writing

The Maverick Coffee Cup

I woke up this morning thinking October 23rd would be an ordinary day. You know—coffee, a little writing, maybe a glance out the window to see if the squirrels are still running their covert acorn cartel. But no. The universe had other plans.

It started with my coffee mug. I’ve used this mug for years. It’s dependable, sturdy, and has survived more drops than I care to admit. But today, as I reached for it, the mug slid—slid—two inches away from my hand like it was trying to avoid me. I swear it looked offended. As if it had finally decided it deserved better than instant coffee and my early-morning face.

Fine. I grabbed another mug. That one didn’t rebel, but it did give me a suspicious wobble, like it was considering joining the uprising.

Then I stepped outside, hoping nature would be more cooperative. Instead, I found a single leaf stuck to my windshield, clinging on like it had paid rent. I tried brushing it off. It refused. I tried again. It held tighter. I’m convinced it whispered, “Not today, buddy.”

By noon, I realized October 23rd has a certain energy to it. Not chaotic. Not unlucky. Just… mischievous. Like the universe is nudging you with its elbow, saying, “Hey, let’s see how you handle this.”

So here’s my advice for today: If your coffee mug tries to escape, let it. If a leaf claims your windshield, respect its commitment. And if the day feels a little sideways, lean into it. Sometimes the best stories come from the days that refuse to behave.

Reviewing Stats

I am always checking out my stats. Recently, it appears that I am getting more out-of-country views than American views, which honestly surprises me. It makes me curious about who these people are, how they found my site, and what keeps them coming back. At the same time, it’s a reminder that what I post can reach way beyond my own bubble, and that’s both exciting and a little unreal. I still tend to picture my main audience as being here in the U.S., but the numbers keep nudging me to think more globally about what I’m sharing and how it might land with people in totally different places.

So, I dug into my stats and noticed something interesting. Over the past year, about 65% of my views came from the United States and 35% came from other countries, with China and India making up the largest share of those international views. But in just the last 3 months, the pattern shifted: 52% of my views were from the United States and 48% were from other countries, and China and India were still at the top. That means my international audience grew by 13 percentage points in a relatively short time, which makes me feel like the content is starting to reach a much wider, more global group of readers.

What does that really mean? I keep looking at the statistics and trying to make sense of them, but I still don’t feel like I truly understand. They could be pointing to a real pattern, or they might just be random noise, and I’m never quite sure which it is. Part of me wants a clear answer in the numbers, something solid I can rely on, but another part of me knows they can be interpreted in different ways depending on what I expect or hope to find. So, I’m left in this in‑between place—aware that the data is saying *something*, yet honestly unsure how much I can trust my own reading of it.

The Night Listener

I woke at 2:17 a.m., the kind of waking that feels summoned rather than accidental. No dream. No noise. Just a sudden awareness, like someone had whispered my name inside his bones, and the echo had rattled through my own. The room was thick with darkness, the air cool and faintly metallic on my tongue, as if a storm were waiting just beyond the walls. My heart was already beating too fast for someone who’d only been sleeping, each breath louder than the silence pressing in from every corner. I lay there, listening, certain that something unseen was listening back.

The house was still. Too still.

I sat up, listening.

That’s when I heard it—soft, deliberate breathing. Not human. Not animal. A slow inhale, a slower exhale, as if the thing doing it had all the time in the world, as if it could wait there forever in the dark with me. Each breath scraped faintly at the silence, damp and hollow, like air being pulled through something too large, too wrong, too close. The sound pressed against my ears, steady and patient, and with every rise and fall I felt the hairs on my arms lift, my own lungs shrinking, afraid to make a noise that might let it know I was listening.

I froze.

The sound wasn’t coming from the hallway or the closet. It was coming from the corner of the room, the one place the moonlight never reached, where the shadows seemed to gather and thicken like smoke. The air there felt heavier, colder, as if it pressed against the skin and muffled every other noise. It was a patch of darkness that looked darker than it should, a place the eye slid off of, as though something inside it was watching back and holding its breath.

