podcasts

Tale of Love and Legacy After Death

Audio Podcast 10 minutes

When Tom closed his eyes for the last time, he expected silence. Instead, he awoke to the sound of ticking—soft, steady, like the heartbeat of the universe resonating around him. As he slowly opened his eyes, he found himself standing in a vast hall that seemed to stretch indefinitely, filled with clocks of every imaginable shape and size. Some were grand pendulum clocks, their weights swinging gracefully with a sound reminiscent of ancient rhythms; others were delicate pocket watches, intricately designed, their tiny mechanisms whirring with a dance of precision. Still others were strange contraptions, with gears and levers that seemed to pulse in sync with the emotions of those who passed by, measuring not just seconds but the fleeting nature of emotions, the weight of memories, and the ethereal quality of dreams. Each clock held a story within, a testament to the lives they had touched, whispering secrets of time lost and found, weaving a tapestry of existence that Tom couldn’t help but reach out to touch, mesmerized by the enormity of this timeless gathering.

A figure approached, cloaked in shimmering light that danced and flickered like stars captured in a gentle breeze. “Welcome,” the figure said, voice warm as sunrise, filling the air with a sense of hope and promise. “You’ve arrived at the Workshop of Time, a sanctuary where moments are crafted and destinies are shaped. Here, every tick of the clock holds a secret, and every whisper of the wind carries echoes of the past. Step inside and let the magic unfold.”

Tom blinked. “Am I… dead?”

The figure smiled. “You are beyond death. Here, time is not something that slips away—it is something you can hold, shape, and share.”

Tom wandered among the clocks, each meticulously crafted timepiece echoing with the cadence of his life. Each one ticked with a rhythm that felt familiar, a heartbeat of nostalgia pulsing through the air. He touched a small brass watch and gasped—it showed the moment he first held his daughter, her tiny fingers curling around his thumb, a connection that made time stand still. Another clock displayed the laughter of his wife on their wedding day, frozen in golden light, their joyful smiles captured forever as if the very essence of love had been encased within the delicate gears. Every tick resonated with emotion, and every clock was a memory, preserved and alive, serving as a portal to moments long past but never forgotten, each one a chapter in the story of his life that played back in vivid detail, rich with sentiment and longing.

“Why am I here?” Tom asked.

The figure gestured to the hall, his expression a mix of serenity and wisdom. “Because you lived with love,” he continued, his voice resonating within the vast, ethereal space. “Time after death is not punishment or reward—it is continuation, a beautiful thread in the tapestry of existence. In this realm, you are given the priceless gift of your moments, each one a precious bead that can be woven into eternity. Every laugh shared, every tear shed, and every gesture of kindness sparkles here, creating a luminous mosaic that transcends the boundaries of life as you knew it. Your experiences do not vanish; they transform into something greater, enriching the very fabric of the universe.”

Tom felt a surge of joy as he stood at the threshold of this extraordinary realm. He had always feared death as an ending, but here, it revealed itself as a vast library of beginnings, filled with countless tales waiting to be discovered. With each step he took, he explored deeper into the ethereal space, finding clocks that belonged not only to him but to others who had touched his life. He marveled at the intricacies of the mechanisms, each tick echoing memories long cherished. He saw his mother’s gentle lullabies, which once wrapped him in comfort during stormy nights, his father’s quiet pride reflected in his watchful gaze, and his friends’ shared adventures that burst forth like vibrant fireworks of laughter and love. Each clock was a portal to its own story, intricately connected, with threads of time weaving into a beautiful tapestry of lives intertwined. The realization washed over him—these moments were not lost but rather preserved, eternally vibrant, resonating with every heartbeat in this enchanting library of existence.

He noticed one clock that had stopped, a relic of time now rendered still. Its hands were frozen at the moment his daughter cried at his funeral, capturing that profound sense of loss in a single, poignant moment. Tom touched it gently, and suddenly he was there—not as a ghost, but as a presence of comfort that transcended the boundaries of life and death. His daughter felt an inexplicable warmth in her heart, a soothing embrace that whispered to her, reassuring her that her father’s love had not vanished into the void, but lingered around her like a gentle breeze. The clock ticked again, bringing with it the rhythm of hope and memories that were not lost; Tom realized he could still give time to those he loved, guiding their hearts as they navigated the turbulent waters of grief, reminding them that even in his absence, his spirit would always be watching over them, encouraging them to cherish every moment and connection.

The figure explained, “Here, you may send moments back. A whisper of courage, a spark of joy, a reminder of love. Time after death is not about watching—it is about giving.”

Tom spent what felt like days—or perhaps centuries—learning to guide the clocks, mastering the delicate art of intertwining time with emotion. He sent his wife a dream of their wedding dance, filling the night with nostalgia and love, so she awoke smiling, the memory of their happiest moments woven into her thoughts. He gave his grandson a sudden burst of confidence before a school recital, ensuring that the young boy could shine brightly under the stage lights, his heart brimming with courage and joy. He even offered strangers small gifts: a sense of peace in grief during their darkest moments, a laugh in loneliness that sparked connection where despair lingered. Each act made the clocks glow brighter, illuminating not just the passage of time but the shared threads of humanity that bind us all together, reminding Tom of the profound magic he held in his hands.

But Tom also discovered something unexpected. There were clocks yet unwound—moments that had not happened, glimmers of possibilities hanging delicately in the air. He touched one and, to his amazement, saw his daughter years from now, vibrant and joyful, holding her own child, a precious bundle of laughter and innocence in her arms. Her eyes sparkled with love as she shared stories, just as he had once done with her. Another clock showed his grandson as an old man, wise and content, recounting tales by a fire, his voice warm and rich, surrounded by family who hung on every word. In this surreal space, time after death unfolded like a tapestry, revealing not only fragments of the past but also a profound window into the future, where love, legacy, and the beauty of life intertwined seamlessly, reminding him that though he might be gone, the essence of his existence would continue to resonate through the lives he cherished.

“Can I change these moments?” Tom asked.

The figure shook their head gently, their eyes reflecting a deep wisdom that seemed to transcend time. “The future belongs to the living, filled with untapped potential and the promise of change. But you can bless it, just as a gardener plants seeds in fertile soil. You can lace it with hope, weaving the threads of your aspirations and dreams into the very fabric of what is yet to come, creating a vibrant tapestry that inspires those who follow in your footsteps.”

So Tom did. He infused his daughter’s future with courage, helping her to face life’s challenges head-on, while he imbued his grandson’s journey with kindness, teaching him the importance of empathy and understanding towards others. In his mind, he envisioned a world beyond their own, filled with compassion, where people reached out to one another in times of need, fostering a deep sense of community. He realized that every soul in the Workshop was doing the same, weaving threads of love and hope into the fabric of time, each individual adding their unique touch to the grand tapestry of existence. That was why humanity, despite its struggles and trials, always found ways to heal and grow—because unseen hands were guiding them, orchestrating a beautiful symphony of resilience that echoed through generations, connecting them all in a profound and meaningful way.

Eventually, Tom asked, “Will I ever leave this place?”

The figure’s eyes sparkled with a light that seemed to hold the wisdom of ages. “When you are ready, I will explain the truths that lie beyond the veil of mortality. Time after death is not a prison; rather, it is a magnificent gift, a chance for the soul to reflect and grow. Some souls choose to stay and weave forever, binding their essence to the tapestry of existence, creating intricate patterns of memories and lessons learned. Others, however, are drawn to move on to realms beyond even time itself, exploring dimensions that the living cannot fathom. The choice is yours, a profound decision that opens the door to infinite possibilities.”

Tom looked around the hall, at the endless clocks glowing with memory and possibility. He felt no fear, no sorrow. Only gratitude. Death had not taken him from life—it had given him a new way to live.

He sat beside a clock that held his favorite moment: his family gathered around a table, laughter spilling like music, vibrant and full of life. The memory felt as though it was alive, resonating with warmth and togetherness that wrapped around him like a cozy blanket. He wound it gently, sending that joy outward into the world, where it danced on the air like a whisper of happiness. Somewhere, a lonely stranger smiled without knowing why, as if touched by the intangible essence of that cherished time. Somewhere, a child laughed at nothing at all, finding joy in the simplest of things—a leaf, a shadow, or a wayward breeze. Tom closed his eyes, listening to the rhythmic ticking, feeling each pulse echo within him, and he sensed eternity open like a glorious sunrise, illuminating the depths of his heart and reminding him that moments of love and laughter are timeless treasures that transcend the limitations of time itself.

The Beauty of a Quiet Morning

Audio Podcast 4 1/2 minutes

As I sat on my front porch, the morning air crisp and the coffee steaming in my mug, I watched the world wake up, relishing the tranquility of this serene moment. The street was quiet, save for the soft chirping of sparrows flitting between the trees, their lively songs weaving a soft symphony that filled the stillness. Dew glistened on the grass, catching the first rays of sunlight like scattered diamonds, creating a shimmering carpet that invited the day to unfold. In the distance, the faint rustling of leaves hinted at the gentle breeze, carrying with it the aromatic scent of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass, making each breath a reminder of nature’s rejuvenation. I felt a sense of peace wash over me as I took a sip from my mug, savoring the warmth that matched the gentle glow of dawn, and in that moment, I understood the beauty of simply being present.

Across the road, old Mr. Roberts shuffled out in his plaid slippers, retrieving his newspaper with a habitual grunt that echoed softly in the morning air. He paused for a moment, squinting at something in his garden, his brow furrowing in curiosity. I followed his gaze and saw it—a small, scruffy fox, its russet fur damp from the night’s dew, nosing cautiously around his rosebushes, clearly searching for something to eat. The creature seemed oblivious to the world around it, its attention wholly absorbed in its task. Suddenly, it froze, locking eyes with Mr. Roberts, who had been tending to his own garden nearby, the sunlight reflecting off his watering can. The fox stood still, tense and alert, before it made a split-second decision and darted off, a streak of fire vanishing into the hedge, leaving only the faint rustle of leaves and a lingering sense of wonder in the crisp morning air.

Moments later, a delivery van rumbled by its tires humming on the asphalt as if eager to explore the winding streets of our neighborhood. The driver, a young woman with a bright pink cap that seemed to glow under the afternoon sun, hopped out with a sense of urgency, dropping a package—carefully wrapped in cheerful brown paper—at the neighbor’s door. She waved at me with a friendly gesture, her smile quick but warm, before hastily getting back into her vehicle and speeding off, disappearing around the corner. A gentle breeze stirred, carrying the enchanting scent of blooming lilacs from Mrs. Pomeranian yard next door, where her tabby cat, Whiskers, prowled the porch railing with an air of feline authority, eyeing the sparrows with lazy menace, as if plotting a playful ambush while soaking up the golden rays of sunlight pouring down.

Then, something peculiar caught my attention. At the end of the street, where the pavement met the woods, a solitary figure stood—a child, perhaps ten years old, clad in a bright red hoodie that starkly contrasted with the muted hues of twilight. Clutched tightly in their small hand was a single blue balloon, vibrant and buoyant, swaying gently in the evening breeze. The balloon appeared almost luminescent against the backdrop of the encroaching darkness, an ethereal symbol of childhood joy and innocence. They remained motionless, their gaze fixed intently down the road, as if anticipating something or someone, an unwritten story unfolding in their young mind. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves, and the sounds of the evening—a distant rustle of branches, the soft chirping of crickets—seemed to fade into a hush around this moment. The balloon bobbed softly, reflecting the waning sunlight and drawing my gaze like a signal, as though it held secrets waiting to be discovered. I blinked, and in that brief moment of darkness, they were gone, as though they had slipped into the mist that clung to the trees, disappearing into the encroaching shadows. I sipped my coffee, its warmth anchoring me amidst the surreal nature of the scene, contemplating whether I had conjured the vision or if the child had indeed existed, a fleeting specter lingering at the edge of my awareness, a haunting reminder of the fragile line between reality and the ethereal whispers of a fading day.

The morning rolled on, ordinary yet alive with small mysteries, each moment a thread in the tapestry of the day, weaving together the subtle scents of dew-kissed grass and the gentle rustle of leaves as the breeze danced through the trees. The sun, cautiously peeking above the horizon, painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, inviting the world to awaken from its slumber, while birds serenaded the dawn with their cheerful melodies, hinting at the adventures that lay ahead. Each tick of the clock echoed like a heartbeat, amplifying the feeling that life was teeming with possibilities, as the coffee brewed its rich aroma in the background, inviting those willing to savor the fleeting beauty of the morning.

This is a short story from Tales of TOMT 2.0 Book Two Can be purchased at Amazon. Link

Who Is TomT2.0? Discover His Journey

Just a refresher of who is TomT2.0?

https://tomt2.com/about-tom-t2-0/

Some may ask, who is Tom T 2.0? I was 2tts and I am sure not very many know the story behind Tom T 2.0. Therefore, I will give you a brief biography.

Born and raised in Denver Colorado, a long time ago. I was in my mother’s womb when Pearl Harbor was attacked by the Japanese. I lived in the same home until after high school. Grandma, my mother’s mother lived with us and a brother. It was a small house, 864 sq ft. But it was home, and we all loved the home.

After high school I got a job with the company who was building the Titan ICBM missile for the government. There was the military draft during that time and was drafted maybe three or four years later. I then became a Viet Nam era veteran. I don’t know how this happened but the seven men I was drafted with went to Viet Nam and I was sent to Germany. I’m still proud that I served the country during that time.

After my military service I started working for a large television and electronics manufacturing company in their distribution of the products arm. I met my future wife, got married and have two sons with this relationship. Life was what every normal healthy male dream of. Unfortunately, this dream only lasts about eleven years. I became divorced and my job disappeared because the company was sold and closed thirteen distributing warehouses across the nation. Here I was mid-life, divorced and out of work.

For about five years I had many jobs, mostly temporary employment mainly because the unemployment rate was around seven percent. My parents also passed away during that time also. First, my mother with cancer and two years later my father from a heart attack. This was a tough period in my life.

Finally, I found permanent work in a high-tech environment where they used lasers to cut micro components used in the electronic industry. This was a very interesting position and I enjoyed working there. During that time, I also met my future wife and have been happily married for over thirty years now. We met after childbearing years, but she blessed me with two stepdaughters and two stepsons. I love them as much as my biological sons.

Around thirteen years later it was time to retire. That was seventeen years ago. Since my parents both passed away in their mid-seventies, I thought I would follow the legacy. I have passed this legacy by over five years, and I predict I will have many more years now since I experienced a near death experience around six months ago and survived. The doctors and lab tests all say there appears to be no long-term damage and the chances look good for many more years.

For many years I have been 2tts. After my near-death experience I feel that there is a purpose for this opportunity. Now I am Tom T 2.0. It has been close to eight months since the near-death experience, and I am still searching for the reason. Maybe this site is the opportunity I am looking for.

In conclusion, life has been good. I do not regret any part of my life, even the tough times. In the good times and the bad times, I always think, what did I learn from this experience and how will it make me be a better person?

Podcast of TomT 2.0

Video of TomT 2.0

My Surgery Tales

Me and Spirituality

I Will Never Forget

Peace

My Legacy

Just Be Myself

February 7, 2023

Cars in My Life

Cars in My Life video

My Blood Clot podcast

The Third Knock

Audio Podcast 8 1/2 minutes

When Clara moved into the old duplex on Sycamore Street, she felt a strange mix of excitement and trepidation. The landlord, an elderly gentleman with a knowing smile and twinkling eyes, gave her one important rule: “Never open the door after the third knock.” He didn’t elaborate further, but Clara could sense an underlying weight to his words, as if they held secrets tightly bound to the history of the house. Each time she heard a knock echoing through the hardwood floors late at night, she was reminded of his warning, stirring a curiosity that battled with her instincts to heed his advice. As the days passed, the duplex began to feel both inviting and ominous, a place where shadows flickered just out of sight, and the air crackled with unspoken stories waiting to unfold.

She laughed at the time, the sound echoing softly in the dimly lit room. The place was cheap, the neighborhood quiet, and the rule sounded like the kind of local superstition that came with creaky floorboards and drafty windows, whispers of tales hidden within the walls. It was the sort of belief that made the timid hesitate and the skeptical roll their eyes in disdain. With an adventurous spirit and a hint of rebellion, she signed the lease anyway, convinced that the charm of rustic living and the allure of mystery would outweigh any ghostly encounters lurking in the shadows. After all, every home held its secrets, and she was ready to uncover them.

The first night passed uneventfully. The second, she heard it—three knocks at 2:13 a.m. Sharp. Not loud, not frantic. Just… deliberate.

Knock.
Knock.
Knock.

She froze in bed, heart hammering against her ribs as she strained to hear even the faintest sound. No footsteps echoed in the hallway. No voice called out to her, offering reassurance or inviting her to respond. Just silence enveloped the room after the third knock, heavy and foreboding. The darkness felt suffocating, and her mind raced with possibilities. She didn’t open the door, paralyzed by a mix of fear and curiosity, wondering who could be on the other side and why they would come at this late hour.

The next morning, she asked her neighbor, an elderly woman named Mrs. Ellison, about it. The woman’s face drained of color, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and disbelief. “You heard it already?” she whispered, glancing nervously around as though the walls themselves might be listening. “It usually waits a week before it shows itself,” she added, her voice trembling slightly. The weight of unspoken words hung between them, and the atmosphere felt thick with an unshakeable tension, as Mrs. Ellison’s hands wrung a faded shawl tightly in her lap, revealing the depth of her concern.

Clara pressed for more, her curiosity bubbling over, but Mrs. Ellison only muttered, with a distant look in her eyes, “It’s not a person. It’s a promise.” The weight of those words lingered in the air, thick with unspoken truths, as Clara tried to decipher their meaning. What kind of promise could hold such significance? There was a palpable tension that filled the room, as if the very walls were guarding secrets that had long been tucked away, waiting for the right moment to be revealed.

That night, Clara stayed up, phone in hand, determined to record it. At 2:13 a.m., it came again.

Knock.
Knock.
Knock.

She crept to the door and peered through the peephole, her heart racing with anticipation and fear. No one was there. Just the porch light flickering irregularly, casting eerie shadows that danced on the walls of the dimly lit hallway. She held her breath, straining to hear any sound outside, hoping for a sign that she was not alone, but only the faint rustling of leaves reached her ears, deepening her unease.

She posted the audio online, eager to share her excitement with the world. However, to her dismay, people began to say it was fake, dismissing her efforts before even listening fully. One user, seemingly concerned, messaged her privately: “Don’t open it. Not even a crack. It learns your voice.” This cryptic warning sent a chill down her spine, making her question the very nature of what she had uploaded and the implications it might have for her safety and privacy. Uncertain of what to do next, she pondered over the mysterious message, her mind racing with possibilities of what the audio could truly represent and who might be watching.

On the fourth night, the knocks came earlier—1:47 a.m.—and louder.

KNOCK.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.

She screamed, “Go away!” and the knocking stopped abruptly, echoing in the silence that followed. But the next morning, her front doormat was gone, vanished without a trace. In its place: a small, wet footprint imprinted in the mud, its details unmistakably distinct. Bare. Child-sized, as if a small child had innocently wandered onto her porch during the night, leaving behind a hint of mystery that sent chills down her spine. The air felt thick with an unshakeable tension, as she scanned the surroundings, half-expecting to see a figure lurking just beyond her line of sight, hidden among the shadows of the early morning light.

By the sixth night, she was sleeping with the lights on, the soft glow casting long shadows across her room. The knocks came at 12:03 a.m. this time, precise and unsettling, echoing through the silence of the house. Heart pounding in her chest, she lay frozen in bed, listening intently. After the third knock, a chill ran down her spine as she heard a whisper through the door, thin and eerie, like a breath carried on the wind. It seemed to call her name, weaving an unsettling spell that wrapped around her thoughts, compelling her to confront whatever lay beyond the threshold. Doubt and fear clashed within her, leaving her torn between the safety of her sanctuary and the inexplicable pull of the unknown.

“Clara…”

She hadn’t told anyone her name.

She moved a chair under the doorknob to secure the door and called the landlord, her hands trembling slightly as she pressed the phone to her ear. He didn’t answer, leaving her feeling increasingly anxious and alone. With her heart racing, she decided to call the police for assistance, hoping they would be able to bring her some peace of mind. When the officers arrived, they carefully canvassed the apartment, finding no prints, no signs of forced entry, which only deepened her sense of unease. But as the officer paused before leaving, a concerned look crossed his face, and he turned back to her, as if sensing the gravity of her fear and uncertainty.

“You’re in 3B, right?” he asked, his tone laced with curiosity and concern. “That’s the unit where the girl disappeared last year, you know. Same story as before – strange sounds echoing in the night, whispers of something lurking just beyond the walls. They said she reported hearing persistent knocks, like someone was trying to get her attention. Then, one fateful night, in a moment of brave foolishness or perhaps sheer desperation, she opened the door, seeking answers to the unsettling mystery that surrounded her.”

Clara didn’t sleep that night. She sat in the hallway, staring at the door, knife in hand.

At 11:59 p.m., the first knock came.

KNOCK.

She held her breath.

KNOCK.

The doorknob twitched.

KNOCK.

She screamed, her voice echoing through the dimly lit hallway. But this time, the door creaked open—just a sliver, revealing a sliver of darkness beyond that seemed to pulse with an ominous energy. She hadn’t touched it, her heart racing in her chest as she felt a chill crawl down her spine, the air thick with tension as if the very walls were holding their breath, waiting for what might come next.

A hand, pale and too long, reached through the gap, its fingers stretching out like brittle vines in search of something unseen, curling as if beckoning the darkness closer, while the remnants of a cold breeze whispered eerie secrets around it, reminding one that every shadow held a story waiting to be unearthed.

She slammed the door shut, locked it, and ran to the bedroom, her heart racing with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. But the window was open, flapping slightly in the cool night air. She hadn’t opened it; the last thing she remembered was ensuring everything was securely closed before the unsettling noises had started. Now, she hesitated, caught between the urge to escape and the instinct to investigate the peculiar situation that had crept into her once safe haven.

The last thing she saw before the lights went out was a small, wet footprint on her pillow.

What happened after that? Let your imagination run wild.

Veterans Day.

Audio Podcast 3 minutes.

Celebrated this year on Tuesday, November 11, this holiday honors the significant contributions and sacrifices made by veterans. It is a full holiday for federal offices, banks, and many businesses, resulting in closures that allow individuals to reflect on the importance of service and sacrifice. On this day, no mail delivery occurs, providing a moment of pause for the nation to appreciate the freedoms we enjoy, and various events may be held throughout communities to commemorate and celebrate the bravery of those who have served in the armed forces.

Originally called Armistice Day, proclaimed in 1919 by President Woodrow Wilson to mark the end of World War I on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, this significant day was intended to honor the bravery and sacrifices of those who fought in this monumental conflict. Over the years, as the nation recognized the myriad contributions of all its military veterans, it became clear that a broader celebration was necessary to reflect the valor demonstrated throughout various conflicts. This led to its renaming to Veterans Day in 1954 by President Dwight D. Eisenhower, aimed at honoring veterans of all wars, allowing Americans to pay tribute not only to those who served in World War I but also to honor the service and sacrifices of past and current military personnel from every branch of the armed forces. This day serves as a poignant reminder of the cost of freedom and the importance of expressing gratitude to those who have dedicated their lives to serving the nation.

Veterans Day honors all veterans who have served in the military, recognizing their sacrifices and commitment to defending our freedoms; in contrast, Memorial Day, celebrated on the last Monday in May, specifically honors those brave men and women who gave their lives in service to our country, remembering their ultimate sacrifice and the impact they made on our nation’s history, as families and communities gather to pay their respects and express gratitude for the freedoms we enjoy today.

Thank a veteran personally. Being a veteran, I know how much a personal interaction means, as it fosters a sense of connection and appreciation that can sometimes feel absent in the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Taking the time to express gratitude through a simple thank-you or engaging in a heartfelt conversation can have a profound impact. It not only honors their sacrifices but also reinforces their sense of belonging to a community that values their service. Your acknowledgment can uplift their spirits and show them that their contributions are recognized and valued.

Fly the U.S. flag proudly, representing the values and ideals that our nation stands for. It serves as a symbol of the sacrifices made by countless individuals who fought for our freedom and democracy. Whether displayed at homes, schools, or public buildings, the flag reminds us of our responsibility to uphold the principles of liberty and justice for all, uniting us in our shared identity as Americans.

Why Fridays Feel So Special

Audio Podcast 3 minutes

Fridays have a special charm. They mark not just the end of the workweek, but the start of new possibilities. There’s a buzz of excitement in the air as people feel relieved and eager for the weekend. With each passing hour, the mood lifts, as thoughts turn to weekend plans, hanging out with friends, or enjoying some relaxation. This change in energy fosters connections, with shared smiles among strangers and renewed teamwork among coworkers, all ready to embrace the joy the weekend brings. Ultimately, Fridays offer a reminder of hope and the chance to unwind and discover what truly makes us happy.

