is not further from the truth. Book-ended by the clicks of the shutter, my favorite travel memories are of my family. It seems like the most indelible moments were formed at some small restaurant well off the beaten tourist path. We communicated with the waiter by stitching together a few known phrases and pointing to an item. Never were we disappointed. To this day we still talk about gnocchi in Lavertezzo, suckling pig in Segovia, croquetas in Almeria, monkfish in Barcelona and squid ink paella in Ronda. More often than not, complimentary aperitifs would arrive after a casual three hour dinner. This was not only an acknowledgement that we had not outstayed our welcome, it was a simple gesture of appreciation for embracing our host's culture.

Anthony Bourdain will be remembered for many things. I will remember him as our country’s most effective ambassador. At a time when the conversation revolves around building walls, he encouraged us to cross borders. Although irreverent himself, he taught us to respect other diverse cultures. He showed us that when we remove the blindfold of prejudice, we humans share so much common ground, regardless of race, religion or politics.

I am not sure that I feel any better having completed my first blog. But there is an outside chance that if someone types into Google “irreverent + pig + wall”, SEO may direct them to this blog. It is my hope that we will all be reminded that we can’t “make America great again” until we treat each other as Anthony Bourdain showed us. I have no reservations about that.

Images of Hope

It has been over a year since my last post on “Images of Hope”. This was not the result of me not having any images that I felt were appropriate. The reality is that I was looking for a new career. As some of you are aware, many of my previous posts were rather derogatory toward our 45th president. Sadly, I was concerned that my political views would interfere with my ability to land a job. It is a shame that we live in a time where one must be concerned about retribution resulting from the opinions we express publicly. It would not surprise me if I end up in the gulag someday.

Note to the censors: This is not a political post, but one that is made in the true spirit of Hope.

Forty-five years ago, I arrived on the Outer Banks for a vacation with my parents, brother and sister. At the time, I did not have great expectations. The year previous we drove in the family station wagon from our home in northeast Ohio to Florida. How could you beat a trip to Disney World? The inscription at the entrance to the Magic Kingdom says it all. “Here you leave today and enter the world of yesterday, tomorrow and fantasy”. How could this desolate strip of sand possibly leave a mark on my soul that would endure for a lifetime?

My family has made numerous trips to Cape Hatteras over the years. What initially started as only five of us has now grown to sixteen. For my high school graduation present, my girlfriend joined us. Only a few years later that same girlfriend would once again join us as my wife. It did not take long for us to be joined by my brother and sister’s spouses. The next trip would also add several younger travelers. Our son and my nieces would add a new generation to the list of attendees. To complete the circle of life, our children have now brought their spouses to the beach. Maybe one day soon my wife and I will be lucky enough to return as grandparents. It turns out that the same life-sustaining surf has connected us all.

The reality is that there is no other place on this earth to which I feel so connected. This has been the subject of numerous late night ponderings as I drift off to sleep.  As it turns out, the chemistry of our life-sustaining blood is very similar in composition to that of the sea. There are not many places on Cape Hatteras where one can ever be outside a few hundred yards of sight from the very solution that gave rise to life. Even when you can’t see the ocean, your lungs are filled with the saline essence that every breaker atomizes into the breeze. I suspect this is why I feel totally at peace when my feet are in contact with these shores.

On our first trip to Hatteras, I brought the Polaroid One Step camera that I received as a Christmas present from my parents. As a twelve year old, I couldn’t afford much film. I remember taking only a couple of pictures that I deemed worthy of keeping. It will come as no surprise that those were pictures of the ocean, framed by the ever present surf and sea oats. I suspect that if I look through my boxes of keepsakes, I will find those original images. Although they were not very impressive by my standards today, these crude images were the start of a love affair with photography.

Today I uploaded many of the images I took only a week ago on our latest trip to Cape Hatteras. Just like my photographic skills, much has changed since I first pointed a lens toward these shores. Many of our favorite restaurants could survive the howl of endless hurricanes but could not survive the silence of COVID. The Frisco pier, the scene of several epoch fishing stories, finally succumbed to the constant battering of the surf. Even the Hatteras lighthouse, an enduring vision of hope for many mariners and vacationers alike, had to be pulled back from falling into the sea.

Just as the cedar shakes of the long-legged cottages have weathered the constant exposure to Mother Nature’s fury, we too are showing our age. The gray hair that has appeared at my temples is a new visitor to the beach. My eighty-year-old mother overcame her fear of the elevator and chose to accept the assistance of a lift rather than walk the grueling three flights of stairs up to the top floor of our cottage. My similarly aged father was under strict doctor’s orders to minimize his time in the sun due to his recurring skin cancer. I am hopeful that I will get the opportunity to share another trip with my parents back to Hatteras. As we have all learned recently, life, just like the shifting sands, is subject to change. One constant, is that I will always be grateful to my parents for introducing us to a place that has been of such importance in our lives.

These images of Hatteras that I have posted are a tribute to them.

Images of Hope

One of the things I most enjoy about living in Philadelphia is that we are surrounded by history. Whether you are driving through the rolling hills of Valley Forge, riding a bike along the Delaware River at Washington Crossing or even walking under Old Glory as she gently flutters outside of the Betsy Ross House, you feel an immediate connection to the founding of this nation. As iconic as all of these locations may be, there is none more inspiring than Independence Hall and the adjacent Liberty Bell Pavilion.

Prior to the arrival of COVID, tourists would begin queuing up outside the pavilion shortly after the sun rose above the horizon. As I would pass by the line that had begun to wrap around the corner of Market Street, my ears would pick up on languages far different than those brought to the City of Brotherly Love by it’s colonizing inhabitants. The most common languages that I would hear were Mandarin and Russian, but I would also hear Spanish and Hindi. Strangely, the early risers to see the Liberty Bell seldom spoke English.