I squinted.

The breathing stopped.

Then a voice—low, textured, like wind moving through old wood—said:

“I listen to the ones who wake.”

My heartbeat thudded in my ears. “Who are you?”

The darkness shifted. Not a shape exactly—more like the suggestion of one. A silhouette made of absence.

“I am what comes when you think you’re alone,” it said, voice thin as wind slipping under a locked door. “I hear the thoughts you try not to have—the ones you bury under noise and light—and I wait in the dark behind your eyes until you’re too tired to hold them down.”

I felt a cold pressure behind my ribs, as if the creature’s attention had weight.

“What do you want?”

“To remind you,” it said, “that the night is honest. It strips away the stories you tell yourself. It shows you what you fear losing… and what you fear finding. It presses close, until even your breath sounds too loud in your own ears. It waits at the edge of your vision where the shapes don’t quite make sense, where every whisper might be your name. In that black mirror, there’s nowhere to hide the way your hands shake, the way your heart stumbles when you realize the dark isn’t empty at all—it’s full of the truths you’ve buried, walking toward you with their footsteps muffled in the silence.”

The shadow leaned forward, and for a moment I saw something like a face—eyes that weren’t eyes, a mouth that wasn’t a mouth, a shape that looked carved out of the dark itself. It hovered just inches from me, close enough that the air chilled and thinned, close enough that I could hear the faintest rustle, like dry leaves breathing. Its almost-features twitched, stretching and folding as if trying to remember how to be human, as if some half-forgotten expression were trapped beneath the surface, pressing against it from the inside. The blackness around it deepened, swallowing the dim light, and the room seemed to tilt toward it, every sound muffled, every breath suddenly too loud. I couldn’t tell if it was studying me or if something far worse was looking out from behind it, but I knew—without knowing how—that whatever I was staring at was not meant to be seen.

“Tonight,” it whispered, its voice brushing the edge of my ear like cold breath seeping under a locked door, “you woke because you’re ready to see the thing you’ve been pretending not to notice, to remember what you’ve been avoiding every time the house goes quiet.”

I swallowed. “And what’s that?”

The creature smiled—he felt it more than saw it.

“That you’re not done yet.”

The darkness folded in on itself, collapsing like a curtain being drawn, its edges dragging across my vision with a soft, suffocating hiss. The room brightened by degrees, colors and shapes bleeding slowly back into place as if the light were unsure it was welcome here. The breathing stopped—cut off mid-gasp—leaving a thick, ringing silence that pressed against my ears and made my own pulse sound too loud. The corner was just a corner again, no more than peeling paint and shadow, but the air there still felt wrong, as though something had only stepped aside instead of truly leaving.

But I stayed awake until dawn, listening for the next inhale, counting the thin, ragged pulls of air and straining through the dark for the slightest hitch or silence, every shallow breath scraping at my nerves until the sky began to pale and the room felt too small to hold what might come next.

Now you know why I only sleep for 3 or 4 hours.

Power Failure During Showering

Another creepy tale preparing for Halloween

The old house creaked under the weight of the storm, wind howling through the cracked windowpanes, rattling the very bones of the structure as if trying to shake loose memories of a time when it wasn’t so forgotten. I stood in the bathroom, the air thick with steam, my hair a crown of shampoo suds cascading down my shoulders like an extravagant waterfall. The flickering bulb above cast jagged shadows on the peeling tiles, illuminating the gaps in the walls that whispered secrets of those who had come before me. My biggest fear was a childish one, I’d always thought—taking a shower with a head full of suds and the lights going out, leaving me shrouded in darkness with nothing but my own racing thoughts. But tonight, that fear felt less foolish as the storm raged on outside, bringing with it a sense of impending dread that clung to my skin like the moisture in the air. The rhythmic thumping of rain against the roof only heightened my anxiety, making my heart race harder with every flash of lightning that revealed the room for brief moments, reminding me that in this unsettling solitude, I was utterly vulnerable.