From the moment we wake up, Friday feels special. The coffee tastes better, filling the air with warmth, while the commute seems easier, as if the world is inviting us to celebrate the weekend. Even the inbox feels less stressful, as we look forward to a break from work. Why? Because Friday represents freedom. It’s a promise of rest, fun, connection, and creativity—a reminder that the week’s stresses are fading away. Plans start to take shape as we think of friends and family, and every conversation shines with excitement for what’s to come. Whether it’s a cozy night in or an impromptu outing, Friday opens the door to new possibilities, allowing our dreams and aspirations to grow.

Friday allows us to relax and get excited for the weekend. It’s a day when we start thinking about our plans, whether that’s taking spontaneous road trips, enjoying cozy movie nights, or simply sleeping in to catch up on rest. As 5 PM approaches, we dream of the adventures ahead, the fun times with friends at happy hour, or the peaceful moments with a good book. It’s a chance to unwind and appreciate the simple pleasures of Fridays, reminding us of the work-life balance we seek.

Fridays remind us that life is not only about work but also about finding balance. They prompt us to reflect on our week, appreciate our progress, and look ahead with hope. It’s a chance to celebrate small achievements, nurture relationships, reconnect with ourselves, practice self-care, and recharge for upcoming challenges with renewed energy and enthusiasm.

Even if the week was tough, Friday offers a reset. It’s proof that time moves forward, and so do we.

Fridays are not just any day—they’re like the grand finale of a week-long soap opera where the coffee is finally strong enough to fry an egg! They come waving a flag that reads, “Joy is just around the corner, folks!” As we throw our calendars in the air, excitement bubbles like a shaken soda can, transforming the mundane into a party. It’s the day where we bench-press our plans and share a feast of laughs over questionable takeout or wild adventures that may or may not involve getting lost. So here’s to the glorious chaos of Fridays: a day that turns our ‘meh’ into ‘heck yeah,’ reminding us to embrace life with open arms, celebrate every tiny win like we just discovered a new pizza topping, and create legendary memories that we’ll forget by Monday!

Autumn’s Call to Reflect and Grow

Audio Podcast 3 1/2 minutes

Autumn is not just about colorful leaves and warm clothes — it’s a time for change that encourages us to welcome new beginnings. As nature shifts from bright summer colors to softer tones, it invites us to reflect on our own lives. November 6th, sitting between Halloween and Thanksgiving, is a great moment to pause and appreciate the beauty around us. This season promotes introspection and encourages us to think about our journeys and the changes we go through. The air becomes cooler, signaling a transition not just in seasons but also a reminder to be mindful as we look toward winter. It’s a time to value small moments, connect with loved ones, and possibly set goals for the new year, finding joy in both endings and fresh starts.

Just as trees shed their leaves to prepare for winter, we too can release what no longer serves us. This might mean decluttering your physical space, reevaluating commitments, or simply letting go of outdated beliefs that no longer resonate with our true selves. It could involve assessing friendships and relationships that drain our energy and considering whether they uplift us or hold us back. Ask yourself: What am I holding onto that’s weighing me down? Reflecting on these aspects can lead to powerful realizations and the opportunity to create a more meaningful existence. Letting go isn’t about loss — it’s about making room for growth, allowing new opportunities and experiences to enter, fostering personal development and rejuvenation as we embrace the changes ahead.

The slower pace of fall encourages reflection. With shorter days and cooler weather, we naturally look inward, making it a good time for personal growth. This season allows us to embrace change and adapt our thoughts and feelings. Use this time to reconnect with your values and goals, letting autumn’s stillness help you understand yourself better. Activities like journaling, meditation, or quiet walks through fallen leaves can help you focus on what matters while enjoying the beauty around you. As the landscape changes, let your thoughts evolve, guiding you toward intentional actions in the future.

While spring symbolizes rebirth, autumn serves as a quieter time of preparation, where nature slows down and reflects. It’s an opportunity to plant seeds in your mind and spirit for future growth. As days shorten and the air cools, take a moment to set intentions for the person you wish to become in the new year. Consider the habits you want to develop, like reading, exercising, or practicing mindfulness. Think about the relationships you want to nurture and those you may need to strengthen or let go. This autumn, take the chance to prepare for the growth that spring will bring and build a solid foundation for your goals.

There’s something wonderfully comforting about fall rituals — lighting candles (without setting anything on fire), enjoying warm drinks topped with whipped cream, and gathering with loved ones to share laughter and stories that are probably exaggerated, all while staying cozy under blankets as the chill in the air drives us indoors. These simple pleasures, like indulging in a homemade pie that seems to call your name or taking a leisurely stroll through the colorful leaves, can be surprisingly uplifting for your mind and soul. Embrace them; appreciate the warmth (both literal and from the oversized sweater you call “vintage”) that these rituals bring during this changing season. Let November 6th be a day to appreciate slowing down, lament the impending disappearance of pumpkin spice lattes, and enjoy the moment as you cherish simple joys (like finishing the last piece of pie) with those around you, fully engaging in the delightful chaos of the season.

The Night Airwaves Changed Forever

AUDIO PODCAST 4 1/2 minutes

November 3, 1956. 7:30 p.m. Eastern Time. A smooth, velvet voice glides through millions of living rooms across America. A Black man in a sharp suit, seated at a grand piano, smiles into the camera and says, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to The Nat King Cole Show.”

For fifteen minutes every week, the world paused. It wasn’t just a variety show. It was a revolution in prime time. A Voice That Crossed Color Lines. By 1956, Nat King Cole was already a household name. His 1940s hits “Straighten Up and Fly Right”,” The Christmas Song”, “Mona Lisa” had sold millions. He was the first African American artist to top the Billboard charts. His voice was in jukeboxes, on radios, in living rooms from Harlem to Hollywood. But television? That was white space. No Black performer had ever hosted a national network TV series. The closest had been guest spots brief, polite, and always on someone else’s show.

Then came NBC. The Show That Shouldn’t Have Worked. The Nat King Cole Show was simple: Nat at the piano. Guest stars. A small orchestra. No laugh track. No gimmicks. Just music. Just class. The guests were legendary: Ella Fitzgerald trading scat lines with Nat Tony Bennett and Pearl Bailey, Harry Belafonte. Even Frank Sinatra dropped by. White stars, black stars together, on equal footing. And America watched. The Ratings Were Great. The Sponsors Were Not. Here’s the cruel twist. The show was a hit. Critics loved it. Viewers tuned in. But no national sponsor would touch it. Ad agencies feared backlash from Southern affiliates. One executive reportedly said: “We can’t sell toothpaste with a Negro on the screen.” Local sponsors in the North supported it. But without national backing, NBC couldn’t afford to keep it. The End Came Quietly After 64 episodes, Nat King Cole canceled his own show on July 27, 1957. He didn’t rage. He didn’t protest. He just said: “Madison Avenue is afraid of the dark.” That line became legend.

 A Door Cracked Open the Nat King Cole Show lasted only nine months. But it broke the seal. Within a decade: Diahann Carroll starred in Julia (1968) first Black woman in a lead TV role. Bill Cosby co-starred in I Spy (1965) — first Black actor in a dramatic lead. Flip Wilson got his own variety show (1970) and it topped the ratings. None of that would have happened without Nat.  

The Man Behind the Milestone Nat King Cole wasn’t an activist. He didn’t march. He didn’t shout. He just showed up. Sang beautifully. Smiled warmly. And let excellence do the talking. In 1956, that was radical. Today Clips survive on YouTube. Search: Nat King Cole Show 1956” You’ll see him sing “When I Fall in Love” with a smile that could melt ice. You’ll see Ella and Nat riff like old friends. You’ll see America before it was ready.  Legacy in One Line. He didn’t demand a seat at the table. He built the table. And then he sang at it. November 3, 1956, wasn’t just a premiere. It was a declaration. And now, the music still plays. Listen to “Unforgettable” tonight. Thank Nat King Cole. He opened the door and left it wide open.

Contrary to what some say, this country has come a long way in racial acceptance, showcasing significant progress in various aspects of society, including education, employment opportunities, and representation in politics. Over recent decades, we have witnessed a growing acknowledgment of diversity as a strength, leading to more inclusive policies and initiatives that promote understanding among different cultural groups. This evolution reflects a collective effort to confront and dismantle systemic racism, encouraging dialogue and fostering community engagements that embrace the rich variety of backgrounds that define our nation. Despite ongoing challenges, these strides toward acceptance signal a hopeful journey toward unity and equality for all.

One of my favorite songs is “Unforgettable” with Nat and Natalie. They made a terrific song into a priceless rendition. Click for the song

The House That Waited

Audio Podcast 8 minutes

It was the last house on the block. The one no one ever trick-or-treated at. Not because it was abandoned—it wasn’t. Lights flickered inside, casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls. Shadows moved past the windows, almost as if they were keeping an eye on the world outside. But every kid in town knew the stories: the house watched you, its windows like eyes peering into your very soul. It waited for you, whispering secrets in the night as the wind rustled through the overgrown yard, filled with twisted trees and unkempt bushes that seemed to reach out like skeletal hands. They said the air was thick with the echoes of laughter that once filled its halls, now replaced by an unsettling silence that wrapped around the house like a shroud, daring you to come closer. 

Gary and his little sister Gail didn’t believe in ghost stories, no matter how creepy the tales sounded when shared by their new friends at school. Their parents had just moved to town, and they were determined to hit every house on the street, brimming with excitement about the prospect of gathering a colorful array of candy. With each door they knocked on, their hearts raced with anticipation, and the thought of ghouls and spirits lurking in the shadows was far from their minds. Candy was candy, and superstition wasn’t going to stop them; they were on a mission, ready to fill their bags with treats until they brimmed over with sugary goodness, giggling all the way home as they swapped stories and compared their loot. 

“Just one more,” Gary said, pointing to the looming Victorian at the end of the cul-de-sac, its silhouette casting intricate shadows in the pale moonlight. Its porch light flickered on, illuminating the intricate details of the house’s architecture—tall windows adorned with lace curtains and a weathered door that had seen countless seasons. A carved pumpkin sat grinning on the steps, its eyes oddly deep, like they were looking back, as if holding secrets of the past. The air was thick with the scent of fallen leaves and the distant laughter of children, weaving a tapestry of Halloween night that felt both nostalgic and eerie. 

Gail hesitated. “I don’t like it.” 

“Come on. It’s just a house.” 

They climbed the creaking steps, each one groaning under their weight as if protesting their ascent. The air grew colder, an unsettling chill that seemed to seep into their very bones, causing them to shiver involuntarily. Gary knocked once, then twice, each rap echoing through the silence that enveloped them. The door opened slowly, creaking on its hinges to reveal a tall man in a tattered suit that seemed to hang from his gaunt frame like a mere shadow of what it once was. His face was pale, stretched too tightly over his bones, contouring an unsettling skull-like visage that sent a ripple of unease down their spines. His eyes were… wrong. Too dark, as if the light within them had been snuffed out long ago, and too deep, drawing one in with an almost magnetic force that made it difficult to look away, leaving them with an eerie sense of foreboding. 

“Trick or treat,” Gary said, voice cracking. 

The man smiled. “Oh, I have a treat for you.” 

In the flickering glow of the streetlamp, the old man extended a weathered wooden bowl toward Gail, his gnarled fingers trembling slightly as if the weight of the offering carried a hidden burden. Nestled inside were candies, their wrappers dulled by time, the once-vibrant paper now faded to a ghostly pallor, each piece adorned with an eerie symbol—a spiral that seemed to writhe upon closer inspection, its jagged edges resembling rows of tiny, gnashing teeth. Gail’s curiosity stirred, her hand inching forward to pluck one from the pile, her fingertips brushing the crinkled edge of a wrapper, when the man’s hand darted out, his grip gentle yet firm, closing around her wrist with a quiet urgency that sent a chill racing up her spine. 

“No. You must choose carefully.” 

Gary frowned. “What does that mean?” 

The man leaned closer, his eyes glinting with a mixture of mischief and warning. “Some sweets are sweet, enticingly delicious, bursting with flavor and temptation. Some… are cursed, hiding dark secrets beneath their sugary exteriors, capable of drawing unsuspecting souls into an abyss of despair and regret.” 

Gail pulled her hand back. “We’re leaving.” 

But the door slammed shut behind them. 

The hallway stretched impossibly long, an endless corridor of shadows and whispers. The wallpaper pulsed like it was breathing, as if imbued with a life of its own. The lights flickered sporadically, casting eerie glows that revealed glimpses of things that shouldn’t be—faces contorted in silent screams within the walls, hands reaching from the floorboards, desperate and ghostly, as if pleading to be freed from their eternal prison. The air was thick with an unsettling energy, each step echoing with a weight of dread, as if the very space around me was alive, watching, waiting. 

“Run!” Gary shouted, grabbing Gail’s hand. 

They bolted down the hall, but it twisted, turned, and changed with each frantic step they took. Doors appeared and vanished like fleeting shadows, some leading to tantalizing glimpses of rooms filled with memories, while others opened to nothingness, swallowing their hopes whole. The air crackled with an electric energy, as if the very walls were breathing, pulsating with a life of their own. Whispers echoed around them, urging them forward deeper into the maze of the house, which felt more like a living entity than a mere structure, alive with mysteries waiting to be uncovered. 

They burst into a room filled with mirrors. Each one showed a different version of themselves—older, younger, twisted, crying, screaming, laughing with maniacal joy. The reflections danced mockingly, their faces a distorted gallery of emotions and time. One mirror, larger than the rest, showed Gail alone, holding the candy with a bite taken out, the bright colors stark against her pale skin. Her eyes were black, voids that seemed to swallow light, while her mouth stretched into a grin too wide, stretching almost unnaturally across her face. It was as if the mirror was revealing not just a reflection, but an embodiment of secrets and fears, whispering chilling truths only she could hear. The air around her crackled with tension, as though the very fabric of reality was fraying at the edges, inviting them all to step through into the myriad versions of their own souls. 

Gary smashed the mirror. The room shattered. 

They were back at the front door, their hearts pounding with a mix of excitement and apprehension. The man stood there, smiling, his demeanor warm and inviting, as if he held the key to a long-awaited reunion. The soft glow of the porch light illuminated his features, accentuating the kindness in his eyes and the promise of stories yet to be told. The cool evening breeze rustled the leaves nearby, adding an air of mystery to the moment, and they couldn’t help but wonder what lay ahead beyond that familiar threshold. 

“You chose wisely,” he said. “Most don’t.” 

He opened the door. Outside, the street was quiet. Normal. 

Gary and Gail ran, never looking back. 

But that night, as Gail sat on her bed, her mind swirling with thoughts, she found the candy in her pocket. The bright wrappers gleamed under the soft glow of her bedside lamp, and a frown creased her brow She hadn’t taken one… had she? Confusion danced in her mind alongside the sweet scent of the candy, and she wondered if perhaps she had absentmindedly snatched a piece, enchanted by the colorful display, or if it had somehow slipped into her pocket when she wasn’t looking, a small mystery waiting to be unraveled. 

She unwrapped it carefully, feeling the textured paper crinkle beneath her fingers. The spiral symbol pulsed faintly, glowing with a mysterious energy that seemed to beckon her closer. Against her better judgment, she took a bite, the flavor exploding in her mouth with an unexpected sweetness that both intrigued and frightened her. As she chewed, a strange warmth spread through her body, intensifying her senses and urging her to delve deeper into whatever secrets this enigmatic object held. 

The following morning, Gail remained silent, her thoughts swirling in a tempest of emotions and unspoken words. Her eyes appeared more intense, reflecting a depth of contemplation that seemed almost otherworldly, and her smile broadened unnervingly, as if concealing secrets that danced just beneath the surface. Each glance she cast carried a weight that hung heavy in the air.

Gary swore the wallpaper in their house had started to breathe with strange voices and eerie sounds coming from the cracks in the floor. Will they pay for that piece of candy Gail ate the night before?

The Stairway in a Dream

AUDIO PODCAST 5 minutes

Tom was exhausted, his days tangled in the grind of hospital shifts and the quiet ache of loneliness since his grandmother passed. Each shift felt like an eternity, filled with the rhythmic sounds of medical machinery and the soft murmur of conversations that seldom reached his heart. One night, after collapsing into bed, he slipped into a dream unlike any he’d had before. In this vivid realm, colors danced around him, and comforting voices echoed, bringing with them the warmth he had longed for amidst the cold sterility of his waking life. As he wandered through this enchanting landscape, he felt a glimmer of hope, as though the essence of his grandmother was guiding her toward healing and connection.

He stood in a field, golden grass swaying under a sky that shimmered like stained glass, hues of blue and violet dancing together in a serene harmony. Ahead, a stairway spiraled upward, its steps carved from light, pulsing softly like the heartbeat of the world around him. Tom felt no fear—only a pull, like a melody calling him forward, a tune that resonated deeply within his soul, filling him with an inexplicable warmth. Each step he took felt deliberate, as if the very air whispered secrets of the universe, guiding his ascent into the unknown. He began to climb, his heart racing with anticipation, eager to uncover what awaited him at the top of this ethereal staircase.

Each step hummed with warmth, and as he ascended, memories flickered around him like fireflies in the dusk: his grandmother’s laughter as they baked bread, the sweet aroma of yeast rising in the air, his own childhood voice singing off-key to the tunes of faded melodies, moments of kindness he’d forgotten, like small treasures hidden in the corners of his heart. The higher he climbed, the lighter he felt, as if the weight of his regrets—snapped words, missed chances, and the lingering guilt of unanswered apologies—dissolved into the glowing air, replaced by an overwhelming sense of acceptance and serenity. With each ascent, he embraced the warmth of those cherished recollections, allowing them to envelop him, illuminating the path ahead with a radiant glow that filled him with hope and renewed purpose.

At the top, the stairs opened to a vast garden, blooming with colors he couldn’t name, each flower adding its unique hue to the tapestry of nature. Figures moved among the flowers, their faces familiar yet radiant—his grandmother, younger than Tom remembered, her eyes bright and sparkling like stars in the evening sky. The air was thick with the sweet fragrance of blossoms, and the gentle hum of bees flitting from petal to petal created a serene melody. “You’re not staying yet,” his grandmother said, her voice a warm embrace that wrapped around Tom like a soft blanket on a chilly day. “But see how loved you are, surrounded by the beauty of your memories, waiting for you to return and cherish them once more.”

Others appeared—patients Tom had comforted, friends he’d lost touch with, even strangers he’d smiled at in passing. They didn’t speak, but their presence wove a quiet truth: every small act of him had rippled through the tapestry of life, touching lives he’d never traced or even considered. Each smile exchanged on a crowded street, every word of encouragement spoken in the hushed tones of a hospital room, had forged unseen connections that now filled the air around his. In this moment, Tom realized the profound impact of kindness, the way it spread like a warm breeze, gently nudging hearts toward hope and understanding. Tom’s chest ached with joy, not pain, as she embraced this realization, feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the unseen threads that intertwined his with those who had crossed his path.

His grandmother took his hand, leading him to a pool of light that shimmered like a thousand stars brought to life. In its reflection, Tom saw himself—not the tired nurse who often felt overwhelmed by the weight of his responsibilities, but a woman woven from courage and care, radiating strength and grace. The warmth of the light washed over him, illuminating the dreams he had long forgotten and the aspirations that still flickered within his heart. “You’re still needed below,” his grandmother whispered gently, his voice echoing with the wisdom of ages. “But you’ll carry this now, this newfound sense of purpose and love, as you return. Let it guide you whenever the path seems dark, for you are never alone in your journey.”

Tom woke with tears on his cheeks, the hospital’s sterile hum distant, a haunting reminder of his fragile reality. The dream’s glow lingered in his bones, a certainty that heaven wasn’t just a place but a truth: his life mattered, and he wasn’t alone in this vast universe full of connection and love. The comforting warmth of that revelation wrapped around him like a soft blanket, easing the tightness in his chest. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of antiseptic air, and rose from the sheets, lighter than before, ready to face the day with renewed hope and determination, knowing that each moment was a gift waiting to be embraced.

Midnight Spooky Tale

It’s 11:57 PM on April 4, 2025, and the air feels thick with something unspoken. Shadows stretch long and jagged across the floor, like fingers clawing at the edges of reality. The clock ticks louder than it should, each second a hammer against the silence. Outside, the wind howls low, a mournful sound that rattles the windows—like something’s trying to get in.

You’re alone, or at least you think you are. The room’s dim, lit only by the sickly glow of your screen, and every creak of the house feels like a whisper you can’t quite catch. Did you lock the door? You’re pretty sure you did, but the thought gnaws at you. There’s a chill creeping up your spine, slow and deliberate, like icy fingertips tracing their way to your neck.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks—sharp, frantic—then stops abruptly. Too abruptly. The silence that follows is heavier than before, pressing down on your chest. You glance at the clock: 11:58. Time’s slipping away, but it feels wrong, like it’s stalling just to mess with you.

There’s a story they tell around here, about nights like this. They say the veil thins out close to midnight, when the world holds its breath. Things slip through—things that don’t belong. You’ve heard the tales: footsteps where no one’s walking, shadows that don’t match their owners, voices calling your name from rooms you swore were empty. Old folks swear they’ve seen it, eyes wide and hands trembling as they recount it over flickering candles.

11:59. The screen flickers, just for a second, and you blink. Did you see something in the reflection? A shape behind you, too vague to be sure, too real to ignore? You turn, heart thudding, but there’s nothing. Just the room, still and dark. The wind picks up again, and this time it carries something—a low, guttural hum that doesn’t sound like wind at all.

Midnight hits. The clock chimes, but it’s off, warped, like it’s underwater. The lights dim, then surge, casting the room in a strobe of light and shadow. And then you hear it: a soft tap-tap-tap, slow and deliberate, coming from the window. You don’t want to look. Every nerve screams not to. But your eyes betray you, sliding toward the glass.

There’s nothing there. Just darkness. Except… is that a smudge on the pane? A handprint, faint and streaked, like someone—or something—pressed against it from the outside. It wasn’t there before. You’re sure of it.

The tapping stops. The silence is worse. And then, from somewhere deep in the house, a floorboard groans. Not near you. Not upstairs. Somewhere else. Somewhere it shouldn’t.

Happy almost-midnight. Sleep tight—if you can.

Tale of Two Strangers

Audio Podcast 4 minutes

In a dusty Eastern Colorado town, 70-year-old retiree Lulu runs a struggling diner, her days filled with greasy plates and lonelier nights since her husband passed, leaving an emptiness that seems to seep into the very walls around her. Each morning, she wakes before dawn, the familiar hum of the coffee maker breaking the silence of an empty house, a sound that has become a comfort and a ritual, grounding her in a world that feels increasingly alien. After brewing a pot of strong coffee, she heads to the diner where the walls echo with memories of happier times, laughter, and bustling customers, now replaced with the grim reality of only a few loyal patrons who come to escape their lives as much as she does. Across the street, 19-year-old Juan, a graffiti artist with a rap sheet, tags abandoned walls, dodging cops and his own dead-end future, caught in a cycle of choices that often lead him deeper into trouble. He is always searching for a way to express the turmoil within him, the feelings of alienation and frustration that swirl in his soul, causing him to lash out through his art. His nights are spent weaving through the shadows, paint cans in hand, as he transforms the dull grey of the urban landscape with bursts of color and emotion, each stroke telling a story of his struggles and dreams. Their paths cross one fateful afternoon when Lulu unexpectedly catches Diego spray-painting her diner’s back alley, his hands moving deftly as he creates a vibrant mural, brimming with life and energy. Instead of calling the police, she offers him a burger, seeing hunger in his eyes beyond the defiance, recognizing a desperation that mirrors her own loneliness. In that brief encounter, she offers him a fleeting moment of connection amid their contrasting lives, a shared understanding that transcends the barriers of age and experience, revealing the fragile threads that connect them in a world that often feels isolating.

/Juan, wary but broke, accepts the unexpected invitation, and they talk—first about nothing, then about everything that matters. Lulu shares vivid stories of her diner’s glory days, reminiscing about the bustling atmosphere and the laughter that filled the air; Juan, drawn in by her enthusiasm, admits he paints to feel alive, a passion that he’s always kept hidden. She sees his undeniable talent; he sees her fierce grit, a contrast that intrigues him. Soon, Juan’s sneaking in after hours to paint a magnificent mural on the diner’s wall—a vibrant prairie scene alive with color that attracts curious crowds from all over town. Lulu teaches him to cook, showing him the delicate art of flipping pancakes and seasoning dishes just right, and in return, he teaches her to laugh again, their banter becoming light and effortless, infused with warmth. Locals whisper about the odd pair, a painter and a diner owner, but the diner’s buzzing with newfound life, and so are they, their connection deepening with each shared moment and stolen glance, weaving a tapestry of hope and healing amidst the backdrop of grease and paint.