Frequently playing the role of tour guide to see the Liberty Bell with our guests from out of town, I am fascinated by watching foreigner’s reaction to seeing the bell. They stand patiently in line with church-like reverence. Local school students on late spring field trips normally show ambivalence, either being absorbed in their cell phones or chasing one another as a means of passing the boredom. Foreigners also tend to pose for pictures beside the bell with prideful smiles, whereas most Americans simply pay not much more respect than a slow and go. I guess that they are in too much of a hurry to replicate Rocky’s run up the art museum steps.

Foreign visitors, especially those that do not share at home the same freedoms that we enjoy, seem to have a greater appreciation for the Liberty Bell. They recognize that the rights we are given in this country are something to be coveted and admired. Although I am not privy to their conversations, I suspect that they are envious of the liberties to which our school children are oblivious.

If you stay long enough to carefully study the bell, you will notice a wide crack that just stops short of the inscription “Proclaim Liberty throughout the land”. Two rivets span the crack to prevent further expansion. This rudimentary repair was required to prevent a complete failure of the bell and to maintain the integrity of its tone. Close inspection will reveal that the repair was not successful. A hairline fracture now extends from the end of the repair all the way through “Liberty”.

Recent attempts by our treasonous president and his supporters to suppress the legitimate will of the nation’s citizens now threaten our freedom. What we once took for granted and had assumed was steadfast has now been exposed to be vulnerable. Our Constitution, signed just across the street in Independence Hall, is showing that it may be as fragile as the parchment on which it is written. I am hopeful that the leaders and citizens of this nation that truly cherish Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness, will have the courage to stand up against this tyranny and put a stop to the fractures in the foundation on which this nation is founded.

Images of Hope

This is the first time since I first started writing this blog that I have written two posts in the same week. I suspect that this is feeble attempt to bring some relief to the continued, chaotic firing of neurons in my head. Like many, but not all Americans, I was both horrified and disgusted as an extremist cult, emboldened and encouraged by our president, his immediate family, and many Republican leaders, tried to overthrow the legally elected government.

The feeling of watching the heinous scene unfold on live television felt eerily familiar. It was that same extended gasp for air that follows a punch to the stomach. All function is interrupted until your jump-started respiratory system can restore life-sustaining oxygen to its starved cells. It seemed like an eternity before the invading force of pitiful characters were removed from the heart of our democracy. After some reflection, I now realize that this is the same exact reaction that I had just a few months ago while watching the rioting and looting that followed the George Floyd killing. Déjà vu all over again.

I have tried to reconcile why I have had the identical reaction to both of these equally disturbing events. Why did I feel such deep-seated embarrassment and of all things, guilt? At first I did not think that I had anything in common with either group of perpetrators. I despise looters, anarchists, anti-Semites, racists and conspiracy theorists. Then I realized that I did have one thing in common with all of them. We are all Americans.

Please understand that I am not anti-American. I am extremely proud that our “Greatest Generation” led the victory against fascism and imperialism. What may be more important, is how we treated the nations we defeated. Although we held their leaders accountable, we did not punish their citizens. We actually rebuilt their nations at our expense. I am proud that we continue in our efforts to bring peace to the Middle East. I am also proud that we continue to hold terrorists accountable for their inhuman actions. And yes, I may even chant “USA!, USA!, USA!” when an American team defies all odds to defeat a villainous team during the Olympics. Unfortunately, the actions of many of my countrymen in the last several years have caused me to lose faith in my fellow citizens.

My wife and I are very fortunate to have raised a child of whom we are very proud. There were many occasions when people who knew him would approach us and say “You have a wonderful son”. We would graciously accept their compliment but would reply “he is a work in progress”. There were a few rare occasions where we would have to, well, “administer parental adjustment”. He, like all of us, are human and subject to occasional disappointment.

The reality is that this is a nation “in progress”. It is a continuing process to form a more perfect union. It began in 1776 and continues to this day. We have every right to be embarrassed and disappointed in our fellow citizens. Believe me, we are better than this. This is not the country envisioned by Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, FDR or Kennedy. I hate to say it, but this is probably not the last time we will disappoint ourselves. However, I am hopeful that the next “Greatest Generation” will not be the one fighting to free our own country of fascism. They will be the ones finally delivering equality, peace and acceptance.

Images of Hope

This will be my last “Images of Hope” post. Don’t be alarmed. I am not terminally ill, out of hope or photographs. I am certainly more hopeful today than I was a year ago. When I started this blog, it was my goal to provide a weekly update for a year. With this week’s post, I will have reached my goal set in those dark days at the beginning of the COVID shutdown. Please check back often. I’m sure I will find reason to update this page.

When I started this blog, I was vain to think that people might flock to this website to get inspiration that would help them get through the week. It turned out that the flock was more like a gaggle. Judging from the analytics that the good people at SquareSpace have provided, the majority of the views have come from locations I can trace back to family and friends. Thank you all for the regular “likes”. Although the ratings were not high, knowing that there were a few fans tuned into my station gave me reason to renew the blog for another week.

Looking back on all 50 posts, this was really a weekly journal of what was passing through my head. It was my way of processing what was going on in my world and finding some way to find hope in that particular news item, current event, or holiday. Anniversaries and holidays provided easy material. I never had any problem trying to find an image to pair with my thoughts. However, the loss of life caused by COVID, the riots that ensued after the death of George Floyd and the actions of our political leaders, wore heavy on my mind. On these occasions, I struggled with the words and images that I thought could bring some semblance of hope.

To be fully transparent, on one occasion, I had to turn to a photo that was not mine. I knew the black and white image of my high school basketball team was the only image that would help me express my thoughts regarding race. I apologize for not being able to give the credit due to this photographer.

Had it not been for the support of my family and friends, this blog probably would have ceased after a week or two. Thank you all for bringing credibility to my efforts by taking the time to read my blog and provide feedback. I know that my wife and son found it hard to read every posting. I touched on many nerves close to the heart, that on occasion, caused tears. A blog about hope should not cause pain. I hope that they were all tears of joy.