The water scalded my skin, a distraction from the unease knotting my gut, a sensation that seemed to pulse in rhythm with an unseen tension in the air. The house had been empty for years before I moved in, its history whispered throughout the town like a specter: strange disappearances that left families shattered and lights that danced without power, casting eerie shadows on the walls. I’d laughed it off—old wives’ tales meant to scare children into behaving. But the flickering bulb in the dim corner wasn’t funny now; it buzzed incessantly, dimmed to a faint glow, then flared too bright, as if it was fighting to stay alive in the face of some unseen force. I gripped the edge of the sink, feeling the smooth ceramic beneath my fingers, and wondered if I was simply succumbing to fear or if something truly haunted these halls. The air felt heavy with secrets, and the resonance of unshakable dread darkened my thoughts like the fading light.

I rinsed my hair, eyes stinging from soap, when the bulb popped, sending a crackling echo through the confined space. Darkness swallowed the room like a thick fog. My breath caught, heart hammering against my ribs, a frantic beat that resonated in the eerie void. The water kept pouring, hot and relentless, but the silence beyond it was deafening—no storm, no creaks, just a suffocating emptiness. I fumbled for the faucet, suds dripping into my eyes, burning with each sting, desperate to wash away the trepidation blossoming within me. My fingers slipped on the knob, slick with soap, and the water wouldn’t stop, a torrential reminder of my helplessness. As I stood there, heart racing, a faint giggle echoed, not from outside but inside the bathroom, a sound laced with mischief and something darker. My skin prickled, cold despite the steam that hung in the air thickly. “Hello?” I whispered, voice trembling as uncertainty enveloped me. There was no answer, just the steady drip of water and another giggle, closer now, like it came from the drain, a haunting melody that stirred the hairs on my neck. I stumbled out of the shower, feet slipping on wet tiles, each step a battle against an invisible force, groping for the door that seemed to hold an ominous grip on my escape. The handle was ice-cold, unmoving, as if welded shut by a presence that lurked just beyond the veil of reality, leaving me trapped in a nightmare I couldn’t wake from.

The air grew heavier, thick with something sour, like damp rot, wrapping around me like a suffocating shroud. I blinked through the suds, eyes burning, squinting into the murky depths. And then I saw it—a faint glow in the mirror that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. It wasn’t my reflection. A figure emerged, small and hunched, its head tilted at an unnatural angle as if it had been wronged by the very fabric of existence. Its eyes were hollows, blacker than the dark itself, absorbing the very light around them, and its mouth stretched into a grin that wasn’t human, a grotesque mockery of joy. The giggle came again, bubbling up from its throat, wet and wrong, echoing ominously as if mocking my terror. An overwhelming sense of dread washed over me, every instinct screaming to flee, yet my gaze remained locked on that haunting visage, drawn in by an inexplicable force.

I backed away, heart lurching, and tripped over something soft and cold. A hand—clammy, too small—grazed my ankle. I screamed, kicking out, but the darkness seemed to pulse, alive, pressing against me. The mirror’s glow flickered, and the figure was closer now, its bony fingers reaching through the glass, clawing at the air. The shampoo stung my eyes, blinding me, but I felt it—the thing’s breath, rancid and icy, on my neck. 

The door finally gave, swinging open with a groan that echoed through the empty house. I stumbled into the hall, suds dripping from my clothes, each drop leaving a trace of my earlier intentions, and slammed it shut with trembling hands. The lights in the house flickered back on, weak but steady, casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls. The bathroom was unnervingly silent, a stark contrast to the chaos swirling in my mind. I didn’t go back in; a gnawing dread rooted me to the spot. I haven’t showered since that night, as if the very act of washing away would bring forth whatever lingered in that room. At night, I hear it—the giggle, faint and disembodied, echoing from the drain, creeping into my dreams and pulling me back into the darkness of that moment. And sometimes, in the mirror, I see suds in my hair that I never put there, floating like reminders of a sinister presence that refuses to let go, taunting me with each flicker of my reflection.