When developers threaten to buy Lulu’s land, Juan inspires the town with his art, transforming the diner into a vibrant cause that brings everyone together. They unite enthusiastically, not just for the diner but for the cherished home they’ve built together, a sanctuary filled with laughter, stories, and unforgettable moments. As the townsfolk come together, they create stunning banners and murals, all bursting with color and passion, beautifully reflecting their shared history and joyful memories. In the end, it’s not merely about winning—it’s about the beautiful family they’ve formed in each other, two misfits who turned a rundown joint into a masterpiece, a beacon of resilience and hope, proving that love and community can triumph over corporate greed.

House On a Hill

Audio Podcast 4 minutes

The old house on the hill had stood empty for decades, its windows dark and its walls weathered by time. Clara had passed it every day on her way to town, always wondering about the stories it held. One crisp autumn evening, as the sun dipped low, she noticed something different—a faint flicker of light in the upstairs window. Curiosity tugged at her, and against her better judgment, she decided to investigate.

The front door creaked open with surprising ease, as if it had been waiting for her. Inside, the air was thick with dust, and the faint scent of lavender lingered. Clara’s footsteps echoed on the warped wooden floor as she climbed the stairs, drawn to the room where she’d seen the light. The door at the top was ajar, and a soft glow spilled out.

In the room sat a woman, her back to Clara, hunched over a small table. She wore a faded dress, its hem frayed, and her silver hair cascaded down her back. A single candle burned before her, casting long shadows across the walls. Clara hesitated, then cleared her throat.

The woman didn’t turn. “I’ve been expecting you,” she said, her voice low and steady.

Clara froze. “Expecting me? I don’t even know you.”

“You don’t need to,” the woman replied. “You’re here for the truth, aren’t you?”

Clara’s heart thudded. She hadn’t told anyone she was coming, hadn’t even known herself until moments ago. “What truth?” she asked, stepping closer.

The woman gestured to a chair across the table. “Sit. I’ll show you.”

On the table lay a small wooden box, intricately carved with swirling patterns. The woman slid it toward Clara. “Open it,” she said.

Hands trembling, Clara lifted the lid. Inside was a photograph, yellowed with age. It showed a young girl, no more than five, with wide eyes and a shy smile, standing in front of this very house. A man and woman stood beside her; their faces blurred by time. Clara frowned. “Who is this?”

The woman finally turned; Her face illuminated by the candlelight. Her eyes were sharp, piercing, and oddly familiar. “Look closer,” she said.

Clara studied the photo again, then gasped. The girl’s dress—the same faded fabric, the same frayed hem—matched the one the woman wore now. “That’s… you?” she stammered.

The woman nodded. “I’ve waited a long time for you to come back.”

“Come back?” Clara’s mind raced. “I’ve never been here before.”

The woman smiled faintly, a sad curve to her lips. “You have. You just don’t remember.”

Clara’s gaze darted between the photo and the woman, confusion mounting. Then the woman reached across the table, her cold fingers brushing Clara’s hand. A jolt surged through her, and suddenly, memories flooded in—running through these halls as a child, laughter echoing, the smell of lavender in her mother’s arms. She stumbled back, clutching her head. “What’s happening?”

“You were taken from this house,” the woman said softly. “Taken from me. I’ve been here ever since, waiting.”

Clara’s breath hitched. The blurred faces in the photo sharpened in her mind’s eye—her parents, younger, happier. And then she understood. The woman wasn’t just a stranger. She was her grandmother, preserved by some strange force in this house, tethered to it all these years.

But the truth hit her as she looked down at her own hands—hands that now shimmered faintly, translucent in the candlelight. She hadn’t just come to uncover a secret. She’d come because she, too, had died long ago, and this house was calling her home.

The key detail—that Clara is a ghost—remains hidden until the final sentence, recontextualizing the entire story. Did it catch you off guard?

DREAM OR REAL

AUDIO PODCAST 8 minutes

Lila woke to the sound of rustling leaves, her breath fogging in the crisp morning air. She blinked, and the world shimmered—golden oaks and crimson maples stretched endlessly before her, their branches swaying in a breeze that smelled of earth and cider. She was in the forest again, the one she’d walked through last night. Or was it last week? Her fingers brushed the rough bark of a tree, solid and real, and she smiled, feeling the familiar connection to nature that always brought her peace. Sunlight filtered through the vibrant canopy, dappling the ground with patches of warmth that felt inviting against the coolness of the morning. A small bird chirped cheerfully in the distance, and she paused to listen, allowing the harmonious sounds of the forest to envelop her like a cozy blanket. Fall had arrived, her favorite season, painting the world in hues that felt like home, where every rustling leaf and fluttering wing told a story of transformation and comfort as if inviting her to discover the secrets hidden within this enchanting landscape. 

She wandered deeper, the crunch of leaves underfoot a steady rhythm that accompanied her thoughts like a familiar song. A deer darted past, its antlers catching the low sunlight, and she laughed—hadn’t she fed it apples yesterday? Or had that been a dream? The thought slipped away as she reached a clearing where a wooden bench sat, weathered but familiar, a silent witness to the passage of time and countless fleeting moments. She settled onto it, pulling her sweater tight against the chill that seemed to seep through the air, and watched the sky shift from amber to violet, painting a masterpiece that only nature could create. A gentle breeze rustled the branches above, carrying with it the scent of pine and damp earth, while distant birds sang their evening songs. Time didn’t matter here; it was just her and the season, entwined in a tranquil embrace that felt both timeless and fleeting. 

“Lila,” a voice called, soft but insistent. She turned, but no one was there—only the wind, whispering through the branches, carrying with it a symphony of rustling leaves that seemed to echo her confusion. She frowned. That voice… it had been in her room this morning, hadn’t it? The memory lingered in her mind like a haunting melody, before the leaves. Before the forest. Her head ached, and the scene flickered before her eyes, blurring reality with a dreamlike haze. Suddenly, the trees were bare, then budding—pink blossoms unfurling like delicate fans, the air warming with the sweet scent of rain and new grass. Spring now, not fall. The world transformed, vibrant colors awakening all around her. She stood, confused, as petals drifted around her like snowflakes caught in a gentle breeze, each one a reminder of the fleeting passage of time. The bench was gone, replaced by a patch of wildflowers that danced joyfully in the wind. Hadn’t she planted those? Doubt crept in as she examined the landscape, the familiar now tinged with surreal beauty, blurring the lines between her memories and the enchanting present. 

She knelt, touching the soft petals, and memories—or dreams—rushed in like a tide pulling her under. She’d danced here under a pastel sky, her hands stained with soil as she twirled freely, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face and the whisper of leaves in the gentle breeze. Or had she watched it from her window, longing to join the magic outside? The forest blurred, and suddenly, she was in her bedroom, staring at a cracked ceiling that seemed to close in on her as the moments faded. A woman leaned over her, her face lined with worry, shadows playing across her features as if reflecting the depth of her concern. “Lila, you’re awake. You were talking about leaves again,” the woman said softly, her voice the one from the wind, but sharper now, tethering her spirit to the present. It was a voice that carried the weight of love and grounding, pulling Lila back to reality, bringing forth a sense of safety amidst the swirling chaos of her thoughts. 

Lila blinked, trying to shake off the lingering fog in her mind. The room smelled stale, not like rain or earth, but rather like an unforgiving emptiness that gnawed at her senses. A tray of pills sat on the nightstand, each one a bright reminder of her reality, and a calendar read March 21, 2025. Spring, she thought wistfully, but where were the blossoms? The vibrant colors and lively scents that usually filled the air seemed painfully absent. She looked down at her hands—clean, glaringly so, devoid of any trace of soil or the sticky sweetness of apple juice from feeding the deer with her own hands. “I was there,” she murmured softly to herself, feeling a deep yearning wash over her. “The forest. It’s fall there now. Or spring. I can’t…” Her voice trailed off, swallowed by the silence of the room, and the woman sighed, feeling a profound disconnect between the vivid memories of her time in the forest and the dull, clinical environment surrounding her now. The weight of absence settled heavily upon her chest, making it hard to breathe as she longed for the embrace of nature’s cycle, for the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves—simple pleasures that now felt like distant echoes. 

“You’ve been here all night,” the woman said gently, her voice soothing like a soft breeze. “Dreaming again, just as you often do. The doctor says it’s getting harder for you to come back, as if each journey to that other realm pulls you further away from us. I can see the worry etched on your face even in your slumber, the way your brow furrows and your lip’s part slightly, as though you’re lost in something profoundly beautiful yet terrifying. I wish I could follow you into those dreams, to understand what captivates you so deeply and to bring you back safely when the time comes.” 

Lila shook her head, her mind racing with disbelief. “No, I walked there. I felt it.” She closed her eyes tightly, and the room around her dissolved into a haze of color and light. Suddenly, she found herself back in the forest, where leaves were falling in slow spirals, the golden hues painting a serene picture of autumn. With each leaf that touched the ground, she felt seasons transform like a carousel spinning endlessly in the sky. The gentle rustle of branches accompanied the soothing sounds of nature, as the deer returned, their soft noses nudging her hand. Lila laughed, the sound bursting forth like music, and tears streaked her face, a blend of joy and nostalgia overwhelming her senses. “This is real,” she whispered breathlessly into the crisp air, though the woman’s voice echoed faintly in the background, calling her name with urgency, as if trying to tether her to the present even as she reveled in the beauty of the moment. 

Days passed—or didn’t. Lila roamed her forest, seasons blending into a tapestry she couldn’t untangle. Fall’s golden decay gave way to spring’s tender green, then back again, a loop of beauty she couldn’t escape. Each step brought the rustle of leaves beneath her feet and the whispers of the wind, wrapping around her like a familiar embrace. Sometimes she heard the woman, saw the room, felt the pills pressed to her lips, the cold, clinical atmosphere of the space stifling her spirit. But the forest always reclaimed her, pulling her back into its embrace, its colors brighter than the gray walls surrounding her, its air sweeter than the sterile tang of reality, infusing her with a sense of freedom she thought she had lost forever. The vibrant hues of wildflowers danced along the path, and the melody of birdsong filled her ears, a reminder that life thrived beyond the confines of her mind. 

One evening—or morning—she sat on the bench again, watching the sky burn orange, then soften to pink, painting a canvas of warmth that enveloped her. The voice called, fainter now, and she didn’t turn, for she was lost in the beauty surrounding her. “I’ll stay,” she said to the deer, to the trees, to the seasons that held her gently in their embrace. “This is where I belong.” The forest hummed in agreement, a symphony of rustling leaves and distant bird calls, and Lila let go, sinking into a world where dreams and reality were one, forever spring, forever fall, where the colors danced vibrantly in the air, wrapping her in a tapestry woven from the very essence of nature. She felt the soft touch of the breeze as it whispered secrets of the earth, and in that moment, she knew she was a part of something greater, something eternal. 

More creepy, scary tales link

Tales of TomT 2.0 Book Five

Video file about this book

Just in time for Halloween. Ideal for the commuter or the casual reader.

Link to Amazon for purchasing

This is the fifth book in the Series of Tales of TomT 2.0 Link

This has been an exciting endeavor.

Discovering an Abandoned Cabin

Audio Podcast ten minutes

The mountains were alive with autumn’s breath, leaves crunching under the boots of four hikers—Lila, Marcus, Tess, and Ethan—as they ventured deeper into the mountains. Vibrant hues of orange, red, and gold painted the landscape, while the crisp air filled their lungs with the scent of pine and earth. The trail they’d followed for hours had been clear and well-trodden, but Marcus, ever the explorer, spotted a faint path veering into a dense thicket. No markers, no signs, just a narrow ribbon of dirt weaving through towering pines, the shadows dancing as the sun began to dip behind the peaks. “Let’s see where it goes,” he said, eyes glinting with curiosity. The others hesitated, exchanging glances filled with uncertainty, but they were ultimately drawn by the promise of something undiscovered, an adventure that could unveil secrets of the wilderness. The thrill of the unknown beckoned them, and with a collective shrug, they stepped off the familiar trail, ready to embrace whatever lay ahead, their hearts filled with excitement and a hint of trepidation. 

The path twisted for nearly an hour, the air growing colder, the light dimmer, forcing Tess to pull her jacket tighter around her. Just as she began to grumble about turning back, they stumbled into a clearing that felt almost like a breath of fresh air yet still eerie in its silence. There, half-swallowed by moss and shadow, stood an abandoned cabin, its structure a testament to years of neglect. Its weathered logs sagged beneath the weight of time, with windows dark and cracked, as if guarding secrets long forgotten. Vines crawled up the walls, weaving a tapestry of nature reclaiming what it had lost, yet despite the decay, the place felt… expectant. Lila shivered, not from the chill that permeated the air, but from an unsettling sense of being watched. “This place gives me the creeps,” she muttered, glancing over her shoulder, but Ethan was already at the door, pushing it open with a creak that echoed like a warning through the stillness. As the door swung inward, a rush of stale air escaped, carrying with it the faint scent of damp wood and something else, something foul that made Lila’s stomach churn. 

Inside, the air was stale, thick with dust that hung like a heavy blanket, clinging to everything in sight. A rickety table, uneven in its stance, a rusted stove that looked like it hadn’t been used in years, and a single chair sat in the gloom, casting long shadows against the cracked walls. On the table lay a leather-bound journal, its pages yellowed but intact, whispering secrets of the past. Marcus grabbed it, flipping it open with a sense of reverence, while the others peered over his shoulder, their eyes wide with curiosity and anticipation. The handwriting was spidery, precise, and meticulously crafted, dated October 15, 2024—exactly one year ago. “Weird,” Tess murmured, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Who’d leave this here? It feels like it belongs to someone who disappeared without a trace, leaving behind not just their thoughts but a part of their life in this forgotten place.” 

Marcus read aloud: “Four hikers arrive at dusk, their boots heavy with mud. The tall one, bold, finds the path first, his long strides cutting through the thickening shadows. The wary one, with sharp eyes, hesitates at the cabin’s door, the chill of the evening air brushing against their faces as they exchange anxious glances. A rustle in the underbrush makes their hearts race, igniting a primal instinct to keep watch. Memories flood back as they recall the stories of other travelers who had ventured into these woods, some never returning. His voice faltered, struggling to steady itself against the mounting tension. The description was too specific—Marcus’s height, Lila’s cautious glance, the mud caked on their boots from a stream they’d crossed, each detail a vivid reminder of their shared journey. The journal went on, detailing their exact words, their movements, the way Ethan’s impulsive push at the door seemed more a challenge than a welcome, even the sounds of their laughter that felt like a ghostly echo of the past. But it was written before they’d arrived, revealing truths they had yet to confront.” 

This is impossible,” Ethan said, snatching the journal with a sense of urgency and disbelief. He flipped forward, his face paling as the weight of the entries settled over him like a dark cloud. The words seemed to come alive, predicting their every action with eerie accuracy: “The bold one reads first, the wary one checks the windows, the quiet one finds the trapdoor…” Tess, who’d been silent in the background, was already at a window, peering out as if the very air around them had conjured the instructions from the page. She froze, suddenly aware of how closely she’d just fulfilled the journal’s words, the chill of realization seeping into her bones as her mind raced, piecing together the significance of their movements. Confusion and dread twisted in her stomach as she glanced back at Ethan, who stared at her with wide eyes, both of them understanding that the journal not only knew their past but seemed to weave their fate as well. 

There’s no trapdoor,” Lila said, her voice tight, but her eyes darted to the floor, as if searching for an escape from the unsettling atmosphere that surrounded them. Ethan, unnerved by her sudden defensiveness, started stomping around the dimly lit room, desperately searching for any sign of a secret. After what felt like an eternity, his foot struck something solid beneath a threadbare rug, and he knelt down in disbelief. There it was—a wooden hatch, barely visible, where dust and age had concealed its presence. The journal had known all along, its cryptic messages hinting at mysteries yet to unfold. With a rush of adrenaline, he yanked the hatch open, revealing a steep, rickety ladder descending into an impenetrable darkness that seemed to swallow all light. The air grew heavier, filled with uncertainty, as the group exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of terror and an almost magnetic compulsion to follow the script, drawn by the possibilities that lay hidden below, compelling them to confront the unknown. 

Lila clutched the journal now, reading as they descended into the depths of the unknown. “They climb down, hearts pounding, into the chamber below. The air is still and heavy; the walls carved with cryptic symbols they cannot read or decipher…” The ladder led to a stone-walled room, damp and cold, its walls etched with spiraling runes that seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light. Shadows danced across the surface, casting eerie illusions that both enthralled and terrified them. A pedestal stood at the center, holding a single object—a small, black stone, smooth as glass, reflecting the faint glow of the runes around it. The stone drew them closer, an inexplicable force urging them to reach out and touch its surface, as if it held secrets of ancient power or forgotten knowledge waiting to be uncovered. 

The journal’s next entry made Lila’s hands shake: “The quiet one touches the stone, and the truth is revealed.” Tess, who’d barely spoken all day, stared at the stone, her hand trembling as it reached out, the air thick with anticipation. “Don’t,” Marcus snapped, his voice laced with a mix of fear and urgency, but Tess’s fingers brushed it, fueled by an irresistible curiosity. As she made contact, a low hum filled the room, vibrating through their very bones, and images flooded their minds—flashes of the forest, the hidden paths they had never noticed before, the cabin where secrets lingered, themselves walking the trail, as if seen through another’s eyes, each moment feeling eerily familiar yet profoundly alien. The journal’s author wasn’t human. It was… something else, watching, recording, guiding, threading their destinies together in ways they couldn’t yet comprehend, hinting at a deeper connection to a past long forgotten, whispering truths that could change everything they knew. 

“They understand now,” the journal read, “that the trail chose them, that time loops here, and that they were always meant to find this place, a nexus of fate hidden away from the prying eyes of the universe.” Ethan cursed under his breath, feeling the weight of destiny as he backed toward the ladder, heart racing with dread and uncertainty. The runes glowed brighter, each pulse resonating like a heartbeat, while the air grew thick around them, pressing them in place, making it hard to breathe, as if the very fabric of reality were tightening. Shadows danced at the edges of his vision, and he could almost hear whispers of the past echoing through the chamber, warning him of the consequences of his next move. The final entry was blank, except for one ominous line: “They decide.” The gravity of that simple phrase settled heavily on his shoulders, leaving him paralyzed by the weight of choice and the potential ramifications that could ripple through time itself. 

Lila dropped the journal, her mind racing with a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Were they trapped in a never-ending cycle, doomed to repeat this very moment for all eternity? Or could they find a way to break free from this dark fate that loomed over them? With a sudden surge of determination, Marcus grabbed the ancient stone, its rough surface cool against his palm, and hurled it against the wall with all his strength, watching as it shattered into tiny fragments of dust that spiraled through the air like a storm. The intricate runes that had been glowing brightly dimmed, the resonant hum that filled the space faded into an eerie silence, and for the first time, the air felt lighter, as if a great weight had been lifted. They scrambled up the ladder, hearts pounding wildly in their chests, filled with both fear and hope, and fled the cabin, the unsettling past behind them as they dared not look back, propelled by the urgency of their escape and the prospect of a new beginning. 

The trail was gone when they reached the clearing’s edge, swallowed by the dense undergrowth that had once whispered of adventures untold. The forest seemed ordinary again, devoid of the magic it once held, yet the journal’s weight lingered in their minds like a distant echo of an unforgettable encounter. Had they truly escaped, or was this haunting experience merely a part of the script that bound their fate? They never spoke of it again, but each wondered, in quiet moments, if the trail was still out there, lurking in the shadows, waiting patiently for the next wanderer to stumble upon its secrets. The lingering sense of mystery wrapped around their thoughts, fueling their imaginations with what-ifs and maybes, making the ordinary feel extraordinary in the flickering light of fading memories. 

From Book Four of Tales of Tom2 2.0 link to Amazon

The Quiet Power of Friendship

Audio Podcast 1 1/2 minutes

Friendship isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s a quiet presence—a text that says, “thinking of you,” a shared laugh over something silly, or just sitting together in comfortable silence.

True friends are the ones who see you at your worst and still choose to stay. They celebrate your wins like they’re their own and remind you of your worth when you forget. They’re the people who make ordinary days feel special, just by being in them.

It’s easy to take friendship for granted in the rush of life. But when we pause and reflect, we realize how deeply these connections shape us. They teach us empathy, resilience, and joy. They remind us of we’re not alone.

So today, reach out to a friend. Send a message. Share a memory. Say thank you.

Because in a world that often feels chaotic, friendship is a steady light. It’s the laughter that echoes long after the joke. The hug that lingers. The comfort of knowing someone’s got your back.

And that’s something worth celebrating.

The biggest regret I have in my life is I did not continue friendship as my life continued. I lost track of school friends, army friends, work friends and family. Once an era of my life was over, I moved on without making any attempt to continue the friendships I earned. I wish I would have valued the friendships more than I did and made an attempt to keep in touch with them.

If you are young, do not make the same mistake I made.

I am not ready for winter

Audio Podcast 5 minutes

I woke this morning with the temperature in the forties. It is cloudy and gloomy outside and appears to be that way all day. Gloomy days always bring back vivid memories of when I was stationed in Nuremberg, Germany, while in the army. During that time of about nine months, most of the days were characterized by an overcast sky and the constant presence of clouds looming above me. The damp chill in the air would seep into my bones, making each day feel longer than the last. Being from Colorado, where the sun shines nearly 300 days out of the year, was a large adjustment for me to be in an area that experiences such a high number of gray and dreary days. I often found myself longing for the warmth of the sun on my skin and the brilliant blue skies that I had taken for granted. Each overcast morning reminded me of the stark contrast to my vibrant home state, and I’d catch myself reminiscing about enjoying the mountains or lounging outdoors soaking in the sun.

The leaves are on their full-time effort to cover the yards and streets with colorful bounty, creating a brilliant tapestry of reds, yellows, and oranges that captivate the senses, while they flutter gently down from their branches like nature’s confetti, eagerly emptying the trees before the first snow settles in. As they gather on the ground, they form soft, crunchable carpets that invite children to jump in and adults to take leisurely strolls, all the while signaling the transition from the warmth of autumn to the crisp chill of winter that lies just around the corner.

The first freeze normally occurs around the middle of October, and one must remember to turn off the water to the outside valves and drain the pipes and hoses to prevent any unwanted damage. With the changing seasons, it’s also a good time to check on other outdoor supplies and preparations. I recently checked my ice melt container, and to my dismay, during the summer it melded into one big rock, compacted and solidified by the heat. Now I must go buy some more ice melt or figure out how to get the rock out of the container and break it up into a usable size. This little predicament has got me pondering about the best approach; perhaps I could use a hammer or a chisel, but that sounds labor-intensive. I predict I will take the easy way and go buy some more, as it would save me time and effort, allowing me to focus on the other tasks that come with preparing for the winter months ahead.

One happy part is the homeowner association does the snow removal, and that saves me from all that cold and heavy work that often comes with winter. At our former home, which was situated on the corner of a busy intersection, we had a gigantic driveway that could have easily accommodated six or more cars. Every snowstorm turned into quite the labor-intensive affair, and it would take me two hours or more to tackle the daunting task of snow removal by hand. The heavy lifting and the chilly breeze blasting against my face truly made it an exhausting chore. Now, I find great relief in knowing that I no longer have to brave the elements, especially during those harsh winter months. Retiring does have advantages; I can now spend my time enjoying cozy evenings by the fireplace, sipping hot cocoa, and relishing the peacefulness of not having to shovel snow.

Many times, during my forty plus years of employment, I had to fight the snow, crazy drivers, and the stress of getting to work on time, navigating through treacherous weather conditions that tested my patience and endurance. Each winter brought its own set of challenges, from shoveling the driveway in the early dawn to encountering reckless drivers who seemed oblivious to the icy roads. I vividly remember the anxiety of being late and the constant rush to meet deadlines, which added an extra layer of tension to an already hectic morning routine. I remember one time during a storm my relief could not make it to work and since we had some equipment that could not be left unattended, I had to stay. That 8-hour shift turned into an 18-hour shift. Now that I’ve moved on, I do not miss this one bit, as I cherish the freedom to enjoy my mornings without the dread of battling the elements or the chaos of rush hour traffic.

The good thing to remember is that in only six months, spring will be here, bringing with it a sense of renewal and joy. As the days grow longer and temperatures begin to rise, we will be able to reminisce about how we not only survived another winter but also found ways to thrive through the cold and darkness. We will look back on cozy evenings spent by the fireplace, the laughter shared with friends and family, and the resilience we discovered within ourselves during those challenging months. Soon, the vibrant colors of blooming flowers and the sweet melodies of birds returning will serve as beautiful reminders of the promise that comes with the changing of the seasons, inviting us to embrace life once again.