The image that I have selected for this last post may look familiar. It is the same image that I use for my homepage. I find it very fitting for today. As we emerge from the isolation brought on by COVID, we are provided with the opportunity to readdress how we are going to live our lives. We have learned through these trying times that nothing can be taken for granted. We can’t assume that we can put anything off until tomorrow. We need to live each day as if were our last.

As I have done throughout this blog, I have included many of my favorite quotes and lyrics. What follows below is a quote from Bob Sega, a friend that we lost to prostate cancer.  I think that his words are especially appropriate today:

“Life is short. Break the rules.

Forgive quickly. Kiss slowly.

Hug often. Love truly. Laugh uncontrollably.

Never regret what made you smile.

Each day is a gift given to us to share with others.”

I urge you to always take the road not travelled. You never know the beauty that awaits around the corner, the friends you will make or the memories you will create. You will find your life is fuller for having taken the risk. You might even find yourself writing a blog. Who would have thought?

Images of Hope

When I don’t have to roll directly out of bed and log onto the computer to meet a work deadline, or the sidewalks are not covered in the ice of winter, I usually head out for my morning walk at 4:45am. I must admit, it takes quite a bit of effort to lift my legs and place them into some semblance of forward motion when I first start out. My mind is saying “go” but my body is screaming “no”. It is essential that I get the process restarted fairly quickly because I have to beat a freight train to a crossing that is only a mile from the house. If I spend even a little longer than normal shaking off the fog of sleep, I get to spend ten minutes watching the creeping gallery of the brightly-colored urban artwork that graces the canvas of freight cars.

You would not think that there is much activity at a time that still borders on the night. However, I have found that there is significant action, but of the non-human kind. Wildlife takes the opportunity to take care of their daily business before the daylight exposes their presence. I regularly see raccoons emerging out of a sewer only to make a bee-line across the street to the next entrance to the underground network they call home. The foxes are the only animals that pay any attention to me. They will stop in their tracks and watch me with staring eyes. On occasion, I have had them follow me. They will only scamper back to the brush after I take a few warning steps back in their direction. The deer, that are normally so quick to take flight in the day, actually freeze in place like statues. I have come within 5’ feet of both fawns and fully-racked bucks with nary a flick of their white tails. They clearly have no fear of any human dumb enough to be out at that time of the day.

There is a trace of human activity as the night sky transitions to what photographers call the “blue hour”. Most of the humans I encounter are accompanied by their canine companions. I first cross the path of Justin and “Red”. “Red” is not red but cream colored. He is a pit-bull mix that is built like an ottoman. If he has already taken care of his morning business, “Red” is very genial and will saunter over with tail wagging like a metronome to have his chops rubbed. If I catch him before the morning constitutional, his lowered tail indicates his desire to remain focused on the business at hand.

About halfway into my 7-mile suburban hike I run into Margie, Rich and Ed and their menagerie of rescue dogs. One of their pit bull mixes is blind in one eye and the other is deaf. It doesn’t matter. They can still identify me 100 yards away. I guess that with their optical and auditory disabilities, they have developed their sense of smell that can lock onto my pre-shower scent like a Russian SAM. The other two retrievers in the crew have no problem giving me wet, slobbering kisses although I have yet had the opportunity to brush my teeth. After our enthusiastic greeting, it is the humans turn to get acquainted with the latest news in our lives.

In this strange, socially-distant world of COVID, sometimes the only physical human contact that I have during the day, with the exception of my wife, is with these strangers that I now consider friends. Sure, I may talk with a dozen people on the phone and through Zoom each day, but even a brief encounter with these crazy people who are also up before the dawn, is an assurance of normalcy. Just like a pack of dogs or a herd of deer, we too are social beings that are most comfortable being in contact with our own.

One of the other fair-weather companions on my walk is the constellation Orion. Beginning with those cool crisp mornings of the late summer and through a good part of the stark winter, I am greeted in the sky by this old friend introduced to me as a child while camping with the Indian Guides. Orion is a seasonal visitor and he no longer joins me on my morning walk. However, his annual return is as constant as the Northern Star. I look forward to his return as much as my encounters with my other pre-dawn friends.

Images of Hope

I just received my first professional haircut in over a year. As the clippings fell onto the black cape, I was shocked to see an inordinate number of silver hairs mixed in with the normal brown. This was not their first appearance. They started arriving on the scene about three years ago. It was the sheer number of gray hairs that caught my attention. When you find a leaf on your lawn in September you don’t give it much thought. But when the lawn is covered in them in October, you know autumn has arrived.

Once again, I found “Yacht Rock” was the background music of choice as I worked this week. My musical preferences seem to have a strong seasonal association. After the uplifting, spiritual music of Christmas, I usually fall into a post-holiday funk. Punk seems to ring in the New Year. As I begin to emerge from the dark days of winter and anticipate the warmth of the endless summer, the music of Steely Dan, Michael McDonald and The Beach Boys begins to take over. On this day when I was already feeling particularly introspective, Dan Fogelberg’s “Leader of the Band” was played, and on this occasion, seemed to particularly resonate with me.

I have always considered Fogelberg a masterful storyteller. When listening to his ”Same Auld Lang Syne”, I feel the same pain that I felt when Sam says “Have a good life” to Diane as she makes her departure from Cheers. It’s like a knife impaling my heart and instantly causing it to seize. The story that Fogelberg illustrates about his father in “Leader of the Band” is equally moving. In a little over 4 minutes he sums up all that is good about the father-son relationship. In fact, I consider it part of the “Father’s Day Holy Trinity” of songs that includes Neil Young’s “Old Man” and Harry Chapin’s “Cats In the Cradle”.

Anyone capable of creating such beautiful music about their father must have an equally interesting story themselves. My curiosity caused me to turn to the depository of “all truth and knowledge”, Wikipedia, to learn more about this person. As you would expect when you try to condense one’s life into a couple of paragraphs, I didn’t feel that I had any better understanding of this individual. However, there was one sentence that leapt off of the page. Dan Fogelberg died of early onset prostate cancer.