From my book Link

A Haunting Experience

Getting ready for Halloween spooky tales.

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. 

THE GREAT AUTUMN SURVIVAL ADVENTURE

There’s a moment every October when the world seems to collectively sigh, loosen its belt, and slip into something more comfortable—usually flannel. The air cools, the leaves crisp, and suddenly everyone is talking about “sweater weather” as if it’s a federally recognized holiday.

I stepped outside this morning and immediately knew it was fall because the wind slapped me in the face with a leaf the size of a dinner plate. Nature’s way of saying, Welcome to the season, buddy. I brushed it off with dignity, pretending it hadn’t startled me enough to spill half my coffee.

The neighborhood squirrels, meanwhile, have entered their annual performance review season. They’re everywhere—racing across fences, burying nuts in locations they will absolutely forget, and giving me looks that suggest I’m not preparing nearly enough for winter. One of them actually paused on the sidewalk, handout from the neighbor in its mouth, and stared at me like, you don’t even have a backup food stash, do you? Amateur.

Fall also brings out the pumpkin‑spice crowd. You know the type: they walk around with a latte the color of a traffic cone, smiling like they’ve discovered enlightenment. I tried one again this year, just to be fair. It tasted like someone dissolved a candle in warm milk. I nodded politely at the barista anyway, because I’m a gentleman.

But the best part of a fall day is the light. That golden, late‑afternoon glow that makes even the trash cans look poetic. I sat on the porch for a while, watching leaves drift down like lazy confetti, thinking about how this season always feels like a gentle reminder: slow down, breathe, enjoy the small things. Even if the small things include rogue leaves and judgmental squirrels.

By evening, the temperature had dropped enough that I finally surrendered and put on a sweater. A real one. The kind that makes you feel like you should be holding a mug and giving wise advice. I didn’t have any wise advice, so I settled for leftover chili and called it a win.

So here’s to fall—its colors, its chaos, its cozy charm. A season that asks very little of us except to appreciate the beauty, laugh at the absurdity, and maybe keep an eye on the squirrels. They’re plotting something. I can feel it.

The Voice Inside

I recently published my latest book on Amazon, something I’ve been working toward and dreaming about for a long time. It’s available in two formats—Kindle for those who enjoy the convenience of reading on a device, and paperback for readers who love holding a physical book in their hands. With this release, I now have seventeen books on Amazon, each one representing countless hours of writing, revising, and imagining new worlds and ideas. I am genuinely excited about this new book because it feels like another big step forward in my journey as an author. I truly love writing, and I pour my heart, my feelings, and my personal experiences into these books, hoping that readers can feel that passion on every page.

In need of book reviews on Amazon

AUDIO INTRODUCTION LINK

KINDLE LINK

PAPERBACK LINK

New Ramblings Magazine Issue 20

Audio For Listening https://tomt2.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/09/ramblings-issue-20.mp3

PDF file for Viewing https://tomt2.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/09/ramblings-20a-bk-sz.pdf

ENJOY!

Podcast Episode #2: Exploring Love Beyond Attraction

I just discovered this new feature of WordPress. AI creates podcasts from posts created by the blogger. This is getting creepy. What do you think?

Two days later I tried to use this feature for another blog and found out that feature is not available. Now AI Asst. says they cannot generate audio files. I don’t know what I stumbled upon, but WP must have found the glitch and plugged it. It was nice while it lasted

Pip: There’s a certain kind of insomnia that doesn’t waste itself on worry — it goes straight for the big questions. TomT 2.0 had one of those nights.

Mara: And what came out of it is a genuinely personal inquiry into love — what it is, where it comes from, and whether physical attraction is even required for it to be real.

Pip: Let’s start with what that sleepless ceiling-staring actually produced.