A Long, Long Time Ago

Audio File

After church services during fellowship, somehow the subject of stuffed green peppers came up, igniting a lively conversation among our table of eight. This stirred my memory, prompting me to share a recollection from my army time. As I reminisced about those military times, it dawned on me, “I could write a blog about the subject,”

Here is my tale.

It is March 1964. I was recently drafted into the army, and I was in basic training, a whirlwind experience that was both daunting and transformative. I was only there maybe four or five days after I reported to basic, yet it felt like an eternity under the pressure of military life. For a supper meal, they served stuffed green peppers, a dish that would become a symbol of my early days in training. I remember maybe one or two hundred recruits in the basic training company, and everything was rush, rush and do it faster, as if time was a luxury we could not afford. The sergeants barked out commands, and we scrambled to obey, our minds racing to keep up. Also, much of the kitchen duties were done by the recruits that were assigned to KP duty that day, slicing vegetables, peeling potatoes, and washing dishes, trying to maintain a semblance of order amid the chaos.

There were six of us sitting at the table, our plates filled high with the fare provided for our supper, and we were gobbling down our meals in a frenzied race against time because we only had a short period to eat before they would inevitably yell, “Time’s Up!” The recruit next to me was shoveling food into his mouth with reckless abandon, his eyes darting around as if he were trying to savor each bite while also keeping an ear open for the dreaded announcement. Suddenly, he paused mid-chew, his face shifting from one of ravenous delight to horror as he pulled something unwelcome from his mouth, revealing a shocking revelation—a Band-Aid! It was a disturbing sight indeed, as it became clear that one of our fellow recruits from the KP area had been absent-mindedly stuffing green peppers, causing the Band-Aid covering a cut to become dislodged and somehow find its way into our meal. The moment quickly turned from one of unity in our shared dining experience to utter disbelief as the recruits sitting at the table not only saw but heard the revelation, prompting an instinctual response to get up and leave the mess hall in a hurried retreat. What a way to spoil an appetite! My mind raced with questions, wondering, “What am I getting into?” as I looked around at my companions, each of us contemplating the rather unpalatable reality of our situation and what more surprises awaited us in this new chapter of our lives.

One can just speculate that the KP recruit didn’t even realize that the band-aid slipped off his finger, or he knew about it and was afraid to say anything because he didn’t want to experience another shouting conversation with the drill sergeant, which was common in those days, especially during the rigorous training sessions where discipline was paramount. These shouting matches were not unusual; they served as reminders to the recruits of the high expectations placed upon them, often creating an atmosphere thick with tension and anxiety. Or another possibility is that he reported it, and they yelled and screamed at him and didn’t do anything about it, leaving him feeling even more powerless in a situation that already felt overwhelming. It is hard for me to imagine that they would toss out food for one to two hundred troops and start over just because of a missing band-aid, considering the logistical challenges involved in preparing meals for such a large group, coupled with the sheer amount of effort that went into food preparation. In a military environment where resourcefulness and efficiency are crucial, such an action would seem extravagant and illogical. The actual story will be never known, leaving us to ponder the multitude of factors that might have influenced the response to such a seemingly minor incident, yet one that could highlight deeper issues within the structure of military life.

I have other tales to share during my time in the military and someday share other stories that one does not hear often.

Forgotten Reflection

Audio Podcast 10 minutes

This is in my next paperback “Tales of TomT2.0 volume five. This volume is all spooky stories. Getting ready for Halloween.

Eli stood in the bathroom, half-asleep, brushing his teeth like he did every night, the bristles of his toothbrush working mechanically against his enamel. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting a pale glow over the cracked tiles and foggy mirror, illuminating the remnants of a long day that clung to him like a heavy blanket. He smiled absently at his reflection—more habit than emotion—and then dropped the smile as he leaned down to spit, the sound echoing in the stillness of the night. The room was filled with the familiar scent of mint toothpaste, mingling with the musty air, while outside, the soft rustle of leaves hinted at the gentle breeze that stirred the quiet neighborhood. Unconsciously, he replayed the events of the day, the laughter shared and the mundane moments that blurred into one another, pausing briefly to wonder how tomorrow might unfold. With a final rinse, Eli reluctantly stepped away from the mirror, feeling the weight of exhaustion tugging at him, but grateful for the small, ordinary ritual that marked the end of his day.

But the reflection didn’t drop it.

Eli froze, toothbrush still in hand, caught in a moment that felt suspended in time. His mirrored self was still smiling, an eerie reflection that sent chills down his spine. Not a friendly grin, but something stretched too wide, too long, like a macabre mask fitted over a face that should show fear or surprise. The kind of smile that didn’t belong on a human face, it was an unsettling distortion that suggested something more sinister lurking beneath the surface. With each passing second, Eli’s heart raced as he wondered what had gone wrong, why the reflection seemed to mock him, and if this strange visage was a harbinger of something darker waiting to reveal itself.

He blinked. The reflection blinked too, still grinning.

“Okay,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Sleep deprivation. That’s all.”

He turned off the light and left the bathroom, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over him. But as he passed the hallway mirror, he caught a glimpse—his reflection, still smiling, an eerie reminder of a joy that felt distant. The dim light flickered, casting shadows that danced along the walls, and he paused for a moment, captivated by the contrast between his inner turmoil and the outward appearance of happiness that stared back at him. It was as if the smile in the mirror was mocking him, teasing him for the facade he maintained.

That night, Eli barely slept. The moon filtered through the curtains, casting eerie shadows that danced across his room. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that grin, sharp and wide, curling menacingly at the corners. It wasn’t just unsettling—it felt wrong, as if it held secrets meant to be buried deep. Like something was watching him from the other side of the glass, its gaze penetrating and relentless, leaving him with an overwhelming sense of dread that wrapped around him like a suffocating blanket. Each sound in the house—a creak, a whisper—seemed amplified in the silence, fueling his growing paranoia and ensuring that sleep remained an elusive, unattainable refuge.

The next morning, he avoided the mirror, feeling as though it was a portal to some unsettling truth, he was not ready to confront. Shaved blind, he moved the razor hesitantly over his stubble, not daring to open his eyes lest he be confronted by the visage he had come to dread. Brushed his teeth with his eyes closed, the minty taste barely reaching his senses as his mind raced with the thoughts of what he might discover. But curiosity gnawed at him, an insistent whisper in the back of his mind urging him to look. With trembling hands, he peeked, heart pounding as he lifted the lid of dread, ready to face whatever awaited him.

The reflection was normal, appearing just as one would expect in a peaceful lake on a calm day, with the surface shimmering gently under the warm sunlight and presenting a clear image of the trees and sky above. The tranquility of the scene offered a moment of serenity, inviting one to pause and appreciate the beauty of nature reflected so perfectly before them.

Relieved, Eli laughed, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room. “I’m losing it,” he said to his reflection, a mixture of exasperation and amusement dancing in his eyes. He leaned closer to the mirror, searching for signs of the sanity he felt slipping away, all while his laughter grew more infectious, as if he were sharing an inside joke with himself that only he could understand.

It didn’t laugh back, as if it understood that laughter was a privilege reserved for moments of genuine joy and connection, instead opting for a silent acknowledgment that hung in the air, weighty with the unspoken truths and emotions we often fail to express.

That night, the smile returned.

This time, Eli stared into the mirror, refusing to look away. His own face stared back, smiling wider and wider until the lips cracked and bled. The eyes grew darker, pupils swallowing the whites. Eli backed away, heart hammering.

The reflection didn’t move.

It stayed there, grinning, even as Eli ran from the room, its sinister smile a chilling reminder of the darkness that lurked within those walls, a presence that seemed to thrive on fear and uncertainty, watching with unblinking eyes as the shadows danced around it, whispering secrets that only Eli could feel creeping into his mind, urging him to look back, to face what he desperately wanted to escape from.

He tried everything—covering the mirror with cloth and tape, smashing it to shards that glittered like cruel stars, even replacing it with a new one that promised to be different. But no matter what he did, the reflection came back, mocking him with its persistence. It was as if the mirror had a will of its own, refusing to be silenced or hidden away. Not always immediately, as if it relished in the torment of anticipation. Sometimes it waited patiently, biding its time until he least expected it. At other moments, it would show itself in the most unexpected places—appearing in windows during twilight, shimmering in puddles after a rain, and even on the black screen of his phone when he least wanted to confront it. Each encounter was a reminder, a haunting echo of what he wished to forget, compelling him to confront the part of himself he had long tried to escape.

And it was changing.

It began to move on its own, a strange, unsettling energy radiating from its form. Tilting its head when Eli didn’t, as if questioning his resolve and challenging him to respond. Raising a hand when his stayed still, the gesture felt deliberate, almost mocking in its insistence. It whispered things he couldn’t hear, mouthing words that made his skin crawl, sending shivers down his spine and igniting a primal fear within him. Each syllable it shaped felt like a dark promise, a hint at secrets that lurked just beyond his understanding, beckoning him closer even as every instinct screamed for him to flee.

One night, Eli woke to find every mirror in his apartment uncovered, reflecting the dim light that filtered in through the curtains. He didn’t remember doing it, but the sight sent a shiver down his spine as he felt an eerie presence in the air. Each mirror seemed to be staring back at him, as if they held secrets he had forgotten. The last few days had been a blur, filled with late-night distractions and fatigue, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. Uneasy, Eli glanced around, half-expecting to see a shadow lurking just beyond his line of sight, but the apartment remained silent, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator.

In the bathroom, the reflection was waiting, shimmering faintly in the dim light, as if it held secrets untold, urging the viewer to step closer and confront the truths hidden within.

It wasn’t smiling anymore.

It was beckoning.

Eli stepped closer, drawn by something he couldn’t name, as an inexplicable force seemed to pull him towards the shimmering glass. The glass rippled like water, creating a mesmerizing dance of light and shadow that captivated his senses. He reached out, fingertips brushing the surface, feeling a coolness that sent a shiver up his spine, as though the glass were alive and responsive to his touch. Each delicate ripple seemed to whisper secrets, urging him to delve deeper into the mystery before him, while the world around him faded into a distant hum.

And the reflection grabbed him.

Now, when people visit Eli’s apartment, they find the mirrors covered, shrouded in an aura of mystery that piques their curiosity. All but one remain hidden behind draped cloths or opaque film, which creates a peculiar atmosphere that feels both intimate and unsettling. The lone uncovered mirror, however, reflects a glimmer of light and provides a fleeting glimpse into Eli’s world, inviting visitors to wonder what lies behind the concealed reflections and the reasons for their obscuration.

In the bathroom, the mirror shows a man brushing his teeth, his reflection revealing the early morning light filtering through the small window, casting a gentle glow on the pale tiles. As he methodically moves the toothbrush back and forth, the hum of the electric toothbrush fills the air, and he catches a glimpse of his own tired eyes, a reminder of the long night before. The aroma of mint from the toothpaste mingles with the faint scent of soap lingering in the room, creating an oddly comforting atmosphere. Beyond the mirror, the bathroom door is slightly ajar, hinting at the life outside that awaits him, filled with the sounds of a bustling day yet to unfold.

And if you look closely, you’ll see—he’s not alone. In fact, there are several figures lurking in the shadows, each with their own stories, waiting to unfold. The atmosphere is thick with intrigue, and the faint sound of whispers hints at secrets shared among them. It’s a moment frozen in time, where connections are forged and the unspoken bond of companionship is palpable, transforming an ordinary scene into something extraordinary.

For reasons that will never be understood, the apartment was never rented again, becoming a mysterious relic of the past, shrouded in whispers and unanswered questions about its history. Neighbors speculated about the property, sharing stories of strange occurrences and unexplainable sights that had once driven potential tenants away, leaving behind only a lingering sense of unease that seemed to permeate the very walls of the building.

.

Fall: Transitioning into Cozy Days

Today is the first day of fall. The ninety-degree days are over, and with the arrival of this new season, we can finally embrace the cool, crisp air that fills our lungs. Cooler days and nights are ahead, providing the perfect backdrop for cozy sweaters and warm drinks. The leaves are starting to change to their golden color, painting landscapes in hues of orange, red, and yellow, and gracefully falling to the ground like nature’s confetti. As we walk beneath the trees, we might hear the satisfying crunch of leaves underfoot. It’s time to start thinking about the season’s preparations, including the moments when the furnace will go on to take away the morning chill in the home, wrapping us in warmth as we enjoy the comforting aroma of pumpkin spice and freshly baked pies wafting through the air.

The word “fall” derives from Old English “feallan,” meaning to fall, and it specifically refers to the beautiful and colorful phenomenon of falling leaves, which marks the transition from summer to winter. This term is preferred in American English over the more traditional “autumn,” which stems from the Latin word “augustus.” The choice of “fall” not only encapsulates the essence of the season but also highlights the picturesque scenery of trees shedding their foliage, creating a vibrant tapestry of colors on the ground. This season is often associated with harvest celebrations, cooler temperatures, and a sense of change, making it a time for reflection and preparation for the upcoming winter months.

Fall allergies spike due to ragweed pollen, affecting ~23 million Americans annually.
As the leaves begin to change color and the air turns crisp, countless individuals experience the relentless onslaught of allergy symptoms. My eyes have the traditional itch and redness, which often leads to a frustrating cycle of rubbing and swelling that makes it difficult to focus on daily activities. In addition to these uncomfortable symptoms, the sneezing, runny nose, and overall fatigue that accompany fall allergies can diminish one’s quality of life, making autumn feel less like a season of beauty and more like a season of struggle.

It’s the second most popular wedding season globally, after summer, with countless couples choosing this time to tie the knot due to the beautiful fall foliage and moderate weather. This enchanting season not only provides a picturesque backdrop for outdoor ceremonies but also offers a rich palette of colors that inspire everything from floral arrangements to wedding attire. As autumn ushers in cozy atmospheres and seasonal celebrations, many couples see it as the perfect opportunity to share their love in a unique and heartfelt way.

Time marches on, and in three months, we will be talking about the next season of the year, winter. As the days grow shorter and the crispness of the air becomes more pronounced, we can already feel the anticipation building for the beauty that winter brings. The first snowfall will blanket the earth in a serene white, transforming familiar landscapes into a magical wonderland. Families will gather around warm fires, sharing stories and laughter, while festive decorations will begin to adorn homes, creating a sense of warmth and joy during the cold months ahead.

My wife’s fall visitors.

Have a nice fall day.

The Multifaceted Concept of God in Human History

Audio Podcast Link

Many people believe in a god, a supreme being, or a deity. This belief shows our need to understand existence, the universe, and our role in it. To learn more, I asked AI for a definition of God, interested in its insights shaped by diverse cultural views. The response was intriguing, as it summarized not only the qualities of divinity but also how different societies think about this idea, showing both shared beliefs and differences through time and cultures.

The idea of God has shaped human history, culture, and individual lives for millennia, serving as a cornerstone of meaning, morality, and mystery. Across civilizations, God is understood in diverse ways—as a singular omnipotent being, a collection of deities, or an impersonal cosmic force that binds the universe together. This multifaceted concept transcends mere religion, influencing philosophy, art, science, and ethics, while remaining deeply personal and often divisive. The varying interpretations of God reflect the unique values and beliefs of different societies, illustrating how this divine notion fosters both unity and conflict among peoples. From the ancient rituals of worship to contemporary discussions on the nature of existence, the concept of God challenges individuals and communities to grapple with profound questions about life, purpose, and the moral framework that governs human behavior. The pursuit of understanding God can lead to a deeper exploration of spirituality, prompting many to seek connections with something greater than themselves, ultimately shaping the profound narratives that define cultures across the globe.

In monotheistic traditions like Christianity, Islam, and Judaism, God is typically envisioned as a singular, all-powerful creator who is deeply involved in the cosmos and human lives. In Christianity, God is the loving father, omnipresent and omniscient, guiding humanity through divine will and grace while embodying the principles of love, forgiveness, and redemption. The Bible portrays God as both transcendent and immanent, a being who not only crafted the universe yet remains intimately involved with creation, listening to prayers and responding to the cries of the faithful. Islam’s Allah, similarly, is the sole deity, merciful and just, whose will is absolute, as described in the Quran, which emphasizes His attributes of compassion, power, and wisdom. Additionally, Allah is seen as the ultimate judge, ensuring that justice prevails while offering repentance and mercy to those who seek it sincerely. Judaism’s Yahweh, revealed through the Torah, emphasizes a covenantal relationship with the chosen people, blending justice with compassion, guiding them throughout their history while encouraging ethical living and adherence to His laws. These faiths share a view of God as eternal, unchanging, and deeply concerned with human affairs, fostering a sense of purpose and direction in the lives of believers, reinforcing the importance of faith and community in the journey towards spiritual fulfillment.

Polytheistic traditions, such as Hinduism and ancient Greek religion, offer a different lens through which to examine the complexity of spirituality and divine representation. Hinduism’s vast pantheon includes deities like Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva, each embodying unique aspects of the divine spectrum while ultimately pointing to Brahman, the infinite reality underlying existence. This intricate framework suggests a fluidity between the one and the many, where God is both plural and singular, allowing for a rich tapestry of worship and personal interpretation. Furthermore, the interplay between these deities illustrates the idea that the divine can manifest in numerous forms, each serving as a guide for followers on their spiritual journeys. Ancient Greeks, on the other hand, worshipped gods like Zeus and Athena, anthropomorphic figures imbued with distinct personalities and domains, reflecting a worldview where divinity mirrors human complexity. The myths surrounding these gods often detailed their interactions and conflicts, emphasizing the intricacies of ethical dilemmas and the human condition. In this way, both traditions highlight the multifaceted nature of the divine, as well as the varied ways in which cultures have sought to understand and relate to a higher power, demonstrating that the quest for meaning transcends time and geography.

Beyond organized religion, philosophical and spiritual perspectives broaden the concept further, inviting deeper exploration into the nature of existence and our understanding of the divine. Deism posits a God who creates but does not intervene, presenting a rational force behind the universe’s order, suggesting a clockmaker who sets the machinery of the cosmos in motion yet remains distant from its operations. Pantheism, as articulated by thinkers like Spinoza, equates God with nature itself, ultimately dissolving the boundary between creator and creation and encouraging a profound reverence for the natural world that surrounds us. This perspective fosters a sense of unity and interconnectedness amongst all living things, urging individuals to recognize the divine immanence present in every element of life. Meanwhile, agnosticism and atheism challenge traditional notions, questioning God’s existence or relevance while still engaging with the void such questions leave, prompting critical thinking and intellectual discourse on morality, purpose, and the human experience in a seemingly indifferent universe. These varied views illustrate the rich tapestry of beliefs that confront our quest for meaning beyond institutional dogma.

God’s role in human life extends beyond theology. Art—from Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel to Sufi poetry—captures divine awe and intimacy, revealing the profound connection between spirituality and creativity that transcends cultural boundaries. The aesthetic expressions of faith often serve as a bridge, inviting individuals to explore the depths of their beliefs and the mysteries of existence. Moral systems, even in secular contexts, often trace their roots to divine commandments or cosmic principles, reflecting the innate human desire for order, justice, and meaning in a chaotic world. These ethical frameworks guide personal conduct and societal norms, showcasing how spirituality can influence our understanding of right and wrong. Yet, the concept of God also sparks conflict, from historical crusades to modern debates over faith’s place in public life, exposing the fragility of belief systems when challenged. These tensions highlight humanity’s struggle to reconcile the infinite with the finite, the known with the unknowable, prompting a continuous journey of exploration and dialogue that shapes both individual identities and the collective human experience.

Ultimately, God remains a mirror of human aspiration and fear—a symbol of hope, order, and purpose, but also of mystery and unanswerable questions. Whether seen as a personal savior, a cosmic force, or a human construct, God reflects our deepest desires to understand existence and navigate the complexities of our lives. Across cultures and eras, the quest to define God reveals as much about humanity as it does about divinity, inviting each generation to wrestle with the eternal, confront its own uncertainties, and seek meaning in a world that often feels chaotic. This exploration of the divine not only shapes individual belief systems but also weaves the intricate tapestry of society, influencing art, philosophy, and moral values. Consequently, the concept of God remains not just a theological inquiry, but a profound journey into the human condition itself, challenging us to ponder our place in the universe and our connection to one another.

Lights Out in the Shower 

Audio Podcast, 3 minutes

The old cabin creaked under the weight of the storm outside, wind howling through the pines like a chorus of restless spirits. I’d rented the place for a quiet weekend, a chance to unplug and clear my head. The bathroom was small, with chipped tiles and a shower that sputtered before spitting out lukewarm water. I stepped in, letting the spray wash away the day’s hike, steam curling around me like a shroud.  

The bulb overhead flickered once, twice, then held steady. I ignored it—old wiring, probably. The water felt good, soothing my aching muscles. I closed my eyes, humming softly, the sound muffled by the patter of droplets. Then, a sharp *click*. The light went out, plunging the room into pitch black. 

 I froze, water still streaming down my face. “Great,” I muttered, reaching for the faucet. My fingers fumbled in the dark, slipping on the wet knob. The shower kept running, but the air felt heavier now, like someone had stepped into the room. I strained to listen over the water’s drone. Nothing. Just my imagination, right?  

I turned off the shower, the sudden silence deafening. My hand groped for the towel hanging nearby, but it brushed something else—cold, slick, like damp skin. I yanked my hand back, heart hammering. “Who’s there?” I called, voice trembling. No answer, but the darkness seemed to pulse, alive with something I couldn’t see.  

I stumbled out of the shower, feet slipping on the tiles. The bathroom door was somewhere to my left—I hoped. My hands found the wall, guiding me forward, but the surface felt wrong, spongy, like it was breathing under my touch. I yanked my hand away, suppressing a scream. The air grew colder, thicker, pressing against my bare skin. A faint whisper slithered through the dark, not words, just a low, guttural hum that made my stomach twist.  

I lunged for where I thought the door was, fingers scrabbling until they hit the knob. It turned, but the door wouldn’t budge, like something was holding it shut. Panic clawed at me. I pounded on the wood, shouting, my voice echoing in the tiny space. The whisper grew louder, closer, curling around my ears like icy fingers. I swear I felt breath on my neck, damp and sour.  

Desperate, I threw my weight against the door. It gave way, spilling me into the cabin’s main room. The lights there were still on, warm and steady. I spun around, expecting to see someone—or something—in the bathroom. Nothing. Just darkness beyond the doorway, thicker than it should’ve been.  

I didn’t sleep that night. The storm raged on, and every creak of the cabin felt like a warning. I left at dawn, never looking back. But even now, weeks later, I feel it sometimes—a cold breath on my neck when I shower, a whisper in the dark when the lights flicker. It followed me. And it’s waiting. 

The Sad Reality of City Life

AUDIO PODCAST

It’s sad that we do not feel safe in large cities. 

In the heart of bustling metropolises, where skyscrapers pierce the sky and the hum of life never ceases, a troubling sentiment has taken root: we no longer feel safe. Large cities, once celebrated as vibrant hubs of opportunity, culture, and connection, are increasingly shadowed by fear. This pervasive unease reflects deeper societal challenges that demand our attention and action. 

The sense of insecurity in urban centers stems from multiple sources. Rising crime rates, often sensationalized by media, paint cities as battlegrounds. According to recent data, violent crime in major U.S. cities like Chicago and New York has seen upticks in specific areas, with robbery and assault rates climbing in 2024. Though overall crime trends vary, high-profile incidents—shootings, subway attacks, or public theft—dominate headlines, amplifying public anxiety. These stories linger, shaping perceptions that every corner holds danger, even when statistics suggest otherwise. 

Beyond crime, the urban environment itself can feel hostile. Overcrowded streets, aggressive traffic, and the constant churn of strangers create a sense of anonymity that erodes trust. In smaller towns, familiarity breeds community; in cities, the sheer scale of human interaction can feel isolating. A 2023 survey by the Pew Research Center found that 60% of urban residents feel less connected to their neighbors than they did a decade ago. This disconnection fuels vulnerability—when no one knows your name, who will notice if something goes wrong? 

Economic disparity also plays a role. Cities showcase stark contrasts between wealth and poverty, with homelessness surging in places like Los Angeles and San Francisco. Encountering visible desperation daily can unsettle residents, fostering guilt, fear, or resentment. For many, the sight of encampments or panhandlers becomes a reminder of societal failures, making public spaces feel unpredictable and unsafe. 

Yet, this sadness over lost safety isn’t just about physical threats. It’s about the erosion of a social contract. Cities thrive when people trust the systems around them—police, transit, local government. But distrust in institutions is growing. Scandals, underfunded services, and polarized politics leave residents feeling unprotected. For instance, debates over policing—whether overfunded or underfunded—have left communities caught between calls for reform and demands for stronger enforcement, with no clear resolution. 