It turns out that my father was diagnosed with advanced prostate cancer at the same time Dan Fogelberg was battling his disease. Although surgery was not successful in curing my father’s cancer, Lupron therapy has kept the cancer in check and we are fortunate to still have him with us to this day.

Because studies suggest that there is a genetic association with prostate cancer, I had my first PSA test when I was 42. The results showed a somewhat elevated PSA for someone of my age but we chose a path of watchful waiting. By the time I was 45, my PSA rose to 6 which indicated it was time for additional testing. The pathology from the biopsies revealed that I indeed had cancer that it already reached stage 2. After much research and several consultations, my wife and I chose the most aggressive treatment. Almost 10 years after having my prostate removed, all indications are that I am cancer free.

When many people learn that I am a prostate cancer survivor, I oftentimes hear the response “That is an easily treatable cancer, isn’t it”? I have to contain my anger every time I hear this. When detected early, prostate cancer is a treatable disease. There is nothing easy about having your prostate removed or undergoing Lupron treatments. In the advanced stages, the cancer seldom responds to treatment. It is difficult see friends who have lived with passion, gradually and uncontrollably have that taken from them. The disease imposes both a physical and emotional toll, neither of which men have an easy time discussing.

Although the medical community continually releases conflicting information on prostate cancer, it is a serious disease. Regardless of the latest report, early and regular testing is essential to improving outcomes. Prostate cancer remains the second leading cause of cancer death in men. Each year it will take over 30,000 fathers, sons, husbands, grandfathers and friends from their loved ones. That is the loss of way too many birthday celebrations, walks on the beach and beautiful music yet to be written.

If we can develop a vaccine that can halt a pandemic in just a year’s time, I am hopeful that we can focus our resources on eliminating this cancer that will continue to cause so much pain long after the masks are off.

Images of Hope

It is Friday evening and after another long work week, I find myself listening to the “Yacht Rock” station on Pandora radio. The Yacht Rock anthem, Christopher Cross’ “Sailing”, came on while I was listening. Immediately I was transported back to the summer of 1980. Although my memories have faded like a Kodachrome photograph exposed to the sun, this song immediately resurrected all of those emotions of being a 15-year with hardly a care in the world.

As much as I loved this song, I was never able to muster enough courage to purchase the album at the record store. I would have been the laughing stock of the 9th grade at Sill Jr. High School had one of my friends seen the album in my collection. The Cars, Styx and Queen were cool. Christopher Cross was about as cool as watching Love Boat. Had it come out that I had an album with a big pink flamingo on the cover, I would certainly never get another date to a dance. Fortunately, by Christmas I had devised a plan to secretly acquire the album. I was canny enough to put the album on my wish and wait for Santa to make the carefully disguised transaction. From that point, many a night I found myself falling asleep to the hypnotic red dots on my turntable and images of sailing on a sun-drenched waters.

Shortly after my future wife and I started dating, I was invited up to her bedroom before her parents returned from work. After our “math tutoring session”, I noticed she too had a copy of Christopher Cross’ debut album. It turns out that in addition to a strong physical attraction, we both had an affinity for “Sailing” as well.

I recently downloaded the Christopher Cross classic in high resolution format. I asked my wife to close her eyes and sit at the perfect distance from the speakers. I loaded the CD into the player. As soon as the quintessential piano introduction began, the tears began to cascade down her cheeks. It transported her back to the days in her youth spent at Myrtle Beach with her family. It turns out that her father was also a fan of “Sailing”. He would always turn up the volume of the cars FM radio when he was successful in intercepting the proper frequency of a favorite song.

Music is comfort food for our ears. When I am trying to seek simplicity in my life, I don’t have a craving for raw Hamachi with white soy, negami kumquat and trout roe. I heat up a can of Campbell’s tomato soup and grill a couple slices of Kraft American cheese slapped between two slices of Wonderbread. Just like this meal will always take me back to being a kid, walking into our warm kitchen after playing in the snow all morning, “Sailing” will transport me back to an equally reassuring time in my life.

 “It's not far to never-never land, no reason to pretend

And if the wind is right you can find the joy of innocence again

Oh, the canvas can do miracles, just you wait and see.

Believe me.”

I am eagerly awaiting Supertramp’s “Breakfast in America” to be released in high resolution. Oh the places that album will take me.

Images of Hope

After shoveling out from yet another snowstorm, dealing with customers that literally define the word “frenemies”, and losing a set of car keys that brought all operations in my driveway to a ground stop, it was time to hit the control, alt, and delete keys simultaneously this week.

My initial, defiant response to the week’s challenges with “Do you want a piece of me?” not surprisingly turned out to be the wrong approach to ensure my inner peace. Just like Frank Costanza, I found myself throwing my arms up in the air and yelling “Serenity Now!”. The scary thing is that it worked. After taking some time to reflect on this stress that was growing out of control, I remembered that although I may not be in control of what life throws at me, I am in control of how I react to it.

One of the greatest challenges to this “new normal” is that I believe that I am now over-connected. As I sit in front of my home office computer, there is a constant barrage of information. I get pop-up notifications for incoming email, voice mail, online meetings, delinquent items on my To Do list, breaking news and even approaching tornados. While seeking some R&R for my weary soul, my smart phone conveniently fills in for my computer while I am on vacation. And just like my mother, my phone is so concerned about my well being that it tells me the time to get ready for bed so that I get the optimal rest.

Although I refuse to part with the analog, Swiss-made timepiece strapped to my wrist, many people now rely upon smart watches to remain connected when they are separated from their phone. With a quick glance at their wrist they can see their blood oxygen content, blood sugar level, what direction they are facing and how many steps they need to take to remain fit. I think it may even tell the time, albeit without the faint ticking we associate with a heartbeat. Wait, some smart watches actually show you an electrocardiogram to prove that you are not dead.