Exploring Love Beyond Attraction

Mara: The post opens with a question that sounds simple until you actually sit with it: what is love, and do you really agree with the definition you’ve been carrying around?

Pip: And the answer, it turns out, is that most of us inherited our definition without ever signing off on it — from family, culture, relationships we stumbled through.

Mara: The post puts it directly: “I find myself questioning whether love is a feeling, a choice, a commitment, or some shifting combination of all three, and whether the way I give and receive love truly reflects what I believe it should be.”

Pip: That last clause is the one that lands. Not just what love is in the abstract, but whether you’re actually living in alignment with your own answer.

Mara: The post gets more personal from there. There’s a passage about growing up in a household where love was never spoken aloud — where food on the table and rides to school were supposed to carry the full weight of the word.

Pip: Which they can. But there’s a difference between love being assumed and love being felt, and that gap is apparently still present decades later.

Mara: Right — the post names it plainly: the silence left closeness feeling “uncertain and conditional, as if I had to keep guessing whether I was truly loved or just responsibly cared for.”

Pip: That’s not a small thing to sit with at three in the morning.

Mara: The post then pushes into what may be its central question: can love exist fully without physical attraction at all? Whether emotional intimacy — being truly seen, trust built slowly, small daily acts of care — can constitute love on its own terms.

Pip: The honest answer seems to be: probably yes, but we’ve been trained to treat attraction as the admission ticket, so the question feels stranger than it should.

Mara: And the post doesn’t resolve it. It frames this as an ongoing exploration — one that may grow into a longer project, even a book.

Pip: So the sleepless night was just the opening chapter.

Mara: What stays with me is the question about alignment — not just defining love, but asking whether you’re actually living by your own definition.

Pip: More questions than answers, but apparently that’s where the worthwhile ones start. We’ll be back when the next chapter arrives.

Podcast Episode #1: Exploring Love Beyond Attraction

I just discovered this new feature of WordPress. AI creates podcasts from posts created by the blogger. This is getting creepy. What do you think?

Two days later I tried to use this feature for another blog and found out that feature is not available. Now AI Asst. says they cannot generate audio files. I don’t know what I stumbled upon, but WP must have found the glitch and plugged it.

Pip: There’s a certain kind of insomnia that doesn’t waste itself on worry — it goes straight for the big questions. TomT 2.0 had one of those nights.

Mara: And what came out of it is a genuinely personal inquiry into love — what it is, where it comes from, and whether physical attraction is even required for it to be real.

Pip: Let’s start with what that sleepless ceiling-staring actually produced.

Exploring Love Beyond Attraction

Mara: The post opens with a question that sounds simple until you actually sit with it: what is love, and do you really agree with the definition you’ve been carrying around?

Pip: And the answer, it turns out, is that most of us inherited our definition without ever signing off on it — from family, culture, relationships we stumbled through.

Mara: The post puts it directly: “I find myself questioning whether love is a feeling, a choice, a commitment, or some shifting combination of all three, and whether the way I give and receive love truly reflects what I believe it should be.”

Pip: That last clause is the one that lands. Not just what love is in the abstract, but whether you’re actually living in alignment with your own answer.

Mara: The post gets more personal from there. There’s a passage about growing up in a household where love was never spoken aloud — where food on the table and rides to school were supposed to carry the full weight of the word.

Pip: Which they can. But there’s a difference between love being assumed and love being felt, and that gap is apparently still present decades later.

Mara: Right — the post names it plainly: the silence left closeness feeling “uncertain and conditional, as if I had to keep guessing whether I was truly loved or just responsibly cared for.”

Pip: That’s not a small thing to sit with at three in the morning.

Mara: The post then pushes into what may be its central question: can love exist fully without physical attraction at all? Whether emotional intimacy — being truly seen, trust built slowly, small daily acts of care — can constitute love on its own terms.