So, what can be done? Rebuilding safety requires a multifaceted approach. Community policing, focused on trust rather than confrontation, has shown promise in cities like Camden, New Jersey, where violent crime dropped 20% after reforms. Investing in mental health services and housing can address root causes of crime and homelessness. Urban design also matters—well-lit streets, green spaces, and community centers can foster connection and deter crime. Most importantly, residents must engage with one another. Neighborhood initiatives, like block parties or mutual aid groups, can rebuild the social fabric that makes cities feel like home. 

It’s heartbreaking that the very places designed for human connection now breed fear. Yet, cities remain humanity’s greatest experiment in coexistence. By addressing crime, inequality, and disconnection head-on, we can reclaim the safety and vibrancy that define urban life. The path forward lies in collective effort—because no city thrives when its people are afraid. 

The Decline of a Two-Party System: Power, Politics, and Unelected Influence

Audio Podcast

This is an opinion piece. For a long time I have felt this disgust from what I have seen from politicians, the news media and individual comments. Therefore, I felt it is time for me to vent and get it off my chest.

The United States has long prided itself on its two-party political system, a structure that has defined its democracy for over a century. The Democratic and Republican parties have historically served as the primary vehicles for political discourse, policy-making, and governance. However, the dynamics of this system have shifted dramatically in recent years, leading to a growing sentiment that the U.S. is no longer a true two-party country. Instead, the political landscape is increasingly characterized by one party acting with unchecked authority while the other postures without delivering meaningful opposition. Even more concerning is the rise of powerful unelected officials who appear to wield disproportionate control over the nation’s direction, undermining the democratic process.

The notion of a two-party system implies a balance of power, where competing ideologies engage in robust debate, compromise, and accountability to the electorate. Yet, this balance has eroded. One party—whether Democratic or Republican, depending on the context—often pushes its agenda with little regard for opposition or public sentiment. This is facilitated by a combination of political dominance in key institutions, media alignment, and strategic maneuvering that sidelines dissenting voices. Policies are enacted, executive actions are taken, and cultural shifts are engineered, often with minimal resistance. The opposing party, meanwhile, frequently engages in performative gestures—grand speeches, symbolic votes, or social media campaigns—that create the illusion of action without producing tangible results. This dynamic leaves voters frustrated, feeling that their concerns are ignored or that the system is rigged against them.

The root of this dysfunction lies not only with elected officials but also with the growing influence of unelected power structures. Bureaucrats, corporate leaders, tech moguls, and other non-elected figures have amassed significant control over policy and public life. Within the federal government, career officials in agencies like the Department of Justice, the FBI, or the CDC often shape policy outcomes through regulatory decisions, selective enforcement, or public health mandates that bypass the legislative process. These unelected actors operate with little accountability, insulated from the democratic mechanisms that govern elected representatives. For example, regulatory agencies can issue rules with the force of law, yet these decisions are often made by individuals who face no electoral consequences.

The corporate and tech sectors further exacerbate this trend. Tech giants, for instance, influence public discourse by controlling information flow, censoring content, or amplifying certain narratives, effectively shaping political outcomes without ever appearing on a ballot. Similarly, corporate lobbying ensures that economic policies often prioritize private interests over the public good. These unelected forces—whether in government, media, or industry—create a shadow governance structure that operates beyond the reach of voters, eroding the democratic foundation of the two-party system.

This imbalance has profound implications. When one party acts unilaterally and the other fails to mount effective opposition, the checks and balances inherent in a two-party system collapse. When unelected officials hold sway, the will of the people is sidelined. The result is a growing distrust in institutions, as citizens feel increasingly powerless to influence their government. Restoring a functional two-party system requires not only reinvigorating political competition but also addressing the unchecked power of unelected elites. Without such reforms, the U.S. risks drifting further from its democratic ideals, leaving its citizens with a government that serves the few rather than the many.

Writers Block

Audio Podcast

Writer’s block is a condition where a writer struggles to produce new work, often feeling stuck, uninspired, or unable to generate ideas. It can manifest as difficulty starting, completing, or finding the right words for a piece, and may be caused by various factors like stress, self-doubt, perfectionism, lack of inspiration, or external pressures.

This is my current situation. After nearly twenty years of blogging, I find it increasingly challenging to discover new topics to explore. I have chronicled numerous events from my life, and I am exhausting compelling subjects. I am an ordinary individual, not someone who accomplishes extraordinary feats. I do not leap tall buildings or halt speeding bullets. I am simply who I am.

I have tried searching many writing prompts, and unfortunately, many do not motivate me to write about the topics presented. Often, I find that the themes are either too narrow, lacking in depth, or simply do not resonate with my personal interests and experiences. I’ve explored various sources hoping to discover something that sparks my creativity and ignites a passion for writing. However, it seems like a never-ending quest to find the right prompt that can truly inspire me and lead to a fulfilling writing experience.

Maybe it is the introduction of AI in my writings that has led to this unsettling feeling. Recently, I have used AI many times lately, experimenting with various tools and techniques to enhance my creative process. However, I am beginning to feel that it is not me who is truly writing anymore; instead, it seems as though my authentic voice is being overshadowed by algorithms and machine-generated suggestions. This has raised questions in my mind about the essence of creativity and individuality in an age where technology can mimic human thought. I find myself longing for the raw, organic flow of ideas that used to come so naturally, all while wondering if I can reclaim my unique perspective amid the growing influence of artificial intelligence.

Maybe it is the discomfort I am experiencing in my right hip for over two months, a persistent ache that has begun to affect my daily activities and overall quality of life. The doctors say it is arthritic degeneration, a term that feels daunting when I consider what it implies for my future. Examination showed that my hip joints are ok, which is a relief, yet the source of my discomfort remains elusive. Despite my efforts with exercises and physical therapy, which I approach with hope and determination, there has not been much change; the stiffness and discomfort linger, casting a shadow over my optimism. I am beginning to think my age is catching up with me and this is something I will have to accept, yet I refuse to let it define me completely. I find myself reflecting on the importance of staying active and engaging in life, even as I navigate the reality of this new limitation.

Maybe I just need to take a break for a while and see if that helps. Writing is becoming more like a job than a task that I have enjoyed throughout the last 20 years. Is burnout raising its ugly head like it did 20 years ago when I retired from the working world? I find myself struggling to put words on the page, feeling pressured by deadlines and expectations rather than inspired by creative impulses. Perhaps stepping away for a bit will allow me to rediscover that initial passion and joy I once felt, helping me to break free from this cycle of stress and regain my enthusiasm. It’s important to remember that creativity often flourishes in moments of rest and reflection, and I hope that this time away will renew my spirit and reignite my love for the craft.

Therefore, that is where I am at the moment. I am just going to wait and see what direction I end up going. Life has a way of taking unexpected turns, and sometimes I find myself pondering what the future holds for me. Oh, I wrote this at 4 in the morning, a time when the world is still and my thoughts seem to flow more freely. I do not have any problem going to sleep; however, my problem is staying asleep after 3 or 4 hours of sleep, then I often wake up feeling restless and unable to return to sleep. Perhaps I need to explore some methods to calm my mind and body, to create a more restful atmosphere that will allow me to drift into a deeper sleep without interruption. Only time will tell the direction I end up going.

Reflecting on 500 Posts

Audio PODCAST

This is my 500th post on WordPress. I do not know whether that number is a major accomplishment or not, but it certainly feels significant to me. It is exciting to reflect on this journey and all the experiences I’ve gained along the way. Ten years ago, I never imagined that I would have 500 posts published, each one capturing moment of inspiration, learning, and growth. Every word I’ve shared has been a piece of my story, creating a tapestry of thoughts that I’ve woven together over the years. The challenges I faced and the triumphs I’ve celebrated through this platform have shaped not just my writing skills, but my understanding of myself and the world around me.

I have had this site since 2009, a 16 year-long journey that has seen significant changes and growth. I started this site after the local newspaper, Rocky Mountain News, shuttered their doors, leaving a void in the community for local voices to be heard. In 2002, I began blogging on their website, yourhub.com, where I found a platform to share my thoughts and experiences with others. However, when their blog site became unusable, I sought out new opportunities and enrolled in WordPress, which has provided me with the versatility and reach I needed to continue my passion for writing. After my near-death experience in February 2023, I gained a renewed perspective on life, and this profound event has driven me to become even more active in blogging here, sharing not just my experiences, but also inspiration and insights for others who may be navigating their own challenges.

This has been an exciting experience for me, and I hope I will be able to continue this adventure for many more years.

LINK TO MY FIRST WORDPRESS BLOG

The First Cup: A Morning Ritual

Audio Podcast

July 31, 2025, this morning started, like most, with the gentle sound of my coffee maker, my reliable friend in the quiet. Outside, the world was slowly waking up, with the sky showing soft peach and gray hues, but in my kitchen, the day had already begun with the promise of that first cup. There’s something special about it—a simple ritual that feels important.

I added the coffee grounds, to the filter. The smell filled the air even before brewing began, waking up my senses. As the machine made noise, I leaned on the counter, still half-asleep, feeling the excitement build. That first sip? It’s more than coffee. It’s a comforting moment, a warm hug in a mug, steadying me before the day begins.

Today, the coffee was perfect—not too bitter, not too weak. I took it black, savoring the way it coated my tongue with a subtle, earthy warmth. I stood by the window, mug in hand, watching a neighbor walk their dog. The world felt small and manageable in that moment, as if the steam rising from my cup carried away any lingering grogginess or doubt.

Social media buzzed with the usual mix of news and memes, but I barely glanced at my phone. The coffee demanded my full attention, a rare moment of mindfulness in a world that’s always shouting. I thought about how this simple act—brewing, pouring, sipping—connects me to millions of others who start their day the same way. It’s a universal language, a shared heartbeat of mornings everywhere.

The defining moment today was the quiet. No emails, no notifications, just me and the mug. I noticed the faint ring of coffee stains inside it, a testament to countless mornings before this one. It felt like a badge of consistency, proof that some things stay steady even as the world shifts.

As I drained the last drop, I felt ready—not just awake, but ready. The first cup isn’t just fuel; it’s a signal that I’m here, present, and capable of taking on whatever July 31, 2025, has in store. Tomorrow, I’ll do it again, chasing that same fleeting magic. Maybe I’ll try a new blend or add a splash of cream, but the ritual will hold steady—a small anchor in the ebb and flow of life. *

What’s your morning ritual? Does coffee start your day, or is there another moment that sets the tone?

Why I Love Blogging

Audio PODCAST

Here are some reasons why I enjoy blogging.

Blogging lets me expand my thoughts, ideas, and personality into words, giving me a creative outlet to share stories or perspectives in my unique voice. This platform serves not only as a medium for self-expression but also as a canvas where I can explore new concepts, engage with diverse topics, and connect with others who resonate with my experiences. Through the written word, I am able to reflect on my journey, articulate my passion, and inspire readers by weaving narratives that encapsulate both my struggles and triumphs. By sharing these reflections, I foster a sense of community, inviting others to join in the conversation and contribute their own insights, ultimately enriching the dialogue and broadening the perspectives presented.

Blogging allows me to inspire or inform others about a wide range of subjects. My theme is “Comments About Anything,” which gives me the freedom to explore diverse topics without restriction. You never know what area I will focus on in my blogging, whether it be insightful commentary on current events, tips for personal growth, or reflections on everyday life. This unpredictability keeps both me and my readers engaged, as each post presents a new opportunity for discovery and discussion. I aim to spark curiosity and provoke thought, connecting with my audience through my unique perspective on various issues and experiences that resonate with us all.

Writing regularly helps me reflect on my experiences, which can be deeply satisfying. Each time my fingers to the keyboard, I am reminded of the lessons I’ve learned and the emotions I’ve felt. What I have experienced may help someone in the future to make a wise decision, providing them with insights to navigate their own journey. These reflections not only offer clarity to my thoughts but also create a record of my growth and understanding over time. By sharing my stories and insights, I hope to inspire others, allowing them to glean wisdom from my challenges and triumphs, and encouraging them to embrace their own unique paths with confidence.

Blogging can be a therapeutic way for me to process emotions, vent frustrations, and document my life’s journey. Through writing, I can articulate my thoughts and feelings that often feel overwhelming when kept inside. Each post becomes not just a reflection of my current state but also a means of exploring the complexities of my experiences and the lessons I’ve learned along the way. In sharing my stories, I foster a sense of connection with others who may resonate with my struggles or triumphs, and this sense of community further enhances the healing process. It allows me to look back and see how far I’ve come, reminding me of the resilience I possess and the beauty that exists even in challenging times.

Blogging often inspires me to research new topics, or experiment with tools like SEO or design, which can be intellectually stimulating. Each post can open up a world of new ideas and insights, pushing me to delve deeper into various subjects. I am very interested in artificial intelligence (AI) and yes, AI is now in my toolbox. This technology fascinates me with its potential to revolutionize industries, streamline processes, and enhance creativity in ways we are just beginning to explore. The more I learn about AI, the more I am eager to integrate it into my blogging practice, using it to optimize content and engage my audience in innovative ways.

Finally, it keeps my mind active, and I find myself spending many hours blogging in my retirement years, which has become one of my greatest passions. I enjoy exploring various topics, sharing my thoughts and experiences, and connecting with others through the written word. Each post is a chance to dive deep into subjects I love, allowing me to express my creativity and indulge in my love for storytelling. I just love blogging, as it not only offers me a platform to reflect on my life but also fosters a sense of community and belonging with fellow writers and readers.

Selfishness and Self-Care

Audio PODCAST

Selfishness is like that friend who always insists on sitting in the front seat without considering who else is in the car; it’s all about prioritizing your own needs and wants as if you’re the star of a one-person show. Sure, self-preservation is a human instinct, but sometimes it goes overboard, like wearing sunglasses at night and completely ignoring the people around you. From friendships to the office, selfishness sneaks in like a cat on a countertop, leading to a dramatic decrease in empathy. When everyone is busy chasing their own fun, it’s like accidentally stepping on each other’s toes while doing the cha-cha, resulting in a chaotic dance of tension and conflict. It’s great to treat yourself like a VIP, but getting too caught up in your own circus can really turn the whole community into a three-ring disaster!

Selfishness is like that pesky cousin of self-interest that we all invite to the survival party, right? Sure, it keeps us mentally and physically sprightly, but when it starts hoarding snacks or pulling mind tricks like a magician gone rogue, it can really throw a wrench in relationships and teamwork—trust and good communication start to vanish faster than free pizza! Honestly, this kind of behavior doesn’t just ruin the fun for the people involved; it’s like a bad movie that’s creating a sequel of societal chaos, where competition smothers cooperation. Usually, fear, insecurity, or that moment when you realize you’ve run out of snacks pushes folks to act all selfish y, trying to shield their precious little selves. Some folks think it’s a smart move in competitive games, but spoiler alert—it can leave you feeling like a lone wolf who forgot to pack a picnic! That’s why we really need to strike a humorous balance between looking out for number one and spreading a little love to the rest of the pack.

Altruism is like that friend who always insists on paying for dinner but secretly hopes you’ll offer dessert in return – it’s all about putting others first, but let’s be honest, it feels pretty good to feel like a superhero, right? While most of us have the best intentions (like Mother Teresa on a sugar high), it’s tough to sort out the genuine selflessness from the warm fuzzy feelings that come with it. Philosophers like Ayn Rand argued that rational selfishness is basically a cheat sheet for success and progress, suggesting that pursuing our own bliss while helping others is the ultimate life hack. She believed that doing what benefits us could actually spark more innovation than a caffeine-fueled brainstorming session. Of course, some critics think that this whole individualism gig could turn us into hermits more concerned about our Netflix queues than our neighbors, warning that we might trade community hugs for personal trophies. The real challenge here? Finding that sweet spot where our dreams can coexist with the warm and fuzzy connections that keep us from turning into a society of self-absorbed cats.

Context is key—being a bit selfish in a crisis (like diving for the last lifeboat) is a whole different ball game compared to your average day when you might just ignore a friend’s plaintive cries for help with their math homework. When survival is on the line, it’s like your inner caveman takes over, and you might just tackle someone for that last slice of pizza. These situations highlight the wild rollercoaster of human behavior and that pesky survival instinct, which can sometimes kick social norms right in the shins. Most folks’ juggle self-interest and altruism like a circus act, influenced by everything from their upbringing to the latest trends on social media. Our backgrounds shape our crisis-mode responses versus our everyday antics; for instance, someone raised in a collectivist culture might prioritize the group’s well-being over their own, even if it means giving up dessert. Individual experiences also play a starring role in our decision-making, proving that selfishness and selflessness are basically dancing a tango, always dependent on the situation.

A reader may wonder how I came up with this topic. Recently a friend of mine said, “don’t be so selfish,” which struck a chord and made me reflect deeply on the nature of my actions. This made me think, “what is selfishness?” I went to my AI assistant and asked it to explain selfishness. After carefully analyzing the response and considering various perspectives on egoism and altruism, I realized there are many shades to this concept that I hadn’t fully appreciated before. I thought I would share these insights with others who might benefit from them. In conclusion, I am just going to continue being myself, embracing my uniqueness and flaws. I am not going to try to change but rather remain open to growth while accepting who I am at my core.

Time and Civilization Beyond Earth

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I have many hours of thinking about many things, often losing track of time as my mind wanders through endless possibilities and questions. I forget when this thought first came to me, but it has lingered like a whisper in the back of my mind, urging me to explore its depths. I thought, “In this gigantic universe, with its countless stars and swirling galaxies, there might be an advanced civilization existing somewhere among the vastness, capable of feats beyond our imagination. Earth, in all its beauty and complexity, is just a tiny speck in this gigantic universe, a fragile oasis in a world that may be teeming with life, intelligence, and cultures we’ve yet to comprehend.” The enormity of this idea fills me with both awe and a sense of wonder, making me think about the nature of existence and our place within such an unfathomable expanse.

What if time on this earth is just penance or punishment from this advanced civilization for doing something that has long been a topic of discussion in their sophisticated circles? Perhaps the notion of mortality is simply a veil placed over individuals who have transgressed deeply ingrained laws. “You are sentenced to 85 years on planet earth for disobeying regulations against the civilization of Eternity,” might echo through the minds of those who question their existence, a haunting reminder of a destiny shaped by the decisions of a society much more advanced than our own. In a realm where time is seen as both a gift and a curse, could it be that our very lives are crafted experiences, meticulously designed to elicit growth and understanding? Instead of mere punishment, is it possible that this designed life serves as a transformative journey, compelling us to confront our faults and aspire to enlightenment, ultimately striving to earn our way back to that higher civilization?

One must admit that this planet is not a friendly place. There is bad weather, disease, and illness that seem to plague various regions, impacting lives and livelihoods. Since the beginning of time, humans have been at war with each other, leading to suffering and loss that echo through generations. It appears that war and death are embedded deep within our DNA, almost as if they are integral parts of the human experience. Hatred and anger permeate societies and cultures around the globe, reflecting a profound discord among people. This pervasive animosity is often spurred by various factors, including but not limited to, religious differences, racial tensions, economic disparities, and a multitude of other reasons that foster division and hate. In a world where empathy and understanding often take a backseat, it becomes increasingly challenging to envision a future where peace prevails over conflict.

I think many times about time on this earth. I was born and raised in a Christian environment and still practice this faith, which has been a cornerstone of my identity. This upbringing instilled in me the belief that the teachings of my faith hold all the answers and provide a solid reason for our existence and the very concept of time on this earth. However, as I delve deeper into the complexities of life and observe the diverse perspectives around me, I find that these answers often feel insufficient. Despite the comfort that my faith provides, I am left with lingering questions that echo in my mind, and I am still left wondering about the true nature of time here—its purpose and how it intertwines with our lives, our choices, and our destinies.

Will I ever find or feel comfortable with the facts before I report to the civilization of Eternity? I kind of doubt it, as the unknown seems to shroud my existence like a thick fog that never lifts. The time of not knowing is just part of the time on earth, a mundane phase I must navigate amidst the chaos of life. Each unanswered question lingers in my mind, creating a tapestry of uncertainty that weaves itself into my daily routine. Perhaps this discomfort is a necessary precursor to a deeper understanding of the universe and my place within it, a reminder that not all truths are meant to be grasped readily. As I ponder these thoughts, I realize that the search for clarity may be as essential as the clarity itself, shaping my journey in ways I have yet to comprehend.

Nikola Tesla: The Pioneer of AC Electrical Systems

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Nikola Tesla July 10 (1856–1943) was a Serbian American inventor, electrical engineer, and futurist, best known for his pioneering work in developing alternating current (AC) electrical systems, which became the standard for modern electricity transmission and distribution. His innovative contributions laid the groundwork for numerous technological advancements, shaping the way we harness and utilize electrical energy today. Tesla reportedly had an eidetic memory and spoke eight languages fluently, showcasing his exceptional intellectual capabilities and linguistic skills that allowed him to communicate and collaborate with a diverse range of people worldwide. Often seen as a visionary, Tesla was known for eccentric habits, like his aversion to touching hair and obsession with the number three, habits that highlighted his unique personality and unconventional thinking. He would often go to great lengths to avoid certain stimuli, believing that these quirks were essential to his creative process, further establishing his reputation as a brilliant yet enigmatic figure in the annals of science and technology.

Born on July 10, 1856, in Smiljan, Croatia. Died January 7, 1943, in New York City, USA. –

Studied engineering at the Austrian Polytechnic in Graz and briefly at the University of Prague, though he did not complete a degree. During his time at these esteemed institutions, he was exposed to a variety of innovative concepts and technologies that piqued his interest in the field. He engaged in numerous projects and collaborative efforts with fellow students, which helped him develop a strong foundational knowledge despite not finishing his formal education. His experiences in Graz and Prague allowed him to cultivate valuable skills and connections that would later influence his career trajectory, ultimately shaping his approach to engineering challenges throughout his life.

Tesla’s development of alternating current technology, including the AC motor and transformer, not only revolutionized electrical power systems but also paved the way for modern electrical engineering. His innovative work significantly enhanced the efficiency of power distribution, leading to the widespread adoption of AC over Thomas Edison’s direct current (DC) for power systems across cities and industries. Tesla initially worked briefly for Thomas Edison, where he was exposed to the nascent field of electrical energy, but parted ways due to fundamental disagreements regarding the advantages and viability of AC versus DC systems. Their rivalry, famously known as the “War of the Currents,” became a defining moment in the history of electricity, culminating in the eventual dominance of AC after its successful implementation at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition, where a spectacular display of electric lighting showcased the potential of Tesla’s inventions to a captivated audience, forever changing the way electricity would be harnessed and utilized around the globe.

Tesla explored wireless communication and power transmission, envisioning a groundbreaking global system for transmitting electricity without wires that would revolutionize the way energy is distributed and consumed. His ambitious Wardenclyffe Tower project aimed to achieve this transformative vision by utilizing the Earth’s natural conductive properties, allowing for the seamless transfer of electricity across vast distances. However, despite the immense potential of his ideas and the initial excitement surrounding the project, it was ultimately never completed due to various financial issues and challenges in securing the necessary funding. The dream of a world interconnected by wireless energy remains a testament to Tesla’s innovative spirit and unyielding quest to push the boundaries of science and technology, leaving a lasting legacy that continues to inspire future generations.

Tesla held over 300 patents, including innovative designs for turbines, fluorescent lighting, remote control, and early X-ray imaging, showcasing his remarkable versatility and creativity as an inventor. His groundbreaking work laid the foundation for modern electrical engineering and significantly advanced various fields of technology, influencing countless inventions and applications that we rely on today. The principles he developed have paved the way for the efficient generation and transmission of electricity, as well as revolutionizing how we utilize energy in our daily lives. Tesla’s legacy as a scientific pioneer continues to inspire future generations of engineers and inventors dedicated to exploring and expanding the horizons of technology.

Tesla lived modestly in his later years, often in hotels, and struggled financially despite his genius. His extraordinary intellect and pioneering contributions to electrical engineering, however, did not translate into financial success, as he frequently found himself at odds with the commercial aspects of his inventions. He focused on ambitious but unrealized projects, such as wireless energy transmission and the development of a global communication system, which captivated his imagination but remained incomplete due to a lack of funding and support. In addition to these challenges, Tesla suffered from mental health challenges that complicated his ability to connect with others and secure partnerships. He often battled feelings of isolation, as his visionary ideas were frequently regarded as eccentric or impractical by his contemporaries. These factors combined to overshadow his remarkable legacy, leaving him to navigate a world that failed to recognize his revolutionary contributions during his lifetime.

He is celebrated as a visionary and is not given enough credit for the development of electric products we so enjoy today, including the intricate devices that have revolutionized our daily lives, such as smartphones, laptops, and smart home technology. His innovative ideas and groundbreaking contributions have paved the way for modern conveniences that enhance communication, entertainment, and productivity. Moreover, his relentless pursuit of excellence and commitment to advancing electric innovation have sparked an entire industry focused on creating sustainable and efficient energy solutions, ultimately benefiting future generations.

How Do You Want to Die?