It gets even better. Apparently, now technology can inspire us and even pat us on the butt when we do a good job. I took this off of the website of one smart watch manufacturer:

“A milestone in motivation. At key moments, your metrics will come to life on the screen, like your heart rate or activity rings. And when you close a ring, it animates to celebrate your effort. It’s the perfect blend of information and inspiration, right when you need it.”

I know the stress I felt when I could not find my car keys. I can only imagine the anxiety I would feel if I became separated from my personal metrics and life coach.

Technology is the new meth. Companies are marketing products on which you are conditioned to depend for your health and happiness. Keep in mind that most of these services only come with a monthly subscription. That only materializes the relationship between the junkie and the dealer.

This brings me back to taking responsibility for our own happiness and well-being. We, not some microprocessor, need to decide the personal skills necessary to cope with stress, ensure our fitness and move us to become the better version of ourselves for which we aspire. On those occasions when it seems too much to bear, it’s OK to scream “Serenity now!”. I suspect that this method will produce a better result than your watch sending you a smiley face emoji and saying “great job”. You may even want to put down your phone with the navigation app. Sometimes going “free style” will result in you getting lost and discovering another happy place.

Images of Hope

Since Senator Ted Cruz did not invite my wife and I to flee this long, cold, lonely winter and join him in the comfort and warmth of Cancun, I find myself seeking artificial means to pull myself out of this late winter deep freeze. After a month of shoveling out of snow storms stacked up like breakers during a gale, it is time to raise the white flag of surrender. You win Mother Nature. I am giving a desperate cry of “Uncle”. You are far stronger than this aging back can tolerate any longer.

I feel myself incanting the Beatle’s “Here Comes the Sun” as a tonic to bring some relief to my aching biceps, shredded after moving shovel after shovel of tightly compacted show crystals.

“Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting

Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been clear

Here comes the sun

Here comes the sun, and I say

It’s all right”

Although this Abbey Road classic has not brought any physical relief, it has at least given me hope that the higher inclination of the approaching March sun will eventually expose my lawn that has been patiently lying dormant under the accumulated ice.

Although Ronda, Spain lies at almost the identical latitude of Virginia Beach here in the US, the late August temperature is significantly higher. The humidity of its trans-Atlantic neighbor provides a bit of a filter from the intense sun that we experienced during a family vacation in Andalucía. The unimpeded radiation reflected off of the whitewashed buildings made it feel like we were being sizzled in a microwave. It didn’t take us long to understand why the Spanish quickly close up shop as the sun reaches its midday intensity and seek the shelter of their homes during siesta.

As the sun starts its track lower on the horizon and the temperatures start to mediate, Spain once again rises from its temporary slumber. After completing an extended workday, the people re-emerge to the restaurants with the same energy I greet the morning. Every evening is a celebration of life. Quite honestly, it is an energy for which this long-quarantined body is in desperate need.

I will never forget the evening we experienced at one of the restaurants that cling to the El Tajo Gorge. As we drank an elixir we were told was sangria, we were hypnotized by the swallows performing their aerial acrobatics directly below us. The sound of flamenco being transmitted unimpeded across the gorge from a dancing competition at the festival grounds serenaded us. As the restaurant began to empty, we reluctantly accepted that our magical evening was coming to its conclusion. It would have been a perfect day had we recognized the sign at the parking garage that said “Horario 07:30 -23:30”.

Images of Hope

Today is Valentines Day. It is a day that causes the most seasoned lover severe anxiety.

I am accustomed to going to the neighborhood Hallmark store the weekend prior to the holiday to pick out a card for my wife. I am never alone. Only the married men procrastinate to the last couple of days. There are usually a dozen frantic guys jostling around a 4-foot-wide sections of cards marked “Wife”. Considering that the cards have been on display since the last tube of wrapping paper was snatched up during the frenzy of the Christmas clearance sale, the pickings are scarce. Those who can’t wedge their way to the front of the pack try to pull an end around and go to the section marked “Sweetheart”. Nice try. In addition to husbands, you are now competing against boyfriends as well. These guys are even more desperate because they waited too long to book a dinner reservation and are too cheap to spend $150 on roses.

Even had I planned things better, I would have found myself this morning without a Valentine’s Day card. Almost all of the local Hallmark stores were early victims to the COVID pandemic. Most of them closed shortly after Christmas. I am not surprised. I had noticed a significant drop off in foot traffic over the last several years. It seemed that the same over 65 crowd that I see at the jazz shows were the same ones still buying greeting cards. I suspect that younger generations are quite satisfied to receive a Valentine’s Day text. I am confident that 10 years from now card shops will see the same resurgence as record shops. There is something to be said for something tangible and not stored as a series of 1’s and 0’s in a virtual cloud.

For the first time since I was a runny-nosed 2nd grader, I find myself making my wife her Valentine’s Day card. Although I am feeling nostalgic for red construction paper, paper doilies and paste, this year’s card will be a little more contemporary.

This weeks Image of Hope sums up this past year. For the most part, it has been just the two of us, quarantined together, and looking off into an unknown future. I am lucky to spend these days with my Valentine for the last 37 years. Even without a box of those little candy hearts, you will always “Be Mine”.

Images of Hope

It snowed for four straight days this past week. When it was all said and done, 14” of the natural flocking had been applied to every horizontal surface outside. Such a large accumulation has been rare in recent Philadelphia history. Last year we experienced not much more than a dusting. This year however, we have already reached our average. When they awoke the slumbering rodent on Tuesday, the prognosticator from Punxsutawney predicted six more weeks of winter. Looks like Phil was right this year. Before the coin toss in Tampa on Sunday, we are expected to pick up an additional 7 inches of snow. My back has not even had the opportunity to heal after last week’s excavation of the driveway.

