“Pa, where did you come from?” Like a magic carpet, her six unassuming words carried my thoughts away to another place and time—to that wonderful place and time I came from.
Slow-Talkin’, Comfort-Food-Eatin’, Family-Oriented, Respectful Southerners
I remember, like it was yesterday, dropping my granddaughter off at FSU to begin her freshman year. The three days before, I drove alone, nearly two thousand miles on a business trip, armed with only my memories and Cousin Brucie of the Sirius satellite radio sixties channel.
You know, when I think about it, I was fortunate to grow up in the little beachside community of Ft. Pierce, Florida, that is, taking the large leap of faith that I have grown up.
We’ve all seen the Madison Avenue image of a baby boomer—those of us born between 1946 and 1964. We’re usually portrayed in the media as 70-year-old men, leaned back in an aging recliner, trying to make heads or tails of three remote controls or a grandmother-types looking up at a kindly, 30-something, cutesy nurse.
I love to write, which is odd because until my first book written in my early forties, I never considered writing even a short story. I did not know whether I could write; I knew I could not spell, and whoever heard of a writer who could not spell? I just assumed writers are all brilliant brainiacs who read six newspapers each morning and never have a comma out of place. Let me assure you; I’m not one.
More accurately, I hate Apple TV. To clarify further, I hate the slideshow mode of Apple TV and the spotlight it places on my last forty years. Yes, come to think of it, the slideshow is the culprit.
Smells that take me back.
It was 1969. The lunch bell still rang as I gunned my 1963 Rambler Classic, stuffed to capacity with six of my loud, happy, and ever-optimistic classmates, out of the senior parking lot.
Dozens, if not hundreds, of times weekly, we are presented many opportunities, with just small effort, to make someone’s life a bit better. A helping hand, a kind word, or just a smile can change the trajectory of another’s day—maybe even his or her life.
I remember when my younger brother Roger began to question the authenticity of Santa Claus and his eight tiny flying reindeer. At first, I tried to carry the party line “Of course, there’s a Santa Claus; how else would we get all these presents?” Once it became clear that this logic was not working any longer, I became more pragmatic. “Listen, Roger, when you stop believing, the presents will stop”.