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When you are young, you don’t think much of dying; in fact, you tend to think of yourself as immortal, viewing death as a distant concept, almost like something that happens only to others. As you become older, however, the perception shifts dramatically. You start to grapple with the reality of mortality, reflecting on loved ones who have passed and the inevitability of your own departure. This shift in thinking can be unsettling, prompting deeper contemplation about life itself, the choices you’ve made, and the legacy you wish to leave behind. The once distant specter of death gradually becomes a more immediate concern, shaping not just your fears, but also your aspirations and values in profound ways.

I am over eighty, and I am thinking more about death than when I was younger. My parents passed away when they were both seventy-five, a stark reminder of the fragility of life, and their health problems started to appear in their late sixties, foreshadowing an inevitable decline that I have witnessed. Close to three years ago, I had a near-death experience, which profoundly changed my perspective on life and mortality; it was a moment that forced me to confront my fears and contemplate what it means to truly live. Now, I am savoring every precious moment of this bonus time on this earth, appreciating the beauty of each sunrise, the laughter shared with loved ones, and the simple joys that life offers. I find myself reflecting on the memories of those I have lost; while also embracing the new relationships I have forged along the way, understanding that life is a precious gift that should never be taken for granted.

My mother was afflicted with bone cancer and bravely battled this disease for more than five years, demonstrating a strength that inspired everyone around her. After extensive treatments, which included the removal of the cancer alongside many difficult sessions of chemotherapy and radiation, we were overjoyed when the demon went into remission. For a period of four to five years, we held onto hope, cherishing every day as a blessing and celebrating the moments when she seemed to regain her health. However, the shadow of the illness returned with a vengeance, as the demon came back very aggressively, catching us off guard. It migrated to other parts of her body, relentlessly spreading and undermining her strength until it finally took her from us. Her death was slow and very painful, a heartbreaking process that left a profound mark on our family and a reminder of the cruel nature of illness.

My father was visiting California and he was scheduled to start driving home in the morning, excited to return to his familiar surroundings. He called me the next morning, his voice tinged with discomfort as he said he had an upset stomach and was going to wait another day before he started to drive home. Concerned, I suggested he take it easy and perhaps see a doctor if he didn’t feel better soon. That evening, his niece called, sharing the news that she had gone to get some take out for dinner. When she returned, my father was found on the floor, lifeless and still. It turned out he was having a heart attack and didn’t even know it – a silent, deadly intruder that took him without warning. That major mistake of ignoring his discomfort and not seeking help cost him his life, leaving a void in our hearts that would be felt for years to come.

Recently, my friend had multiple heart bypass surgery, a significant procedure that can have a profound impact on one’s life. He is in his mid-seventies, a time when health becomes increasingly fragile and precious. How long will this surgery extend his life? Only time will tell, and the uncertainty of that answer weighs heavily on both his mind and the hearts of those who care for him. Will this life-saving surgery expose him to a more painful and slow death, potentially leading him down a path filled with complications? This surgery may save him from heart failure, allowing him to experience more time with loved ones, yet it brings with it concerns about the possibility of battling another illness, such as cancer. The reality is sobering: cancer and heart disease are the biggest killers in the US, creating an overwhelming sense of vulnerability. Each day post-surgery is a delicate balance between hope and worry, as we eagerly anticipated his recovery while grappling with the harsh realities of health in our later years.

A couple of years ago, another friend of mine was out in the brisk winter air, running his snow-blower to clear the driveway and make way for vehicles. He was a hardworking individual, dedicated to ensuring everything was in order, but tragically, he suddenly fell over dead from an aortic aneurysm. The shock came swiftly, as it happened without any warning. His wife, who had been inside the warm house preparing a hot drink, grew concerned when she didn’t see him come in after some time. She then ventured outside, only to discover him laying motionless on the ground in the snow, a scene that would forever haunt her. It was a heartbreaking moment, filled with disbelief and sorrow, reminding us all of life’s fragile nature.

My wife’s mother was in her nineties, a remarkable age for anyone to reach, yet in her last year, her health had deteriorated significantly to the point that she could no longer walk and had lost all control of her bodily functions, which was deeply distressing for the entire family. Despite this decline, medical authorities reassured us that her heart and lungs sounded good, indicating that there were still vital signs of life, but it left us wondering about the quality of her existence. Why did she have to experience that sorry state of being? It was heart-wrenching to see a once vibrant individual reduced to such a condition, and the quality of life had taken a bad turn for her, leaving us to grapple with feelings of helplessness as we navigated through the complexities of aging and the eventual fragility of life.

These are just a few examples of death and suffering that I have experienced in my life. Death is a part of life, a natural cycle that eventually claims us all. All of us must someday face the inevitability of this event, each in our own way and at our own time. The experiences I have witnessed have shaped my understanding of mortality and the fleeting nature of existence. Even now that I am closer to the event, I still can’t answer the question, How do I want to die? This uncertainty prompts me to reflect deeply on my life and the legacy I wish to leave behind, worrying about the impact of my departure on those I love and how they will carry on without me. It is a thought-provoking and haunting consideration that lingers in my mind, intertwining with the hopes and fears I have for the future.

This blog was originally posted on WordPress January 28, 2011. Out of curiosity, I thought to take the same story and have AI enhance it. Here is the link to the original post. https://tomt2.com/2011/01/28/how-do-you-want-to-die/

What are your thoughts on the old post versus the new post?

Beat the Summer Heat

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Summer’s scorching heat is like that overly enthusiastic relative who shows up uninvited—joyful yet challenging! While the sun’s golden rays are begging you to hit the beach, fire up the barbecue, and lounge like a professional napper, you must remember that staying cool and safe is essential to fully enjoy this sizzling season. So, how do you navigate this sauna we call summer without melting? First and foremost, hydration should be your new best friend. Chug that H2O like it’s a marathon! Aim for eight glasses a day but bump it up if you’re sweating like a popsicle in a heatwave. Sprinkle in some electrolyte-rich drinks, like coconut water, for that refreshing “I’m on a tropical vacation” vibe. And seriously, ditch the sugary sodas and heavy caffeine—they’re basically the party crashers of your hydration game. Always tote around a reusable water bottle, preferably decked out with a zesty slice of lemon, because who said staying hydrated can’t be gourmet?

Dress like you’re ready for a sizzling summer showdown! Opt for lightweight, breathable fabrics like cotton or linen; think of loose cuts that let air flow and keep you cooler than a popsicle at a beach party. Go for light colors to reflect sunlight – after all, who wants to be a walking sun magnet? Complete your look with a wide-brimmed hat that makes you look like you’re about to announce the weather, paired with UV-blocking sunglasses that scream, “I’m too cool for sunburns!” And please, don’t skimp on sunscreen—smother on that broad-spectrum SPF 30 or higher like it’s frosting on a cake, and remember to reapply every two hours, or risk turning into a lobster!

Beat the heat with a splash of creativity! When the sun is acting like it’s auditioning for a villain role from a superhero movie (2-4 p.m., we’re looking at you), hightail it to air-conditioned cafes where the coffee is hot, but the air is cool! At home, shut those blinds like you’re hiding from an ex and let the fans do their thing to stir up a breeze. If things get too toasty, a cold foot soak or a damp towel on your neck can feel like a spa day gone right. Plan your outdoor shenanigans for early morning or late evening when the sun is too sleepy to bother you. Remember to eat light and fresh—salads, grilled veggies, or water-rich fruits like watermelon and oranges! Grilling not only keeps the kitchen cool but also adds a deliciously smoky flavor that screams summer without so much as raising a sweat!

Be vigilant for signs of heat exhaustion—dizziness, nausea, or excessive sweating. Should these symptoms manifest, it is imperative to relocate to a cool environment immediately, and to hydrate with water or an electrolyte-replenishing beverage while taking sufficient time to rest. Prolonged exposure to elevated temperatures can result in severe health complications; thus, maintaining vigilance and taking proactive measures is critical. Furthermore, wearing lightweight, breathable fabrics and taking regular breaks in shaded locations can substantially mitigate your risk. By adhering to these guidelines, you will not only endure the summer heat but also engage safely in various outdoor pursuits, fostering memorable experiences with friends and family while prioritizing health and safety.

Remember, summer is like a good hair day—fleeting and full of sunshine, and before you know it, you’ll be swearing at your thermostat while your snow boots stage a dramatic comeback!

The Vanishing Blend

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In the sleepy town of Meeker, The Great Bean was a cozy haven, its air thick with the scent of roasted coffee, where the warmth of the wooden decor and the gentle hum of muted conversations offered refuge from the world outside. Helen had worked there for years, her hands deftly crafting lattes and cappuccinos, her smile a familiar comfort to regulars who visited each morning. But recently, something unsettling had begun to unfold. Customers who ordered the shop’s new “Midnight Ember” blend—a dark, smoky roast with an almost unnatural allure—disappeared the next day, leaving behind only whispers of their presence. No trace, no explanation. Helen noticed it first with Mr. Harrow, the librarian, who had always raved about the blend’s rich, bittersweet kick. The next morning, his library was empty, his car untouched in the parking lot, and a sense of foreboding crept over the once-vibrant streets of Meeker. Then it was Mrs. Tate, the florist, who had enjoyed her daily ritual of coffee and flowers, gone after sipping the same brew that had entranced Mr. Harrow. By the fifth customer, who vanished without a word, Helen’s curiosity turned to dread, as she began to wonder if the alluring blend was drawing them into a shadowy realm from which no one could return. The cozy haven felt charged with an unease that entwined itself with the fragrant aroma of coffee, and Helen couldn’t shake the feeling that the comforting atmosphere was hiding something sinister just beneath the surface.

She confided in her coworker, Sam, who scoffed dismissively, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. “People move, Helen. It’s just a coincidence, nothing more.” But Helen wasn’t convinced; a shiver ran down her spine at the thought of such strange occurrences surrounding the Midnight Ember. She delved deep into the coffee shop’s mysterious origin: a cryptic supplier with no physical address, just a handwritten note that accompanied each shipment, promising “a taste beyond time.” Intrigued and somewhat unnerved, she noted the peculiar charm of the beans, which were jet-black and shimmering faintly under the soft glow of light, almost as if they held secrets of their own. Helen decided that she couldn’t let this mystery go unsolved; her curiosity ignited a fire within her, compelling her to investigate further, to uncover the truth hidden behind each mysterious shipment.

Late one night, after closing, she brewed a pot of Midnight Ember. The aroma was intoxicating, like burnt caramel and starlit air, wrapping around her like a warm embrace that stirred something deep within her. She hesitated, her hand hovering above the steaming mug, then poured a cup, the rich liquid swirling like a dark tempest. One sip burned her throat, not with heat but with a strange, electric pull that sent shivers down her spine. Her vision blurred, and the shop dissolved into darkness, slipping away like a forgotten dream. When her eyes adjusted, she stood in a vast, shadowy forest, the air humming with whispers that danced just beyond her comprehension. Figures moved among the trees—Harrow, Tate, the others—wandering, dazed, but alive, their expressions a mix of confusion and longing. They didn’t see her, as if trapped in their own realities, each lost in a personal maze of thoughts and memories, intertwined in an unseen web that connected them all yet kept them apart. Shadows flickered around her, mingling with the echoes of laughter and cries, hinting at stories left untold, while she felt the weight of their presence, both haunting and familiar, urging her to step deeper into the enigma that enveloped them all.

A voice, low and ancient, echoed with a resonant depth: “The blend binds you here, to the place between.” Helen’s heart raced in response to the urgency of the words reverberating in her mind. She saw a glowing rift ahead, pulsing like a heartbeat, a mesmerizing sight that drew her in with an almost magnetic force. Instinct screamed to run toward it, to reach out and touch whatever lay beyond the shimmering veil. With her breath quickening, she stumbled through the rift, gasping as the air shifted around her, feeling a rush of energy envelop her. Suddenly, she found herself back in the shop, the familiar surroundings grounding her once more, the cup still warm in her hand, as if it were a tangible reminder of her fleeting journey. Only minutes had passed, yet it felt as if lifetimes had unfolded in that brief moment, leaving her with questions that hung heavy in the air.

Helen dumped the coffee and locked the Midnight Ember beans in the storage room, a sense of foreboding settling over her as she did so. The next day, with anxiety gnawing at her stomach, she called the supplier’s number, only to find it disconnected. Panic rose within her as she recounted the troubling events to Sam, but he laughed, dismissing her worries and refusing to believe the bizarre happenings surrounding the coffee. Desperate and feeling increasingly isolated, Helen made the difficult decision to destroy the beans that had become a source of such distress. She burned the bags in a metal bin behind the shop, the flames flaring an eerie blue that danced and flickered like spirits in the night. The whispers from the forest surrounded her, lingering in her mind, their cryptic warnings echoing as if to tell her that she would never return unscathed.

The disappearances stopped, leaving the townsfolk to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Meeker moved on, chalking up the vanishings to small-town mysteries that often faded into folklore, tales told with a shiver among those gathered around the fire. Helen quit the shop soon after, unable to shake the lingering unease that the rift wasn’t truly gone, just waiting in the shadows, biding its time like a predator. Sometimes, at night, she would walk through the quiet streets, and a familiar scent would waft towards her—a caramel-starlit fragrance that felt both nostalgic and eerie, faint but undeniably present, as if the essence of the vanished was still lingering. She never drank coffee again, associating the bitter brew with the long nights filled with anxiety and the unanswered questions that haunted her thoughts. Instead, she found solace in herbal teas, hoping to soothe her restless mind while she grappled with the feeling that, despite the calm facade, something darker still lurked just beneath the surface of their small town.

Years later, a new worker at The Meeker Bean found an old, unmarked bag of beans tucked away in the dusty shadows of the storage room. Curiosity piqued, he decided to brew a pot, intrigued by the mysterious provenance of the beans. As the rich aroma filled the air, he couldn’t help but wonder about their origin and what stories they might hold. The next day, however, he was gone, leaving behind a lingering sense of unease and unanswered questions that enveloped the café in an eerie silence. Whispers of his sudden disappearance began to circulate among the regulars, and the once-cozy atmosphere turned heavy with speculation and concern.

Guilt and using AI

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No, you shouldn’t feel guilty for using AI in your blogs, as long as you’re using it ethically and transparently. AI can be a tool like any other—think of it as a supercharged notepad or research assistant. It can help brainstorm ideas, refine drafts, or analyze data, saving you time and boosting creativity. The key is maintaining authenticity: ensure the final work reflects your voice, ideas, and values. If you’re just copying AI output without adding your own insight or passing it off as entirely your own, that’s where ethical lines blur—readers value genuineness, and misrepresenting your process could erode trust.

Some bloggers disclose AI use to their audience, which can build transparency and avoid any sense of deception. It depends on your niche and readers’ expectations—tech-savvy audiences might not care, while others might prefer a “human touch.” If you’re using AI to enhance your work while still pouring in your own effort, guilt shouldn’t be on the table. It’s about creating value, not about the tools you use to get there.

Yes, I use AI just like another tool in my toolbox. I have no guilt because I let it be known for that fact. AI is here and, in many features, greatly enhancing our productivity and creativity. This reminds me of when pocket calculators came into existence. There was resistance for this tool in the beginning; many feared that it would diminish human capability, yet civilization survived and adapted, just like it will with AI. Instead of resisting change, we should learn to harness AI’s capabilities to augment our skills and explore new possibilities, integrating it seamlessly into our daily lives and workflows. Embracing AI can lead to innovative solutions and greater efficiency, proving that technology can work in harmony with human intelligence.

From Blogging to Fiction

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I have been blogging on various platforms since around 2006, and it has been a remarkable journey of sharing my thoughts and experiences with a diverse audience. On WordPress alone, I am close to having 500 posts on the platform, each one capturing a snapshot of my life and interests. I also have a site on Substack. They are basically the same blogs, just a different audience. I have learned that podcasts are the large item these days. So, I also include an audio podcast on my blogs. I have self-published travel books and a biography on Blurb.com, showcasing my fascination with different cultures and the stories of extraordinary people. Additionally, on that platform, I have a magazine series with fifteen issues, which allows me to delve deeper into topics I am passionate about, from travel and adventure to personal growth and storytelling. Most of my blogging has revolved around personal experiences or activities, offering readers a glimpse into my everyday life and the lessons I’ve learned along the way. However, after close to 25 years of documenting my journey, you start to run out of events and personal experiences to write about, leading to a creative plateau. Therefore, I started to search for a new challenge, eagerly looking for fresh perspectives and untold stories that will inspire both myself and my readers in this ever-evolving landscape of digital communication.

I forget how I stumbled across that Amazon has a Kindle Direct Publishing feature. It allows mere mortals like me to compose and publish eBooks to be added to their Kindle platform, offering an incredible opportunity for authors to share their voice with the world. The investment is mostly time and the desire to try something different, an exciting venture that has the potential to transform ideas into tangible works. I cannot imagine a book publishing company to be interested in my ramblings, considering the competitive landscape filled with seasoned writers, and I don’t have a clue how to even locate a publisher that may be interested in my unconventional stories. During that time, I had the thought, “why don’t I try some fiction writing?” It struck me as a way to creatively express myself and escape the mundane routines of daily life. Many times, in my life, it has been said that I am a dreamer and have crazy thoughts and ideas, often weaving elaborate tales in my mind that yearn to be told. With the help of AI, my dreams and thoughts are coming alive. I believe that through fiction, I might not only entertain others but also find a deeper connection to my own aspirations and experiences, allowing my imagination to soar like never before.

Since this thought, I have just completed my third book of “Tales of TomT 2.0”. You can just do an eBook or also offer a paperback copy or hard cover copy to complete the different options available. Each publishing is around 100 pages. I will never make the best seller list, but I am enjoying this journey and learning from the journey.

Book Three Link

Book Two Link

Book One Link

Rita’s Bold Leap

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The air in the office was thick with the hum of fluorescent lights and the clatter of keyboards, creating a constant backdrop of activity that felt almost oppressive. Rita, perched at her desk like a weary soldier, stared at the spreadsheet that had haunted her for weeks, its cells filled with figures that felt more like chains than data. Numbers blurred into meaningless shapes, each cell a tiny cage of expectation that whispered unrelenting demands for perfection. She’d been at RCA for five years, gradually climbing from intern to analyst, but the relentless grind had worn her down, leaving her feeling as if she were merely a cog in a vast machine. Deadlines loomed like dark clouds, emails flooded her inbox like an unstoppable tide, and meetings that could’ve easily been memos disrupted her already fragmented concentration—it was a treadmill set to sprint, draining her energy and enthusiasm with every frantic step.

“You know what? I quit,” she said, her voice cutting through the cubicle’s quiet like a knife. Her coworker, Ray, froze mid-sip of his coffee, eyes wide as if he had just seen a ghost. The words weren’t planned; they just spilled out, raw and final, escaping from a place of pent-up frustration and resolve. The dim fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a harsh glow on the stack of papers on her desk, the evidence of countless late nights and unrecognized efforts. She could feel the weight of her decision hanging in the air, a mix of fear and exhilaration surging through her veins as she took a deep breath, knowing that she was finally choosing her own path.

“Rita, what?” Ray whispered, glancing around as if expecting a manager to swoop in at any moment, ready to question their every move. But Rita was already standing, her chair scraping against the linoleum with an unsettling screech that caught the attention of a few nearby colleagues. She grabbed her mug—World’s Okayest Analyst—proudly displaying her modesty in a place filled with corporate bravado, and her worn-out tote bag that had seen better days, a testament to countless coffee runs and late nights spent poring over data. As she dashed out of the room, she abruptly left the spreadsheet unsaved behind, the data lingering on the screen like an unfinished thought, a reminder of the work that still lay ahead in the chaotic world of analytics.

The elevator ride down felt like shedding a skin. Each floor that passed was a layer of stress peeling away, liberating her from the suffocating weight of her daily grind. She thought of the late nights spent hunched over her laptop, the weekends lost to “urgent” reports that were often nothing more than busywork, and the boss who’d once said, “You’re lucky to have this job.” Lucky? No. Trapped. Trapped in a cycle of endless deadlines, hollow praise, and a relentless pursuit of perfection that left her drained. As she descended, she visualized each task she was leaving behind—a mountain of expectations, the constant hum of office chatter, and the air thick with unspoken tension. With each passing floor, the lightness of freedom grew, igniting a spark of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, there was a life waiting for her beyond these walls.

Outside, the city buzzed with life, a vibrant tapestry of sounds and sights weaving together in a chaotic yet harmonious dance. Rita walked with purpose, no destination in mind, her sneakers pounding the pavement with a rhythmic beat that matched her racing heart. The sun hung high in the sky, casting playful shadows on the bustling streets as she passed a street musician strumming a guitar, the notes bright and free, floating through the air like a gentle breeze. The melodies seemed to wrap around her, inviting her to pause and immerse herself in the moment. She tossed a crumpled five into his case, and he winked, his eyes glinting with a shared understanding of spontaneity. “Live a little, yeah?” he called, his voice carrying over the city’s din. She couldn’t help but laugh, the sound foreign yet welcome, as it mingled with the laughter of children playing nearby and the chatter of passersby, each one contributing to the urban symphony that surrounded her. Feeling a spark of joy, she continued on her journey, a slight bounce in her step as the city unfolded before her like a vibrant story waiting to be told.

Her phone buzzed—Ray, texting: You serious? What’s the plan? She didn’t reply. For once, there was no plan, no checklist to adhere to, just a sense of freedom she hadn’t experienced in a long time. She wandered into a park, where kids chased pigeons, their laughter ringing through the air, and an old man fed ducks, his joy infectious. The sun filtered through the leaves, casting a warm glow on the vibrant greens of the grass. Sitting on a bench, she pulled out a notebook she hadn’t touched in years, its pages filled with half-sketched dreams: a bakery on a bustling street corner, a novel waiting to be written that danced in her imagination, a trip to Iceland to witness the northern lights. Rita had buried those aspirations under piles of memos and KPIs, conforming to the grind of daily responsibilities that had dulled her spirit. But now, with the weight of expectations lifted, she felt a spark of inspiration ignite within her, urging her to reclaim those forgotten dreams and explore the possibilities that lay ahead.

The sun dipped low, painting the sky in reckless pinks and oranges. Rita scribbled: What if I opened that bakery? The idea felt absurd, then thrilling. She’d always loved baking—sourdough at 2 a.m., cupcakes for coworkers’ birthdays, and the occasional batch of cookies that she’d surprise her neighbors with, leaving them in their mailboxes with a little note: “Enjoy!” Why not? She had savings, enough to start small. A food truck, maybe, with a vibrant paint job and the tantalizing smell of fresh pastries wafting through the air. No corporate nonsense, just flour and sugar and her hands transforming simple ingredients into warm, delightful treats. The thought of sharing her creations with others sent a rush of excitement through her. What if she hosted pop-up events at local markets? The image of happy customers savoring her pies sparked a dream that felt just within reach.

Her phone buzzed again—her boss, probably furious, as usual. She silenced it, dismissing the relentless grip of her former life. For the first time in years, Rita felt light, like she could breathe without a deadline choking her. The oppressive weight of expectations had begun to lift, replaced by a sense of exhilarating freedom that filled her heart with hope. Quitting wasn’t just leaving a job; it was reclaiming herself and rediscovering passions long forgotten amidst the chaos of corporate life. The future was uncertain, a blank page, but that was the point. She’d write it herself, penning the story of her own adventures, crafting a narrative infused with joy, exploration, and the thrill of new beginnings. With each step forward, she felt more connected to her true self, ready to embrace whatever came next.

As dusk settled, Rita stood, her notebook clutched tight against her chest, a sanctuary for her swirling thoughts. The musician’s tune lingered in her head, its melodic notes weaving dreams of creativity and warmth through her mind. Tomorrow, she’d bake her first loaf, a decision that filled her with both excitement and trepidation, just to see how it felt and if she could capture the essence of home in its golden crust. “Live a little,” she murmured softly to herself, reminding her inner self of the importance of embracing new experiences, and with a renewed sense of purpose, she headed home, her steps sure and steadfast, each footfall echoing her determination to embrace change.

For the first time in many years, Rita felt free, as if a heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders, allowing her to breathe deeply and joyfully embrace the vibrant world around her with open arms. The sunlight streamed through the leaves, casting cheerful shadows on the ground, while the gentle breeze whispered promises of exciting new beginnings.

Ten years later Rita had a successful bakery and more money than when she said, “I QUIT!”

The Emotional Role of Dreams

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In many parts of my life, I had terrific dreams that painted the night with vivid colors and extraordinary stories, making it feel like I was living two lives simultaneously. The dreams were colorful and vibrant, filled with an array of subjects that ranged from whimsical adventures in fantastical realms to profound encounters that shifted my perspective on reality. The nice part was I could remember the dreams when waking up, and each recollection felt like a precious gift, allowing me to hold onto those enchanting moments from my subconscious. Unfortunately, everything changed when I had a kidney stone when I was seventy-five and was put under anesthesia to remove the stone. Since that time, I do not remember my dreams at all; they seem to slip away into oblivion as I awaken, leaving behind only an elusive echo of their existence. I experience them when asleep, but now when I wake up, they are gone, like whispers lost in the wind. I miss my dreams dearly, as they were a source of inspiration and joy. I really enjoy recalling my dreams in my conscious time, as they opened up new avenues of creativity and allowed me to explore parts of my mind that felt unexplored. Now, I long for the return of those magical nights where my imagination could run wild and the boundaries of reality seemed to fade away. I do not believe that ability will ever return.