As a kid growing up in northeast Ohio, the mere sight of snowflakes would set me off, running around the house in a snow-induced frenzy. The only thing better than Christmas was a snow day from school. The impromptu holiday would be announced over our black and white TV by none other than Dick Goddard, a Cleveland icon and the holder of the Guinness World record for longest weather forecasting career. After dressing each of us kids to look just like Randy from A Christmas Story, my mother would release us into the winter wonderland to spend the day throwing snow balls, building forts and meeting up with all of my school mates at the sledding hill. Had it not been for the street lights indicating it was time to trudge home, we would have continued until found the next day, lying exhausted in a snow drift.

Unfortunately I no longer embrace snow with the same enthusiasm of my youth. When the snow finally stopped this past Tuesday, I found our mailbox lying on the sidewalk, 15 feet from where the empty post was now standing at a 45 degree angle from its pre-storm position. Had it not been for the 3 inches of frozen slush plastered to the side of the postmaster generals approved receptacle, I would have thought that someone bombed it. By the time that I retrieved a shovel to start digging out from the snowmageddon, PennDOT’s finest snow plow came back for another strafing. This time I was the apparent target, as the truck detonated a wall of brined slush directly at me. After spitting the gritty, saline solution from my mouth, I ran into the street to provide the quickly retreating attacker with a middle finger salute.

It’s amazing that as I get older, my perspective on things change. I once hated Brussel sprouts, now can’t get enough of them. Jazz was once for old people. Now my music collection includes Dave Brubeck, Astrud Gilberto and Paul Desmond. Just like the gray hairs that appear with increasing frequency at my temples, I know that there is no sense in fighting the inevitable. It is not a losing battle, it is about embracing change as I age. It is my only hope that I will be able to embrace this mature attitude when I am standing at the end of my driveway Monday morning, armed with my snow shovel, and staring eye-to-eye with my snow plowing attacker.

Images of Hope

It has been a while since my last post on Inauguration Day. After all of the insanity leading up to the election, my brain needed a little time to recover. I have not been sleeping well for some time. Not that I can’t sleep, just a lot of tossing and turning. My mother tells stories of me falling asleep while eating my dinner as a kid. Not much has changed. Once I sit still, whether watching TV or listening to music, it is literally a matter of seconds before I am out for the count. That is why this recent unsettled slumber is a tad concerning.

It has only been in the last year or so that my sleep has been interrupted. I now remember my dreams, something that rarely occurred before. The strange thing is that those dreams are not nightmares. They are fantastic dreams of sailing ships flying in a sky filled with cotton ball clouds or I am on a boat, cruising along in harbors strewn with the carnage of some apocalypse. In both cases I am not an active participant in the dream. Everything is third person, as if I am Scrooge visiting the future with some Christmastide specter. Honest to God, these are not drug or alcohol-induced images being projected onto the backside of my eyelids. I suspect it is just the neurons in my brain untangling themselves from the tousling they are subjected as they try to discern reality in this Wonderland.

In these days, we all need a happy place in which to retreat to protect ourselves from the unimaginable. For my wife and I, that place is the out-of-the way island of Anguilla, situated just off the shore of St. Martin. In a simpler time when money was not a concern, we were fortunate to escape there for a handful of days to celebrate one of her milestone birthdays. It was just she and I, enjoying the aquamarine waters of Rendezvous Bay. I think that the only time we looked at a watch or phone was when we had a reservation at the restaurant that remains to this day, the standard for which we measure romance.

That trip feels like an eternity away. It is hard to believe that life could possibly be so carefree. It is my hope that some day my wife and I will be able to once again enjoy such serenity, if even for a day. If not, we can always dream of our happy place.

Images of Hope

The chair in which George Washington sat as he presided over the passionate debates during the Constitutional Convention continues to grace the Assembly Room of Independence Hall to this day. At the top of the backrest, there is a guilt carving of the sun, its rays radiating above the horizon. Apparently, an aging Ben Franklin confided in James Madison that the bitter arguments over the articles of the Constitution caused him to question whether the sun was rising or setting. As the last delegates penned their name to the parchment, Franklin finally announced that the sun was in fact rising on the fledgling nation.

As we inaugurate the 46th president of this 244-year-old institution, we must once again determine whether the sun is rising or falling on this uniquely American experiment in democracy. The framers of the Constitution put the responsibility of preserving it firmly on the shoulders of we, the people. It is the citizenry of this nation that will now determine if our republic is still in its infancy or if it has run its course.

As I have written previously in this blog, each morning presents us with an unmarked score on which we will compose our verse for the day. From the moment we wake, or for some, shortly after our first infusion of revitalizing coffee, we are presented the opportunity to consciously select our attitude. The events of the last four years, culminating in the insurrection at the Capitol last week, has awakened us as citizens, that we must also choose to adopt truth over fiction, integrity over corruption, equality over supremacy, and acceptance over hatred.

If that is not enough, we must also hang on to hope at all costs. Hope is the life blood of democracy. It is our hope for a better life that our citizens come together to freely elect representatives that reflect our values. It is the same hope that will ensure that the sun will continue to shine on this republic and not see its warmth extinguished in despair.

Images of Hope

This is actually the second blog that I have written for today. I really didn’t like what I had written earlier in the day. I felt obliged to write something for the New Year. Unfortunately I was forcing the words onto the page and it read the same.

The reality is that this is my least favorite holiday, always has been since I was a kid. Rather than seeing it as the beginning of a New Year, I saw it as the end of the Christmas holiday. After preparing for Christmas since the day after Thanksgiving, the world promptly returned to its normal self on January 2nd when the Christmas decorations came down all at once. Our house looked like Whoville after the Grinch’s pillaging.

Tonight many people will not so much be celebrating the arrival of 2021, but the end of 2020. This is understandable since there has been so much loss and suffering. However, there are many who can look back at 2020 with joy. For all we know, this year may have seen the birth of the child who will develop a cure for cancer or an antidote to global warming. For many others, the transition to the new year will be greeted with more constrained optimism. There are plenty of challenges awaiting us as we awake the morning after our late-night reverie.

This is a reminder that we must all learn to celebrate the moment. We can’t simply wish away a year or more of our lives waiting for things to return to normal. Time is far too valuable. Take the time to savor what we have.