Pip: The honest answer seems to be: probably yes, but we’ve been trained to treat attraction as the admission ticket, so the question feels stranger than it should.

Mara: And the post doesn’t resolve it. It frames this as an ongoing exploration — one that may grow into a longer project, even a book.

Pip: So the sleepless night was just the opening chapter.

Mara: What stays with me is the question about alignment — not just defining love, but asking whether you’re actually living by your own definition.

Pip: More questions than answers, but apparently that’s where the worthwhile ones start. We’ll be back when the next chapter arrives.

Exploring Love Beyond Attraction

AI generated Podcast Tell me what you think

Recently I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t go back to sleep. I lay there in the quiet dark, staring at the ceiling as the minutes stretched into hours, and my mind, restless and stubborn, began to wander toward the subject of love—what it has given me, what it has taken away, and all the ways it has quietly shaped who I am.

I asked myself, what is the definition of love, and do I understand and agree with it? The more I sit with this question, the more I realize how much of my idea of love has been shaped by family, culture, and past relationships, and I wonder how much of that I have accepted without really examining it. I find myself questioning whether love is a feeling, a choice, a commitment, or some shifting combination of all three, and whether the way I give and receive love truly reflects what I believe it should be. As I reflect on my experiences—when I have felt loved, when I have struggled to love, and when I have confused love with attachment or fear—I begin to see that my understanding may be incomplete or even mistaken in places. By asking myself these questions, I’m trying not just to define love in abstract terms, but to understand what it really means in my life and whether I’m living in a way that aligns with that deeper meaning.

Did my parents love me? Or did they just raise me because they thought it was the moral thing to do? I never remember them ever saying, “We love you.” Likewise, I can’t ever remember myself saying, “I love you.” Sometimes I wonder if this silence was simply the way our heritage expressed itself, a family culture where love was assumed but never spoken, where duty and sacrifice were supposed to say everything words did not. Growing up in that atmosphere, I learned to read love in practical gestures and unspoken expectations—food on the table, rides to school, a roof over my head—yet a part of me still longed for the clarity of hearing the words out loud. The absence of open affection made closeness feel uncertain and conditional, as if I had to keep guessing whether I was truly loved or just responsibly cared for. Even now, I find myself struggling to say “I love you” easily, unsure if I am breaking an unspoken family rule or finally giving myself what I always needed: permission to believe that love can be both shown and said.

What is love outside of physical attraction? Is love the same without physical attraction, or does it become something deeper, quieter, and more enduring? I find myself wondering whether love can grow from emotional intimacy alone—from the comfort of being truly seen and heard, from the safety of trust built slowly over time, from the small daily acts of care that say, “I choose you” even when no one is watching. Is love present in the way two people hold space for each other’s fears and dreams, in the patience to listen and the courage to be honest, even when it’s hard? I question whether love might be found in loyalty that doesn’t waver when beauty fades, in a steady commitment to understanding the other person’s heart, and in a genuine desire to see them whole, happy, and free, even when it doesn’t directly benefit me. And if all of this is true, then I keep asking myself: is physical attraction just one piece of love, or can love exist fully, powerfully, and authentically without it at all?

This is turning into a complex topic, and the more I sit with it, the more I realize that what I am wrestling with is one of the most quietly profound questions a person can face: what love really is, how it shapes a life, and what it asks of us in return. Because of that, I want to give it the time and space it deserves instead of treating it as just a simple daily blog entry. It is slowly becoming an ongoing, very personal exploration for me—one that may grow into a longer project or even another book to add to my collection of books—as I try to listen more carefully to my own heart and experience. Thanks to one sleepless night, I find myself here with more questions than answers, but also with a sense that these questions about love are worth following wherever they lead.

When the Trees Put on Their Sunday Best
A landscape featuring a variety of trees with autumn leaves, a blue sky, and a distant view of buildings and playground equipment.