The purpose of dreams isn’t fully understood, but research suggests they serve multiple functions. Neurologically, dreams may help process emotions, consolidate memories, and integrate new information, with the brain’s amygdala and hippocampus playing key roles during REM sleep. Studies, like those from the University of California (2019), indicate dreaming aids in emotional regulation, reducing stress by reprocessing challenging experiences. Cognitively, dreams might enhance problem-solving and creativity by allowing the brain to form novel connections—evidenced by historical anecdotes like Kekulé’s benzene ring dream. Some evolutionary theories propose dreams simulate threats, preparing us for real-world challenges, though this is debated.

Psychologically, dreams could reflect subconscious thoughts, as Freud suggested, or serve as a “virtual reality” for testing scenarios, per Antti Revonsuo’s threat simulation theory. However, the random activation synthesis model (Hobson & McCarley, 1977) argues dreams are the brain’s attempt to make sense of random neural firing, not always purposeful. Cultural and personal beliefs also shape dream interpretation, but no single purpose is universally agreed upon. Ongoing research continues to explore these angles.

I have always wondered if not going under anesthesia would allow me to keep my dreams, those fleeting images and feelings that often fade upon waking. It intrigues me how dreams can be vivid and meaningful yet easily forgotten. What in the anesthesia removed my ability to remember my dreams? I will never know.

High Heels Through History: From Status to Style

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I have wondered about high heels for a long time. They look uncomfortable and didn’t know why women go through the discomfort. I went to AI and accumulated some history on the high heel.

High-heeled shoes for women have a rich history that spans centuries, evolving from practical footwear to a symbol of fashion, status, and femininity. Originally designed for functionality in the 16th century, they were embraced by aristocrats to elevate their height and showcase their wealth. As time progressed, high heels became a canvas for artistic expression, with styles ranging from elegant court shoes to flamboyant platforms that dominated the catwalks. The shift in their connotation reflects broader societal changes, as they went from being associated with the male aristocracy to becoming a staple in women’s fashion culture. Today, high-heeled shoes are celebrated for their ability to transform an outfit, empowering women while also sparking debates around comfort, health, and gender norms. Below is a concise overview of their development:

Origins (9th–16th Century)

  • Early Predecessors: Elevated footwear existed in ancient cultures, like the Greek kothorni (platform shoes for actors) and Persian riding boots with heels for men to stabilize in stirrups (10th century). These were not women’s high heels but set a precedent for raised footwear.
  • 15th Century Europe: Women wore chopines, platform shoes popular in Venice, often 7–30 cm high. These protected dresses from muddy streets, signified wealth (due to the need for servants to balance), and were worn by elite women. They weren’t true heels but influenced later designs.
  • Late 16th Century: Catherine de Medici, a trendsetter, is credited with popularizing heeled shoes in France around the 1560s. She wore 2-inch heels to appear taller and more authoritative, sparking interest in heels as fashionable women’s footwear.

17th–18th Century: Rise of the High Heel

  • 1600s: Heels became unisex in European aristocracy. Women’s heels, often 2–3 inches, were made of wood or leather, covered in silk or velvet, and adorned with embroidery. They symbolized status, as only the wealthy could afford impractical shoes.
  • 1660s–1700s: Louis XIV of France popularized red-heeled shoes for both genders, with women’s heels becoming slimmer and more curved. The “Louis heel” (a stacked, slightly curved heel) emerged, emphasizing elegance and femininity.
  • Late 18th Century: Post-French Revolution, heels fell out of favor due to associations with aristocracy. Flat shoes and simpler styles dominated as democratic ideals took hold.

19th Century: Revival and Refinement

  • Early 1800s: Heels remained low or absent, with ballet-style slippers in vogue. However, by the 1850s, heels re-emerged as women’s fashion embraced ornate styles.
  • 1860s: The invention of the sewing machine enabled mass production, making heels more accessible. Women’s heels, typically 1–2 inches, were blocky or slightly curved, paired with ankle boots or pumps.
  • Late 19th Century: The “spool heel” (narrow at the base, wider at the top) became popular, and heels grew to 3–4 inches. Victorian ideals of femininity tied heels to allure, though they were still modest compared to later designs.

20th Century: High Heels as Fashion Icons

  • 1900s–1920s: Heels became a staple of women’s fashion. The stiletto’s precursor, a slender 2–3-inch heel, appeared with pointed-toe pumps. Designers like André Perugia experimented with heel shapes, emphasizing elegance.
  • 1930s–1940s: Hollywood glamour boosted heels’ popularity. Platforms returned, and wedge heels (invented by Salvatore Ferragamo) offered stability. Wartime shortages led to creative materials like cork and wood. Heels ranged from 2–5 inches.
  • 1950s: The stiletto heel, a thin, 4–8-inch heel reinforced with metal, was perfected by Roger Vivier and popularized by stars like Marilyn Monroe. It became a symbol of femininity and sexuality, though it sparked debates about health and practicality.
  • 1960s–1970s: Fashion diversified. The 1960s saw chunky heels and platforms (up to 6 inches) alongside stilettos, reflecting youth culture. The 1970s embraced platforms and block heels, with disco culture amplifying bold, high styles.
  • 1980s–1990s: Power dressing brought back stilettos for professional women, often 3–5 inches, paired with sharp suits. Designers like Manolo Blahnik and Christian Louboutin (with his iconic red soles in 1992) elevated heels as luxury items. Platforms also resurged in the 1990s with “Spice Girls” chunky heels.

21st Century: Versatility and Debate

  • 2000s–2010s: Heels remained central to fashion, with stilettos, kitten heels (1–2 inches), and platforms all popular. Designers pushed extremes, like Alexander McQueen’s 10-inch “Armadillo” heels (2010). Comfort became a focus, with brands like Cole Haan integrating cushioning.
  • 2010s–2020s: Feminist critiques questioned heels as symbols of oppression, citing health issues (back pain, bunions) and workplace mandates. Some women embraced flats or sneakers, but heels persisted, with “block heels” and lower styles offering comfort. Sustainable materials and inclusive sizing also emerged.
  • Cultural Shifts: Red carpet events and influencers kept stilettos iconic, but casual fashion normalized mixing heels with jeans or athleisure. By 2025, heels are both celebrated for self-expression and scrutinized for practicality, with hybrid designs (e.g., sneaker-heels) gaining traction.

Key Themes

  • Status and Power: Heels historically signaled wealth and authority, later shifting to feminine allure.
  • Technology: Advances like metal-reinforced stilettos and mass production shaped accessibility and design.
  • Cultural Debates: Heels have been both empowering (enhancing confidence) and controversial (health concerns, gendered expectations).
  • Fashion Cycles: Heels oscillate between high and low, slender and chunky, reflecting broader trends.

I must admit artificial intelligence did the research on this topic, utilizing advanced algorithms and vast datasets to analyze and synthesize information efficiently and effectively, thereby producing insights that might have taken humans considerably more time to uncover, leading to a more thorough understanding of the subject matter at hand.

National Flip Flop Day June 20th

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National Flip Flop Day is celebrated annually in the United States to embrace the carefree spirit of summer and the iconic footwear known as flip-flops. Originally observed on the third Friday in June, the date was changed in 2023 to the Wednesday after Memorial Day to better align with the onset of warmer weather and the bustling activities of the summer season. This shift reflects a growing awareness of consumer habits, as many individuals eagerly anticipate the warmer days of summer, looking forward to beach outings, barbecues, and leisurely strolls. The date for 2025 was set for Wednesday, May 28, as it falls on the Wednesday after Memorial Day, following the updated schedule established by Tropical Smoothie Cafe in 2023 that encourages everyone to celebrate the joys of summer. The day serves not only as a reminder to don your favorite flip-flops but also as an occasion to gather with friends and family, sharing laughter and creating lasting memories. The AI I used did not know about the update, highlighting the fact that technology, while incredibly advanced, is not infallible and is continually evolving to keep up with the changes in our world.

Founded in 2007 by Tropical Smoothie Cafe to mark their 10th anniversary, celebrate summer, and show appreciation for their customers.

The term “flip-flop” comes from the slapping sound the sandals make when walking, an onomatopoeia used in American and British English since the 1960s. Flip-flops have ancient origins, with evidence of similar footwear in Ancient Egypt around 4,000 BC, made from materials like papyrus and palm leaves. They were also worn in ancient Greece, Rome, and Mesopotamia, showcasing their enduring nature across cultures and epochs. It is interesting to note that these early variants were often adorned with decorative elements, reflecting the wearer’s status and style. The design and function of flip-flops evolved over centuries, influenced by both social changes and advancements in materials. In addition, Japanese zori sandals, traditionally crafted from rice straw and tatami mats, influenced modern flip-flops in the U.S. after World War II, as returning soldiers brought back these unique styles, leading to their widespread popularity in American beach culture. Today, flip-flops are not only a staple of casual summer wear but also a symbol of relaxed, carefree living, enjoyed by people of all ages around the world.

Wear your favorite flip-flops and share photos on social media with #NationalFlipFlopDay to celebrate this fun and relaxed occasion. Take the time to shop for new flip-flops, including eco-friendly options from reputable brands like Rainbow or Hari Mari, which prioritize sustainability and style. To really embrace the spirit of the day, consider hosting flip-flop-themed events like lively beach parties, friendly flip-flop races, or engaging craft activities using old flip-flops for art projects that can be both fun and eco-conscious. If you find yourself far from a Tropical Smoothie Cafe, you can still indulge your taste buds by making or enjoying delicious smoothies at home using fresh fruits and ingredients, allowing everyone to gather and celebrate in comfort and relaxation.

I may be late, but I enjoyed learning about Flip Flop Day.

Why Are We Here? Exploring Our Purpose

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Have you ever thought about why you are spending time on this earth?

The world is not a friendly place. There is bad weather, disease, and pain, all of which contribute to a pervasive sense of distress. It seems that there is constant war somewhere on the earth, threatening lives and displacing countless individuals from their homes. In some parts of the world, starvation is a serious problem, with entire communities struggling to find enough food to survive each day. The anguish of those suffering from hunger is compounded by a lack of access to medical care and basic sanitation, leading to a cycle of despair and hopelessness. I could go on and on about how this earth is not a friendly place for millions who have spent time on this planet, enduring hardships that often seem insurmountable, leaving them to wonder if there is any reprieve in sight.

How many faiths and religions have been or are currently attempting to explain the profound question of your presence on this earth? Each belief system, whether ancient or modern, carries unique stories and teachings that reflect humanity’s quest for understanding its place in the universe. From the monotheistic teachings of major world religions to the polytheistic perspectives found in various traditions, countless voices have sought to articulate the meaning of life and existence. Through rituals, sacred texts, and communal practices, these faiths aim to provide answers to our deepest yearnings and questions about purpose, identity, and the ultimate nature of reality.

The earth is just a small speck in this gigantic universe, a tiny oasis amidst the vastness of space that stretches infinitely in all directions. I do not know how many planets have been discovered that may be suitable for forms of life to survive, but scientists tirelessly search for those celestial bodies that might harbor the conditions necessary for life, such as the right temperature, atmosphere, and presence of water. Each new discovery ignites the imagination, prompting wild speculations about the myriad possibilities for life beyond our own world, raising questions about our place in the cosmos and whether we are truly alone in this grand expanse.

What if your time is a form of penance or punishment from another civilization located in the gigantic universe, a celestial courtroom beyond our comprehension? Are we paying for something that we did in another planet, shackled by the weight of our past mistakes, and time on earth was the sentence imposed upon us? Perhaps the very fabric of our existence is governed by unseen forces, orchestrating our lives in a manner we cannot fully understand. I often find myself pondering these perplexing ideas, questioning whether the mundane trials we endure are mere trivialities or echoes of a cosmic judgment. I don’t know where these crazy thoughts come from, but they linger like shadows in my mind, provoking a sense of wonder and questions about the true nature of our reality and our place within this vast, enigmatic universe.

Is this just me, or do you ever wonder about your purpose and time on this earth?
It seems that, at various points in our lives, we find ourselves pondering the deeper meanings of our existence, searching for answers to questions that often feel too complex to grasp.
We reflect on the choices we’ve made, the experiences we’ve had, and the dreams we once chased, all while considering how they shape our identity and future.
In a world that is constantly changing, it’s natural to seek clarity about our roles and the impact we leave behind, as we navigate the delicate balance between fulfilling personal aspirations and contributing to the greater good.

This question will remain unanswered until after our time on earth; it lingers like a whisper in the wind, provoking thought and curiosity in those who consider its meaning. As we navigate life’s complexities and mysteries, we often struggle with the uncertainties that shape our human experience. Whether through philosophy, spirituality, or science, the answers we seek may be out of reach, prompting us to reflect on our beliefs and values as we move through life. Ultimately, we may only discover the truths that have been hidden from us once we rise beyond our earthly limits.

Celebrate National Splurge Today

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National Splurge Day, celebrated annually on June 18th, encourages people to set aside their usual frugality and indulge in a little luxury, whether it’s a lavish meal, a spa day, or a significant shopping spree. Founded in 1994 by Adrienne Sioux Koopersmith, dubbed “America’s Premier Eventologist,” this holiday was created to offer a much-needed break from constant budgeting and to boost the economy through strategic spending that can stimulate local businesses. Koopersmith chose late June, post-tax season, when individuals might have extra cash on hand to treat themselves or their loved ones, creating an opportunity for joyful spending and the enjoyment of life’s pleasures. The day serves as a reminder of the importance of self-care and indulgence, inviting people to reflect on what they truly desire and encouraging a balance between saving and enjoying the fruits of one’s labor.

Splurging doesn’t mean reckless spending; it’s about enjoying something special without breaking the bank. For some, it might involve treating themselves to a fancy dinner at a celebrated restaurant, indulging in a luxurious spa day complete with massages and relaxation, or investing in a stylish pair of new shoes that complements their wardrobe. On the other hand, for others, it could simply be a small treat like adding whipped cream to a latte or purchasing a decadent dessert to savor. The day promotes mindful indulgence, encouraging experiences that create lasting memories, such as attending a lively concert, going on a weekend getaway with friends, or even participating in a fun workshop that sparks creativity. Koopersmith later shifted the holiday’s focus in 2017, urging people to splurge on helping refugees or shelter animals, reflecting a more altruistic approach that not only enhances one’s own well-being but also supports those in need, fostering a sense of community and compassion in the process. Ultimately, splurging can be a multifaceted experience that balances personal enjoyment with the joy of giving back.

Whether it’s buying a luxury item, enjoying a decadent meal, or donating to a cause, National Splurge Day is about balance—celebrating life’s pleasures while staying financially responsible. It’s a day to break away from the mundane routines and immerse yourself in experiences that bring joy and fulfillment. Share your splurge on social media with #NationalSplurgeDay to inspire others, showcasing both the small delights and the grand gestures that make life richer. So, on June 18th, take a moment to treat yourself or someone else to something special, whether it’s a lavish spa day, an exquisite piece of art, or simply a thoughtful gift. Celebrate the joy of indulgence done right, and remember that it’s the little things that can make a big impact in our lives and the lives of those around us. Embrace this day as an opportunity to reconnect with what truly matters to you, creating lasting memories that elevate your spirit and enhance your well-being.

Watergate June 17, 1972: A Cautionary Tale of Political Corruption

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The Watergate scandal, a seismic debacle that shook the very foundations of American politics, erupted in the early 1970s, culminating in the disgraceful resignation of President Richard Nixon. It laid bare a shocking tapestry of power abuses, illegal machinations, and a brazen cover-up that utterly obliterated public trust in government. What follows is a daring exploration of this political theater, its explosive moments, and the indelible scars it left on the nation’s conscience.

On June 17, 1972, five men were arrested for breaking into the Democratic National Committee (DNC) headquarters at the Watergate office complex in Washington, D.C. The burglars, equipped with wiretapping devices and cameras, were caught attempting to bug the DNC offices. They were later linked to the Committee to Re-elect the President (CRP), Nixon’s campaign organization, raising suspicions of political espionage.

The break-in was not an isolated incident but part of a broader campaign of dirty tricks orchestrated by Nixon’s aides to undermine political opponents. This insidious strategy involved a series of coordinated efforts that extended far beyond the infamous Watergate Hotel break-in. It included wiretapping not only of the rival Democratic Party but also of journalists and activists who were critical of the administration. Harassment tactics were employed against prominent figures, intimidating them into silence or compliance. Furthermore, the campaign aimed to spread false information about Democratic candidates during the 1972 presidential election, which effectively sowed discord and mistrust among the electorate. These deceptive practices were designed to manipulate public perception and tilt the election outcome in favor of Nixon, showcasing a blatant disregard for democratic principles and the integrity of the electoral process.

The burglary initially received little attention, but investigative reporting by Washington Post journalists Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein kept the story alive. Their work, aided by a confidential source known as “Deep Throat” (later revealed to be FBI Associate Director Mark Felt), uncovered connections between the burglars and high-ranking officials in the Nixon administration.

A Senate investigation, led by the Senate Watergate Committee in 1973, further exposed the scandal. Key revelations included The existence of a secret White House taping system that recorded Nixon’s conversations. Testimony from former Nixon aide John Dean, who detailed a cover-up orchestrated by the administration. Evidence of illegal campaign contributions, slush funds, and misuse of government agencies like the FBI, CIA, and IRS to target Nixon’s enemies.

The discovery of the White House tapes became pivotal. Nixon initially refused to release them, citing executive privilege, but the Supreme Court ruled unanimously in United States v. Nixon (1974) that he must comply. The tapes revealed Nixon’s direct involvement in obstructing justice, including discussions about halting the FBI’s investigation into the break-in.

On August 8, 1974, facing certain impeachment and conviction for his role in the Watergate scandal, President Richard Nixon announced his resignation in a televised address, becoming the first U.S. president in history to step down from office under such circumstances. This unprecedented event marked a significant moment in American political history, as it raised questions about ethics and accountability in government. Following Nixon’s resignation, Vice President Gerald Ford assumed the presidency, navigating a deeply divided nation grappling with the fallout of the scandal. In a highly controversial move that polarized the public, Ford pardoned Nixon just a month later, sparing him from any criminal prosecution. This decision sparked widespread outrage and debate, as many felt that it undermined the rule of law and set a troubling precedent for future administrations, leaving a lasting impact on public trust in government institutions.

The scandal led to the indictment of 69 people, with 48 convictions, including key Nixon aides like John Mitchell, H.R. Haldeman, and John Ehrlichman. It also spurred significant reforms, such as: The Federal Election Campaign Act Amendments (1974), tightening campaign finance laws. The Freedom of Information Act amendments, strengthening government transparency. Increased oversight of intelligence agencies.

Watergate profoundly eroded public trust in government, contributing to widespread cynicism about politics. The suffix “-gate” became synonymous with political scandals. The scandal also elevated the role of investigative journalism, with Woodward and Bernstein’s work inspiring future generations of reporters.

The Watergate scandal remains a cautionary tale about the dangers of unchecked power and the importance of accountability in democracy. Its legacy endures in ongoing debates about government transparency, executive authority, and the rule of law.

There has been speculation that events that have happened in the last few years, marked by political turmoil and increasing division, will make the Watergate scandal look like child’s play. This comparison stems from a series of unfolding controversies and allegations that have captured the public’s attention and raised serious concerns about the integrity of our institutions. Only time will tell whether these events will indeed reshape our understanding of political accountability and governance, or if they will fade into the annals of history as just another chapter of discord.

The Whispering Ink 

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Bill Graves was used to writing in silence, his words shaping worlds for others while his name remained absent from their covers. He was a ghostwriter—a specter in the literary shadows, crafting narratives that thrived in the minds of readers, yet remained anonymous to the public eye. His latest project was different, however, stirring something within him that had long been dormant. The request had come in a faded envelope, scrawled with a single name: Barry Carrol. Unlike the countless other clients whose stories he had brought to life, Carrol’s reputation resonated like a haunting echo from the past, invoking curiosity and a sense of urgency. As Bill held the envelope, he felt an unusual thrill; the chance to reveal the truth behind Barry Carrol ‘s enigmatic persona filled him with excitement. The shadows felt a bit brighter, and the silence around him buzzed with potential as he prepared to delve into a world that promised both challenge and discovery. 

Barry Carrol had been a celebrated novelist, known for his haunting prose that lingered in the minds of readers long after the last page was turned. His works, filled with deep emotion and intricate storytelling, captivated literary critics and audiences alike, earning him numerous accolades and a loyal following. Then, years ago, he vanished without a trace. There were no more books, no more interviews, just distant whispers of him retreating into solitude, lost in a world of his own making. Friends and colleagues speculated about his disappearance, while fans mourned the abrupt end to a brilliant career. Now, in an unexpected turn of fate, Bill had been hired to complete Carrols’s unfinished manuscript, a daunting task that came with immense pressure and a profound sense of responsibility, as he aimed to honor the late author’s voice while infusing the narrative with his inspiration. 

The pages arrived in bundles, sent by an unnamed editor, each package wrapped tightly as if to contain the energy within. Bill expected fragments of ideas, skeletal outlines that would require his creative touch to flesh out. But what he received was unsettling, almost haunting. The words were alive, pulsating with a rhythm that seemed to seep into his very being. Characters spoke in voices that echoed in his mind, their emotions so vivid that he could almost feel their breaths against his skin. As he delved deeper into their stories, he found himself ensnared in their struggles and triumphs, each turn of phrase igniting a spark of inspiration within him yet also leaving him with an unsettling sense of responsibility for their fates. 

As he wrote, something strange happened. He would wake in the night, startled by the sound of scribbling, only to find new passages written in his own hand. Words he hadn’t drafted appeared on the pages, eerie and unmistakably Carrol’s style, flowing like a river that had burst its banks. Each time he turned the pages, he felt a shiver run down his spine, not from fear but from an inexplicable thrill of realization—the book was writing itself, crafting a narrative that seemed to transcend his own consciousness. It was as if the voice of an unseen muse had taken hold of him, channeling ideas and scenarios that felt both foreign and deeply personal. As he read the newly inscribed lines, he wrestled with the notion that perhaps he was not just an author but a vessel for something more profound, a connection to an otherworldly source of creativity that was beyond his understanding. 

One evening, unable to shake his unease, Bill scoured old news archives with a sense of mounting dread. He found an article detailing Carrol’s mysterious disappearance, claiming he’d died in solitude, shrouded in an unsettling silence that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The official story was vague, leaving many questions unanswered, but there was something chilling about the timeline that seemed to dance in the shadows of his mind, suggesting deeper secrets lingering just out of reach. As he delved deeper into the sparse details, a sense of foreboding washed over him, igniting a flicker of curiosity mixed with dread about the truth behind Carrol’s last moments. 

His trembling fingers turned to the final pages of the manuscript, each delicate turn amplifying the mix of anxiety and anticipation gnawing at his insides. It was nearly done—yet he hadn’t consciously written the ending, leaving a void that felt as vast as the empty pages themselves. He scanned the paragraphs, heart pounding like a drumbeat in the stillness of the room, each word echoing with uncertainty and hope. His mind raced with the possibilities of what could unfold; the characters he had nurtured, their struggles laid bare, seemed to gaze back at him, pleading for closure. The last line struck him like a jolt of lightning: “Some stories never truly end. They only wait for a new hand to tell them.” In that fleeting moment, he realized that perhaps his journey as a storyteller was just beginning, and the ink of his pen was merely a bridge to the countless tales yet to be woven. 

Bill dropped the pages in frustration, letting them scatter across the floor as he reached for his phone, intending to call the editor for guidance on the pressing issue at hand. However, just as he was about to press the call button, his screen flickered dramatically, momentarily illuminating the dim room in an eerie glow. In that brief instant, the reflection that appeared wasn’t his own, but rather a shadowy visage that sent a chill down his spine, making him question whether he was truly alone in the room or being watched from an unseen presence lurking in the darkness. 

Barry Carrol’s thin, knowing smile stared back at him, a subtle hint of mystery dancing at the corners of his lips, as if he held secrets that only he understood; the kind of smile that suggested he had seen things others could only imagine, experiences etched into his features like a map of a complex journey, inviting curiosity yet holding back the truths he might reveal. Each curve and line of his face seemed to tell a story, layered with depth and intrigue, leaving the observer not only captivated but also yearning to unveil the enigma that surrounded him. His eyes sparkled with a glimmer of mischief, possibly hinting at laughter shared in quiet moments or whispers of adventures taken under the moonlight, which made the beholder wonder about the paths Barry had walked and the memories that lingered, enticing them to delve deeper into the psyche of the man behind that enigmatic expression, to unravel the tapestry of experiences that shaped him into the person he was today.