The picture below is of the Zytglogge in Bern, Switzerland. Legend has it that Einstein, who lived only 450’ from the bell, received the inspiration to formulate his theory of relativity upon gazing at the astrolabe. I’m no Einstein. I do know that as I get older, time seems to fly by at the speed of light. Last year more so than any other.

It does not surprise me that it is a jester who rings the chime bells of the Zytglogge. It is the fool that is in such a hurry that they lose all concept of time. Maybe this is a subtle reminder from the clockmaker for us all to slow down just a little bit and smell the flowers.

Images of Hope

A couple of days ago I made a day trip to see my family for Christmas. It was a familiar drive across the Pennsylvania Turnpike. I have probably made this trip over the Allegheny Mountains from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh more than fifty times. With the exception of the continued sprawl from the urban beginning and end points, not much changes along this route. It seems like the Mail Pouch barn and Jean Bonnet Tavern have been there ever since the glacial melt scoured out the expansive basin of the Susquehanna River.

My first stop was to catch up with my sister in the empty parking lot of a steakhouse in Bedford. It would give us our first chance to see each other in over a year. We greeted and departed each other from a safe distance with air hugs. Although the sentiment was real, it really did not provide that reassuring connection of an authentic embrace. Unfortunately one of the best ways we can show each other how much they are loved these days is to protect each other from ourselves. No wonder so many are struggling emotionally during this pandemic.

I arrived at my parents place a few hours later. With the lower part of our faces covered with the requisite masks, I could see my parents happiness to see me in their eyes. Once again, not as comforting as a hug, but far better than the elbow bumps that we exchanged.

My brother took time out of his holiday errands to stop by to see me at my parents place. It had also been over a year since I last saw him at my niece’s wedding. He had lost weight but was looking as GQ as ever in his Polo holiday sweater. We both share an inherited love for everything Christmas.

We all caught up on the latest happenings with family. After listening to some classic Christmas carols from Tony Bennett and Nat Cole, our visit was over way too soon. As tears welled up in my mother’s eyes, I was back in the car for the return trip. Somehow we were all able to get together for a few hours, albeit out of sequence and physically separated.

My son and his girlfriend safely made their way down to North Carolina to spend Christmas with her family. My wife and I are spoiled having them live near us. We get to share their company regularly throughout the year. Unfortunately that does not fill the quiet of not having a full house for the holiday. They will be sorely missed.

 I can’t say that my wife and I will be spending the holiday alone for the first time in 31 years. Our permanent, four-legged residents Enzo and Murphy will be sure to keep things exciting. I am also sure that Facetime will suffice to close some of the distance between our loved ones.

At this time when it would be very easy to focus on what is missing, we are going to embrace what we do have. More importantly, it is a perfect time to reflect on why we celebrate this day in the first place.

Somehow the Dali-inspired setting of “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” does not feel so surreal today. In fact, over fifty years ago Dr. Seuss prescribed the perfect medicine to treat this pandemic-mutated holiday.

Welcome Christmas, bring your cheer

Cheer to all Whos far and near

Christmas Day is in our grasp

So long as we have hands to clasp

Christmas Day will always be

Just as long as we have we

Welcome Christmas, while we stand

Heart to heart and hand in hand.

Images of Hope

This week we had the first appreciable snowfall in over two years. It was good to see it return. It was a bit like seeing a friend for the first time in several years. Immediately familiar after so much passage of time. We had much to catch up on.

As I have mentioned before, I grew up in a northeast Ohio town named Cuyahoga Falls. It sounds a bit like Bedford Falls from the 1946 Frank Capra classic “It’s a Wonderful Life”. Cuyahoga Falls is not nearly as quaint, but all of my childhood memories of Christmas were filmed there. To a child, scanning the sky through their frost covered bedroom window for Santa’s sleigh on Christmas Eve, it was a place where dreams were made.

The first snowfalls came early in my youth. The first flurries arrived in October and in some cases, continued to make guest appearances as late as April. However, January always seemed to bring the best that Mother Nature could muster. The blizzards of ’77 and ’78 both deposited enough building material to keep our snow forts and associated networks of tunnels intact until the sun rose high enough in March to reduce them to the liquid state.

I still have fond memories of building a luge run in our backyard with my brother. The course, illuminated only by the porch light, would provide hours of thrills until my mother would finally call us in. I remember being careful not to let my chin touch the metal of the runner sleds rudimentary steering system as I saw how fast a hocker from my congested sinuses instantly froze solid. No triple dog dare required here. Long before Scott Schwartz’s infamous challenge, I knew the dangers of subzero metal meeting skin.

No, my love affair with snow far predates my hormones seeking other pursuits of the heart. To this day, the first sight of snow creates an instantaneous increase in my pulse. As if she herself had not already looked outside, I always end out excitedly shouting to my true love “Look Hon, it’s snowing!” Her reply seldom reflects the same infatuation I have with the clusters of ice crystals slowly making their voyage from the heavens to earth.

There may be no other musical composition that better captures the beauty of what is now an inconsistent seasonal visitor than the aptly named “Snowfall” by Claude Thornhill. Unfortunately, this beautiful song is seldom heard these days. Then again, there is not much of a following anymore for music that was popular when music was streamed through the yellow glow of a vacuum tube. This is probably just another indicator that I was born a couple of generations late.

As we face a very non-traditional Christmas, I find myself dearly hanging onto my childhood memories. There is comfort in knowing what once was, can in fact, return. It can never be the same. Time never gives us the opportunity to duplicate circumstances. However, we can carry the same spirit within our hearts.

As I set up my Lionel train this weekend, the same wonder I felt as a child when our first train arrived under the tree will return. Even if it lasts just an instant, I will have hope for a more traditional Christmas next year.