Every year, just as summer finally loosens its grip and the last heat waves wobble off the pavement, the local stations start chirping about “leaf peeping”—a phrase that sounds halfway between a nature hobby and something you’d get scolded for in grade school. But around here, it’s become the unofficial name for that brief, golden window when the trees decide to show off, trading their tired greens for wild streaks of red, orange, and gold. Overnight, the hills look freshly painted, country roads turn into slow-motion parades of brake lights and camera phones, and even the most stubborn indoor types suddenly remember they “love the outdoors.” For a couple of weeks, the whole place feels like it’s been dialed up a notch, as if the landscape is in on the joke and determined to go out in a blaze of color before winter draws the curtain.

The foothills turn into a slow‑motion fireworks display: aspens flickering like candle flames and whispering in the cool air, maples shifting from shy yellow to full‑throated red with a kind of quiet swagger, cottonwoods glowing like lanterns at dusk and tossing down crisp leaves that crunch under your boots. The air smells faintly of woodsmoke and cold river, the sky goes that sharp, impossible blue, and even the most practical folks—the ones who swear they don’t have time for “all that scenic stuff”—find themselves pulling over on the side of the road, coffee cooling in the cup holder, just to sit there and stare for a minute longer than they meant to.

Leaf peeping isn’t really about the leaves, though. It’s about the pause—the way you suddenly notice the chill on the air, the smell of woodsmoke drifting from somewhere you can’t quite see, the crunch of last week’s leaves under your boots. It’s the reminder that change can be beautiful, that endings can be colorful, a little dramatic, even oddly comforting, and that nature still knows how to throw a party without asking anyone’s permission or checking anyone’s calendar first.

So, if you catch yourself lingering a little longer on the porch, breathing in the cool air and listening to the leaves rustle like quiet applause, or taking the long way home just to see what the trees are up to and how the light spills through them, congratulations—you’re officially a leaf peeper. Around here, that’s practically a badge of honor, like being part of a secret club that meets wherever the maples and aspens decide to put on a show.

A scenic view of vibrant autumn foliage in various shades of orange, yellow, and green against a backdrop of a mountainous landscape.

The Night the Chair Wasn’t Empty

No wonder I lay awake sometimes at night unable to go back to sleep.

He woke at 2:17 a.m.—not because of a noise, not because of a dream, but because something in the room had shifted. The air felt thinner, as if the house had paused its breathing.

For a moment he lay still, listening. The night was holding itself very carefully. No wind. No refrigerator hum. Even the old clock in the hallway seemed to have stopped ticking, as though time itself had stepped out to stretch its legs.

He swung his feet to the floor. The boards were cool, but not cold. He felt as though he had stepped into someone else’s room, a place that looked like his but wasn’t quite aligned with the version he knew.

The hallway was darker than usual. Not pitch black—more like the darkness had texture, a soft grain to it, like velvet. He walked toward the living room, guided by a faint glow he couldn’t place. It wasn’t moonlight. It wasn’t any lamp he owned. It was more like the room itself was remembering light.

And then he saw it.

A figure sat in his favorite chair. Not threatening, not even fully solid—just a presence, shaped like a person but made of the same faint glow that had drawn him in. It looked comfortable, almost at home, as if it had been waiting for him to wake up.

He didn’t speak. Somehow he knew words would scatter the moment like birds.

The figure lifted its head. Its face was indistinct, but he felt the weight of its attention. Not heavy—more like recognition. As though it knew him from somewhere he couldn’t recall.

Slowly, it raised one hand and pointed toward the window.

He turned.

Outside, the world was washed in silver. Not moonlight—something softer, more deliberate. The trees stood perfectly still, their leaves suspended as if caught mid‑rustle. The street was empty, but not lonely. It felt… expectant.

When he looked back, the figure was gone. The chair was just a chair again.

The house exhaled.

The refrigerator hummed back to life. The hallway clock resumed its ticking. The darkness lost its velvet texture and became ordinary shadow.