Father’s Day June 15, 2025

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Father’s Day in the United States is celebrated on the third Sunday of June, which is today. It’s a day to honor fathers, grandfathers, stepfathers, and father figures for their roles in family and society. This occasion involves giving gifts, writing cards, and spending time together, allowing families to show appreciation and love. Many also take this time to think about the lessons and values taught by their fathers, acknowledging their important influence on lives and communities. Celebrations can vary, with some families enjoying big gatherings or barbecues, while others prefer a quiet day to relax and reflect.

The idea is often credited to Sonora Smart Dodd, who wanted to honor her father, a Civil War veteran who raised six children alone in a time when single parenting was rare and usually stigmatized. Inspired by the success and sentiment surrounding Mother’s Day, she passionately pushed for a similar day dedicated to celebrating fathers and their vital contributions to family and society. The first Father’s Day was celebrated on June 19, 1910, in Spokane, Washington, where Dodd organized a special church service to recognize fathers, encouraging others to join in and celebrate paternal figures as well. It quickly gained popularity, and though it faced various challenges in gaining widespread acceptance over the years, it became a permanent national holiday in 1972 when President Richard Nixon signed it into law, acknowledging the importance of fathers and father figures in American life. Notably, while Father’s Day had been observed for decades prior, it wasn’t until this official recognition that it became a day of celebration marked across the nation. with, cards, and family gatherings.

Common gifts include tools, gadgets, clothing, or personalized items like mugs or cards, which can show the recipient’s interests. Experiences such as family outings, special meals, or adventurous day trips create lasting memories. Families often spend the day together, whether grilling, fishing, or just relaxing at home. Some honor fathers with heartfelt letters that express love and appreciation, making the day more meaningful. While the U.S. celebrates on the third Sunday of June, other countries have different dates, each with their unique traditions. For instance, Australia and New Zealand celebrate on the first Sunday of September, adding a cheerful springtime vibe. Many cultures also include various rituals that enrich the celebration of fatherhood, showcasing the bond between fathers and children worldwide.

In 2025, Americans are projected to spend a record $24 billion on Father’s Day gifts, reflecting a growing appreciation for paternal figures and the importance of celebrating them in our lives, up from $22.4 billion in 2024, according to the National Retail Federation (NRF). This increased spending illustrates a noteworthy trend where more families are choosing to honor their fathers with meaningful gifts, experiences, and gatherings. The average person plans to spend about $199.38 on gifts and celebrations, highlighting a willingness to invest in personal and heartfelt gestures that make the day special. From gourmet dinners to unique gadgets, the variety of gifts available has expanded significantly, allowing individuals to choose presents that resonate deeply with their father’s interests and hobbies.

Finally, have a happy, fun and peaceful Father’s Day.

Pocket Calculators

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When pocket calculators rose to prominence in the early 1970s, they encountered significant skepticism and opposition, particularly from educators and traditionalists. A range of negative criticisms and excuses emerged during this period, grounded in the historical context of the time.

Many educators argued calculators would make students lazy, reducing their ability to perform mental arithmetic or master basic math concepts, which are crucial skills for everyday life. Teachers feared students would rely too heavily on machines instead of learning multiplication tables or long division, leading to a generation that struggles with fundamental mathematics. This reliance could hinder their problem-solving abilities and critical thinking, skills that are not only essential in academics but also in real-world scenarios where quick calculations may be necessary. Furthermore, the concern extended beyond just academic performance; it encompassed a broader issue regarding the potential erosion of cultural literacy in mathematics, as students might miss out on the satisfaction and confidence that come from mastering these essential skills through practice and understanding. As a result, many educators advocated for a balanced approach, incorporating calculators in a manner that would enhance learning rather than undermine it.

Schools worried that calculators would allow students to bypass learning fundamental mathematical concepts by quickly computing answers during tests, thereby undermining the educational process and making it hard to assess true understanding. These concerns highlighted a deeper issue: the fear that reliance on technology could lead students to become overly dependent on devices for simple calculations, stunting their ability to think critically and solve problems independently. Educators emphasized the importance of grasping the underlying principles of mathematics, suggesting that without a solid foundation, students might struggle in higher-level courses. Moreover, there was a growing debate about how to effectively integrate technology into the curriculum without diminishing the value of traditional learning methods. As a result, schools began re-evaluating their policies on calculator use, seeking a balance that would encourage both technological advancement and comprehensive learning.

Critics pointed out that early calculators were prone to errors, had limited functions, and relied on batteries that could fail, making them less dependable than manual methods or mechanical adding machines. These devices often produced incorrect calculations due to their rudimentary technology, which did not account for more complex computations. Furthermore, the reliance on batteries posed a significant drawback; users frequently found themselves without a functioning calculator when power ran low, particularly in critical situations where reliable calculations were essential. The maintenance costs and the need for constant battery replacement added to the overall inconvenience, leading many to prefer the tried-and-true methods of manual calculation or the reliability of mechanical systems. This skepticism about early calculators also reflected a broader hesitation within the industry to fully embrace electronic devices, as users questioned their long-term viability and accuracy in comparison to traditional techniques.

Slide rule users and accountants argued that calculators would render established tools obsolete, threatening the skills of professionals who relied on manual computation methods. They believed the introduction of these electronic devices would not only diminish the use of traditional tools like slide rules and adding machines but also risk a significant loss of practical skills among workers in the field. Many professionals felt that their expertise, honed through years of training and practice, could become undervalued in a world increasingly dependent on automated solutions. This shift challenged the established norms of education and practice, prompting a debate about the importance of foundational skills in an ever-evolving technological landscape. Furthermore, there was a concern that an over-reliance on calculators might lead to a generation of professionals who could struggle with basic numerical reasoning and problem-solving, thus impacting the overall integrity and accuracy in fields where precision is paramount.

Some saw calculators as a gimmick, claiming they didn’t teach problem-solving or critical thinking, just button-pushing, which was viewed as less intellectually rigorous. These critics argued that relying on technology for basic computations could lead to a decline in essential mathematical skills. They believed that the traditional methods of learning, which emphasized manual calculations and deep understanding of mathematical concepts, were being undermined by the convenience of calculators. Furthermore, they expressed concerns that students might become overly dependent on such devices, potentially stunting their ability to approach more complex problems with creativity and confidence. In the long run, they feared that this reliance could result in a generation of learners who lacked the foundational skills necessary for advanced studies or real-world applications.

Do these criticisms sound similar to the ones you hear about artificial intelligence (AI)? It sure does to me. Many people express concerns about the rapid advancement of technology and its implications for society, often raising questions about ethical considerations, job displacement, and the potential for bias in AI systems. Just as the advent of the internet sparked debates about privacy and information overload, the rise of AI brings forth similar discussions about its role in our daily lives and the long-term effects it may have on humanity. These parallels highlight a recurring theme in our relationship with technology: the need for careful scrutiny and responsible development to ensure that progress benefits everyone.

Meeting in Dreams 

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Every night, Bernadette and George met in a dreamworld where gravity bent, colors bled into impossible hues, and buildings pulsed like living things, resonating with a heartbeat that felt both foreign and familiar. They were strangers in waking life, unaware of each other’s existence, yet in this surreal realm, they were constant companions, bound by threads of fate that transcended the ordinary. As they explored the ever-shifting landscapes, laughter and whispered secrets filled the air like a melody, intertwining their souls in a dance of dreams. The first time they locked eyes, standing on a glass bridge over a sea of stars that shimmered with the essence of forgotten dreams, they both felt it—a jolt of recognition, though they’d never met, as if the universe had conspired to weave their destinies together in this ethereal space where the laws of reality faded into the backdrop of their shared imagination.

Bernadette, a quiet barista in Seattle, had dreamed of this enchanted place since childhood, her imagination ignited by tales of magic and wonder. George, a seasoned carpenter in Dublin, had been wandering its shifting landscapes for years, seeking solace and inspiration in a world that seemed to echo his innermost thoughts. The dreamworld was vast and mesmerizing, with forests of liquid light that shimmered like jewels and rivers that whispered secrets of forgotten lore. They’d find each other instinctively, drawn like magnets across the ethereal expanse. At first, they explored in silence, marveling at floating islands suspended in mid-air, or the playful dance of shadows that brought life to the otherwise still surroundings. Then, as curiosity overcame their initial shyness, they began to share their thoughts—discussing the dreamworld’s whimsical rules, its breathtaking beauty, and their own lives that felt burdensome in the waking world. In that surreal haven, the barriers of reality faded away, and neither questioned why they shared this extraordinary space; it felt not just coincidental but profoundly inevitable, as if the universe had conspired to unite their souls in this sanctuary of dreams.

One night, under a sky of spiraling fractals, Bernadette asked, “Why us? What’s connecting us?” George, carving intricate patterns into a glowing tree, paused and looked up, pondering her question with a faraway gaze. “Maybe we’re two halves of something,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of their entwined fates. They pieced together clues, reflecting on their journeys: both had lost someone—a parent for Bernadette, a brother for George—and both carried a peculiar loneliness, a profound sense of being unmoored in a world that seemed to move on without them. In the silence that followed, they shared unspoken fears and dreams, realizing that their paths had diverged only to converge in this ethereal space. The dreamworld, they theorized, was not merely a random occurrence but a bridge between their minds, forged by shared grief and collective healing, a frequency only they could tune into, where the memories of their loved ones lingered like echoes, guiding them through their solitude.

They grew close, sharing stories on dreamlit cliffs that seemed to stretch endlessly beneath the vast, starry sky. Bernadette described Seattle’s rain, how it fell gently like whispered secrets upon her skin, while George mimicked Dublin’s pub songs, his voice echoing the lively spirit of the city. They laughed, their joy ringing through the air, argued about whimsical topics, and even danced once on a field of mirrored grass that glimmered under the moonlight. The dreamworld felt more real than their waking lives, each moment vibrant and full of emotion, as if they could touch the very fabric of their dreams. But neither could find the other outside the dream—no names to call out in the waking world, no addresses to search for, just fragments of a bond that lingered like the sweet, haunting melodies of the songs they shared. Their connection, though ephemeral, shone brightly within their hearts, leaving an imprint that would always tie them to those fleeting moments of pure magic.

Then George stopped appearing. The first night, Bernadette wandered alone, calling his name as the dreamworld dimmed, its colors muted, as if the very essence of her dreams had faded with him. Days turned into weeks, blending together in a hazy confusion, leaving her feeling isolated and lost. The once vibrant landscapes she would traverse grew brittle, crumbling under the weight of his absence, the trees sagging as if mourning the loss of their companion. Without George’s presence, the joyful laughter they shared echoed in her mind like distant memories, leaving an ache in her heart. Bernadette’s dreams became erratic and disjointed, sometimes filled with strange images that made no sense, while other times they formed empty voids that swallowed her whole. In waking life, her desperation deepened as she scoured the internet, spending countless hours posting vague descriptions of him on forums, hoping against hope that someone, somewhere might have seen him or could offer a clue. Yet, despite her efforts and the plethora of messages she sent into the digital abyss, she found nothing but silence, each reply further fueling her despair.

Unknown to her, George lay in a Dublin hospital, in a coma after a catastrophic work accident that had left everyone in shock. His mind, once a beacon in their shared dreamworld, was silent and unreachable, shrouded in darkness. Without his consciousness to anchor it, the dreamworld, once vibrant and full of life, began to crumble under the weight of uncertainty. Bernadette felt it fading around her, like a cherished memory slipping away from the grasp of her mind. Desperate to maintain a connection to him, she clung to sleep each night, where she sketched the dreamworld’s landscapes with all the vivid details she could muster, drawing rivers that sparkled under imaginary moons and forests that whispered secrets. Each stroke of her imagination was a lifeline to the beauty they had created together a world teeming with colors and emotions that felt almost tangible. But with each passing night, as George remained adrift in his silent slumber, less and less of that precious world remained, transforming into shadows of what once was, leaving Bernadette increasingly anxious and lonely.

One night, the dreamworld vanished entirely, slipping through her fingers like sand. Bernadette woke sobbing, feeling as if a piece of her soul had been ripped away, the loss as sharp as losing a home where she had built countless memories. In Dublin, miles away yet connected by invisible threads, George’s monitors flatlined, their steady beep replaced by an ominous silence. Their connection, born of shared sorrow and a strange cosmic alignment, dissolved with his final breath, leaving an emptiness that echoed through both their lives. Bernadette never learned his name, yet she carried the dreamworld’s echoes within her, painting its impossible colors on the canvas of her heart, searching for him in every stranger’s face she passed in the bustling streets, wondering if the universe would ever align their paths again in a way that could rekindle the bond they had unknowingly forged in the dreamscape. The world outside seemed less vibrant, a mere shadow of the brilliance they had shared in those fleeting moments, and she longed for a sign, a whisper from the cosmos that he might still be out there, dreaming alongside her in some parallel realm, waiting for the moment when their destinies could intertwine once more.

A Journey to Oshkosh: Reconnecting Family

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This is how it started.

My wife, Dee and I were over at Jeff my son’s house for a delightful Christmas time meal, where the warm atmosphere and festive decorations sparked a nostalgic thought within me. “Maybe my Jeff would be willing to take us to Oshkosh, Wisconsin, so we could visit my brother Jack, who I haven’t seen for over twenty years,” I pondered, feeling a wave of emotion. It’s been far too long since I shared precious moments with my sibling. At over eighty years old, and with my brother Jack being five years my senior, I often reflect on the fleeting nature of time and the importance of family connections. Unfortunately, due to my declining health and mobility, I felt apprehensive about embarking on such a trip alone. So, gathering my courage, I approached my son with my request. I asked him if he and his wife Jennifer would consider taking the journey with us. Jeff paused for a moment, contemplating the idea before he responded, saying that he would think about it and let me know, leaving me filled with hope and anticipation for the possibility of reconnecting with my brother after all those years apart.

Two weeks later, Jeff calls with excitement in his voice, saying he would be willing to assist us in this venture to Oshkosh, which filled me with joy and anticipation. I was elated at the thought of reuniting with my brother, cherishing the precious moments together before time on this earth is over for me or Jack. The connection we share is something I hold dear, and I imagined all the stories and memories we could create. After serious consideration, Dee informs me that due to her ongoing medical conditions and the age factor, she feels that she shouldn’t make the trip for her own well-being. I understood her concerns, as her health must come first. Therefore, I call Jeff and informed him to just make plans for me, him, and Jennifer, hoping that this adventure would strengthen our bonds even further while honoring Dee’s decision.

The following evening, Jeff calls me with an intriguing suggestion that Jennifer had proposed. Instead of her attending the trip, she thought it would be a great idea to invite Adam, who happens to be Jeff’s brother, to join us instead. I found this suggestion quite interesting, as Adam, Jeff, and I have not spent some quality time together for many years. So, I decided to call Adam directly to discuss the idea, He responded enthusiastically, saying he would first talk to his wife to see if he could get off work for that weekend, which made me hopeful for a positive outcome. A few days later, I received a call from Adam, excitedly informing me that he had indeed managed to secure the time off, making it possible for him to join us. This development was fantastic news! With this confirmation, Jeff immediately set to work planning the details of our trip, Final arrangements were made for us to leave the evening of Thursday, May 15th, filled with anticipation for the adventure ahead, and return on Sunday morning, May 18th, looking forward to creating some unforgettable memories together. Ensuring our reunion would be one for the books.

On May 15th, Jeff worked in the morning and then picked me up at noon since I live conveniently between where he worked and his home. We decided to have a bite to eat at his home. Then, Mina, took us to the light rail station for the trip to DIA airport. I had never experienced this mode of transportation to DIA before, but Jeff had done this many times and seemed quite knowledgeable about the whole process. I am not a big fan of light rail since the stations are always in a remote area that feels disconnected from the bustling city life, and I don’t feel very comfortable waiting there. Additionally, there is that small number of people you encounter who make you uneasy with their actions or just their general demeanor. Despite my apprehensions, we arrived at DIA without any problem, and as we stepped off the train, I felt a wave of relief wash over me, grateful for the smooth trip and Jeff’s company.

Jeff commented that the security wait during this time of day should be short. Wrong! It took about 40 minutes to get through security, which felt like an eternity with our bags weighing us down. The hustle and bustle of the airport only added to the stress of the afternoon. Finally, we met Adam at the gate to board the plane, relief washing over us as we spotted him in the crowd. The plane to Appleton was a small plane with just 3 seats across, and it was not very comfortable; each bump in the air seemed magnified in such a tiny cabin. Leaving Denver around 5:30 pm, we sat quietly as the sun dipped below the horizon, arriving at Appleton sometime after 10, accompanied by a growing sense of fatigue. After disembarking, we quickly made our way to the rental car, eager to leave the airport behind, and we drove to Oshkosh, arriving about 30 minutes later. As we pulled in, Jack met us, greeted us warmly, showed us to our rooms, and then promptly crashed, utterly exhausted. It has been a long, stressful day, filled with the anticipation of reunion and the weariness of travel.

On Friday we met Jack at 8 am, and his welcoming demeanor immediately put us at ease. Jack is some authority at The Jesuit Retreat House in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, a serene place known for its tranquil environment, where individuals come to seek peace and reflection. That is where we are staying for the weekend, surrounded by the picturesque landscapes that make this retreat house so special. Ironically, this weekend there is not a retreat going on, allowing us to enjoy the facilities more freely without the usual schedule of structured activities. it worked out well that the trip was planned without knowing there would be no retreat this weekend, as it provided us with a unique opportunity to explore the grounds and engage in meaningful conversations with Jack.

We then went to Oshkosh for breakfast, which is about 5 miles away from our place. Jeff, who is an early riser, decided to exercise at a fitness site in Oshkosh. He stumbled upon this charming little restaurant named Good Yolk that caught his attention. Intrigued by its inviting atmosphere, we collectively decided to give it a try, eager to see what breakfast delights awaited us. Jack, always the pragmatist, warned us that in this area, the food portions are normally large, a fact that often accompanies hearty breakfast cultures. He was indeed correct; our plates were overflowing with delicious options. Despite the overwhelming size of the meals, it was all exceptionally good, filled with flavors that made it a memorable experience we were glad to share together.

After breakfast, we drove back to the retreat house, a charming haven nestled in a picturesque setting, where Jack eagerly provided a grand tour of the facilities. It is truly a stunning place, characterized by its serene location on the shimmering shore of Lake Winnebago, surrounded by lush, meticulously maintained grounds that enhance its natural beauty. As we strolled through the property, I was captivated by the breathtaking views. From a cozy lounge area, you have a panoramic view of the lake, where the water sparkles under the sunshine like a blanket of diamonds. They had binoculars available, allowing us to observe the delightful birds flitting about as well as the various activities taking place on the water, such as boats and fishing, adding to the lively atmosphere of this idyllic retreat.

Then after lunch, Jack wanted to take us to Waupaca, Wisconsin, which is an hour away from Oshkosh. They have a facility there where priests go during the summer for resting and relaxing, providing a serene escape from their daily responsibilities. It is only utilized during the warmer months, transforming into a tranquil haven away from the busyness of the outside world, a place where peace reigns, and nature’s beauty captivates hearts. Jack really likes the area and apparently goes there every summer, always returning refreshed and rejuvenated after his visits, sharing stories of his experiences that resonate with a deep sense of connection to this idyllic setting. The drive to the facility is quite scenic; it is isolated, where you navigate down a narrow gravel road for maybe half a mile to reach your destination, surrounded by towering trees that seem to stand as guardians of this retreat. As you drive through this heavily wooded area, the anticipation builds, and you arrive at a location nestled near a beautiful lake, where the calm waters reflect the surrounding nature and cradle the silence that fills the air. Unfortunately, that day, the weather was not our friend, as the wind was blowing hard, rustling the leaves ominously and casting an eerie atmosphere that made our hearts race. On the way back, while navigating down the narrow gravel road, we discovered that a tree had blown over and blocked our path, an unexpected challenge that increased the tension among us. Fortunately, the main trunk did not fall across the road, creating an obstacle we couldn’t ignore. Or we would have been stranded there, with no way to return to civilization. We quickly assessed the situation and were able to move the smaller branches, while Jeff skillfully maneuvered the car around the larger tree trunk, showcasing his adept driving skills. Adam and I worked together to hold back the branches that we couldn’t break away from the trunk, each crack of the branches above adding to the tension, instilling a growing concern that another tree might take a tumble while we were precariously navigating this situation. It was a moment filled with both anxiety and exhilaration, the adrenaline coursing through us as we worked together to overcome this obstacle, but ultimately, we got out unscathed. Yes, that is indeed an ideal place to get away and disconnect from the chaos of everyday life, where one can truly immerse themselves in nature’s embrace, allowing the soothing sounds of the lake and the forest to wash over the soul. We then got a bite to eat. We returned to the retreat house to spend an evening of talking and sharing events in our lives, where laughter echoed against the walls, and the warmth of friendship enveloped us like a comforting blanket.

Saturday, we met at the same time and went for breakfast in Oshkosh at The Mineshaft. This is primarily an evening restaurant, known for its vibrant nightlife and bustling atmosphere after dark. However, to our pleasant surprise, we discovered that they have a very reasonable breakfast menu priced at only seven bucks, which is quite a steal for the quality offered. The menu features a variety of delicious options, from fluffy pancakes to hearty omelets, catering to all breakfast lovers. You can tell that most of their profits are generated from drinks at night and the young crowd that flocks there for the lively energy and socializing. Despite its evening focus, the breakfast experience was enjoyable and filled with the friendly chatter of early risers, making our visit a delightful start to the weekend.

Driving by, we stumbled upon an intriguing establishment, the Military Veterans Museum, which piqued our curiosity, prompting us to make an impromptu visit. The museum showcased a comprehensive display of military conflicts throughout history, featuring an impressive array of vehicles and equipment that have played pivotal roles in combat. Adam and I, being veterans ourselves, felt a deep connection to many of the items and stories on display, as they echoed our own experiences and sacrifices. Jack and Jeff, were equally captivated by the exhibits, sharing their insights and memories as we walked through the museum. After thoroughly exploring, we heard about the EAA Museum of Flight, which was highly recommended by several locals, and decided it warranted a visit. To our amazement, we quickly discovered that EAA was far larger than we had anticipated; it was a treasure trove of aviation history where one could easily spend an entire day taking in the detailed exhibits and aircraft on display. After 2 or 3 hours of exploration, however, the older members of the group were feeling fatigued and agreed it was time to call it a day. Before heading back to the retreat house, we made a stop at a charming Japanese restaurant that Jack had enthusiastically recommended. The food was delicious, providing a delightful culinary experience that was perfect after a day of adventure. Since it was late afternoon, we decided to return to the retreat house to unwind and spend another evening reconnecting with each other. We shared countless tales and stories, reminiscing about the last twenty years we had spent apart. Each narrative was filled with laughter and nostalgia, creating a warm atmosphere that allowed us to strengthen our bonds. This experience was not just enjoyable; it was a memory that we would all cherish forever.

Sunday, we met at 5:45 am to have a small bite to eat, eager to fuel ourselves for the day ahead. After indulging in two days of large, hearty meals, a modest breakfast felt both satisfying and refreshing, a welcome change that allowed us to ease our way into the morning. At 6:30, with a mix of nostalgia and anticipation, we said our goodbyes to Jack, who had been an incredible host throughout our stay. We then drove to Appleton, where the excitement grew as we approached the airport. We managed to get on the plane somewhere around 8:30, and as we took off, I looked out the window at the ever-changing scenery below. The flight was smooth, and I was filled with thoughts of the past few days until we landed at DIA around 10:30. Stepping into the terminal, I was just astonished by the sheer number of travelers bustling around the airport, a vibrant mix of voices and energy. I also couldn’t help but notice that there were very few older travelers in sight; most were young, hurried individuals, all with destinations calling. After navigating through the crowd, Tara, Adam’s wife, picked us up with a warm smile. She took me home first, engaging in light conversation about our trip, followed by a detour to drop off Jeff, wrapping up what had been a memorable journey.

In conclusion, this has been a very memorable experience for me, one that I will cherish forever. I am incredibly glad that it all worked out well for everyone involved, as these moments are truly precious. I feel fortunate to have had the opportunity to visit Jack before our time is up on this earth. These visits remind us of the importance of connection and the bonds we share with our loved ones. Additionally, the time spent with my two sons was absolutely priceless; it filled my heart with joy and gratitude. It has been many years since we made the effort to reaffirm the love and the unbreakable bond a father and his sons share, a connection that will never fade away. Those moments together, filled with laughter and storytelling, not only reignited our familial ties but also allowed us to appreciate the present and the memories we create together.