Images of Hope

Shortly after Thanksgiving, my wife, son and his girlfriend went to pick out our Christmas trees at the same lot to which we have been going for the last 20 years or so. This time was different. It was also the first time that we would be buying two trees. One for our house and the other would be the first tree for my son and his girlfriend. Like most new couples, there are many difficult decisions to make; cat or dog, where to spend the holidays and live or artificial tree. After much very well crafted debate, they decided to also get a live tree. We couldn’t be happier with all of the life choices they have made (yes, they are dog people as well).

The other thing that was different this year was the number of families at the tree lot. Normally there is a handful of extended families that brave the cold and mud to spend an endless amount of time trying to come to some type of consensus as to what defines the perfect tree. This year the SUV’s filled the lot and spilled out onto the road. It looked like black Friday at Walmart. There was no time to casually browse through the field of neatly displayed trees. If you didn’t latch onto the first tree that caught your eye, by the time you returned to the tree, someone had the boughs in a death grip and the same look in their eye that our dog has when protecting his tennis ball. So much for “Let there be peace on earth”.

In a year where nothing was normal, live tree sales skyrocketed this season. Just like the unprecedented demand for pets and even Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies, we have turned to things that bring us comfort. It is no surprise then that we have turned to that smell of pine that immediately returns us to our youth.

Now it was time for the really fun part. While trying to get the tree into the house and perfectly plumb in the stand, I fired off a salvo of “naddafingas” that would make Ralphie Parker’s father proud. Then it was time to string the lights. As this too can be an overly frustrating process, I usually require something liquid and on the rocks to take the edge off of the holiday stress. With glass in hand and our favorite Christmas carols playing in the background, I am perfectly equipped to thread 107 strings of lights into the stabbing boughs of a 9’ fir.

Each year I select Michael Franks’ “Watching the Snow” to set the perfect holiday mood. This is a very non-traditional CD (I know, the music format and artist dates me as a boomer but I make the Gen X cutoff by a year). This CD includes songs like “Christmas in Kyoto”, “I’ll have an Island Christmas” and “I Bought You a Plastic Star for Your Aluminum Tree”. Hardly the stuff of Nat Cole, roasted chestnuts and open fires. Sounding just a bit like Yogi Berra, it is amazing how things that you do every year become traditions.

As much as I am hopeful for a traditional Christmas, I know that won’t be the case. Social distancing will put a temporary freeze on parties and extended family gatherings. My son will be spending the holiday with his girlfriend’s family, as he should. That means that at the end of the day, it may be just my wife and I, sitting on the couch next to the radiant tree, watching a Christmas Story. All in all, maybe not such a bad tradition.

Images of Hope

Considering that this blog is about hope, I have spent very little time actually talking about it. I have pretty much just assumed that my photographs emote my understanding of hope.

I like to consider myself an optimist. My wife will argue with me. She says that I am far more pessimistic than what I would like others, including myself, to think. Like many things that I am usually slow to accept, she is probably right.

I find that it is easy to be hopeful when things are going well. The converse is also true. I tend to be very negative when things are not going my way. That makes it very hard for me to discuss hope. It would be very hypocritical of me to think that I am an expert on the subject.

According to Merriam Webster, the long accepted authority on definition, we get, “to cherish a desire with anticipation: to want something to happen or be true”. I am sorry, but none of that is really working for me right now. I think they are missing something.

Hope really doesn’t occur without faith. Whether that is a spiritual faith or a general believing in that which is unknown, I firmly believe that hope and faith are connected at the hip. I think then that the definition needs to be revised. Hope is really the belief in the possibility that something that we want to happen or be true, can happen.

I suspect that hope is much like attitude, it is a conscious choice. If we just let ourselves drift in the sea of life, we shouldn’t be surprised that the currents take us places we never intended. Every day we need to chart a course, navigate through the ever-changing conditions and be prepared for corrective action. It is my responsibility to embrace hope every day.

For many, including myself, this is the Season of Hope. It is a time when we look forward to light breaking through the darkness. In this year where we are beginning to emerge out of much despair, maybe more than ever, I have reason for hope.

Images of Hope

This week’s image is both literally, and figuratively, of Paradise. The familiar silhouette of Mount Rainier in the background helps to locate this paradise to be here on earth. I would like to take full credit for this photo. Although I pushed the shutter, it was my wife who suggested that I take the photo closer to ground level. At 6’7” tall, I spend much of my time with my head in the clouds. My wife always has a way of seeing things from a different perspective for which I am eternally grateful.

This may seem like a peculiar picture for Thanksgiving Day. I probably should be posting an image of the glorious late autumn scenery we enjoy here in southeastern Pennsylvania. However, I find this one quite appropriate for this day that we give thanks for all that we have been given.

Having recently turned 55, I have been anxious to check off some of the items remaining on my bucket list. Not that I am concerned how much time I have remaining, it is just a long list. Like so many, I am temporarily grounded until the fog of COVID lifts so that we can once again take to the skies. It is very frustrating not to be able to do what I want. Time is a terrible thing to waste.

It always seems easy to focus on the things you want and can’t have. The media bombards us with both subliminal, as well as blatant, messages of the things that someone else deems are essential to our happiness. You couldn’t possibly have a joyous Christmas without a brand new Lexus sitting in your driveway. When we can’t have these things, we can be overcome with feelings of emptiness. The isolation and economic hardships of COVID seems to be amplifying these feelings.

I am reminded today of Phil Collin’s song from the 90’s “Another Day in Paradise”. Phil released this song at a time when the popular music artists were less focused on hedonistic delights and more on the social issues of the day. During this all too brief period we were given songs like “We Are the World”, “Do They Know It’s Christmas”, “The Way it Is” and “The End of the Innocence”. These songs reminded us just how fortunate we are.

On this day when we take a fleeting break from our relentless routine of chasing the American Dream, let’s remind ourselves of what we have and those that have touched our lives. As the Rockettes kick their heals this morning in front of Macy’s to formally kickoff the season of spending, let us be mindful that we can create more joy by reaching out to those in need than by putting oversized red bows in our driveway.