He stood there for a long moment, letting the normal world settle around him again. Whatever had visited him—whatever had nudged him awake—it hadn’t meant harm. It had simply wanted him to see something. Or remember something. Or maybe just know that the night held more than sleep.

He returned to bed, feeling oddly peaceful. As he drifted off, he thought he heard the faintest whisper of that silver glow, like a curtain being drawn across a window.

When he woke in the morning, everything was ordinary again.

But he kept glancing at the chair, wondering if the night would ever pause its breathing for him again.

I am going to stop eating a banana before I go to bed.

Embracing Creativity in Your Golden Years

Audio Podcast 4 minutes

I may be too old to hit the bottle, but I’m still a heartthrob on the keyboard! Sure, I can’t swing a softball bat or shovel snow without resembling an overcooked noodle, but I’ve discovered a treasure trove of joys that keep my mind sharp and my spirit doing the cha-cha! Typing is my jam, and I throw my heart into it like I’m auditioning for the next big Broadway show. I’ve been gracing the internet with my thoughts since 2006 on my WordPress stage—where creativity flows like coffee on a Monday morning! With over 800 posts, I’ve built a literary empire that even my fish respects. And guess what? I’m just getting warmed up! At over eighty, I’m here to prove that senior years can still be filled with shenanigans, that age is nothing but a page in a book, and that with the right attitude, we can continue to sprinkle wisdom like confetti and inspire others—even if our knees creak like an old floorboard!

Here I go, diving headfirst into the chaotic pool of creativity that the digital world splashes around like a toddler with a garden hose. I’ve hoarded a treasure trove of books, magazines, podcasts, and videos from my blogging escapades, each one a delightful little nugget that adds to my rather bizarre understanding of this wild journey. As I wrestle my way through the latest platforms and software—like a sleep-deprived octopus on roller skates—I happily dabble in everything from unusual writing styles to wild digital gadgets that supposedly make my life easier. This delightful madness keeps my brain buzzing like a caffeinated squirrel, teaching me new tricks while I wade through a swamp of discovery and innovation. Honestly, it’s downright astounding what modern computing can accomplish compared to my first awkward encounters with a personal computer back when I thought the floppy disk was high-tech. Now, every day feels like a brand-new chance to shove my limits, have a laugh with fellow wanderers, and express my thoughts in ways that would’ve made my past self question my sanity.

This is my playground! I could spend eons here, diving headfirst into a pool of creativity and digital shenanigans. Without computers, I’d still be a proud owner of a lovely pile of blank pages, wondering why my manual typewriter seems so judgmental. Seriously, can you picture me hammering away on those keys, trying to craft my dazzling tales? Not a chance! In my whimsical playground, there’s a “magazine section” showcasing my blogging escapades over the years—just call it my “greatest hits” album. These days, everyone’s buzzing about podcasts; it’s like a huge karaoke night where everyone has the mic! On my blogs, I decided to include an audio file for those folks who can’t be bothered to read—now they can listen to my ramblings while cooking, driving, or pretending to work. This little audio twist has turned into a rockstar feature, luring in a crowd eager for my charmingly chaotic insights. You wouldn’t believe it—visitors are downloading ten to twenty podcasts at once, ready to embark on the hysterical journey I share with my voice, making a connection that’s deeper than any sappy love letter!

I’ve also dipped my toes into the wild world of video, but let me tell you, it’s like trying to squeeze a sumo wrestler into a smart car – way too time-consuming and those files? Bigger than my laundry pile! With my meager 13g of storage on WordPress, I feel like a squirrel with a stash of acorns; paying for extra space on a fixed income feels like asking for a raise from a peanut!

In conclusion, welcome to my whimsical playground, where I’m having a blast wielding my pen like a sword of creativity, slashing through tales and typing out stories that are at least 30% true! Here, I share my quirkiness with the brave visitors and subscribers who’ve stumbled upon my tiny corner of the Internet, which probably isn’t on anyone’s map yet. Each article I scribble is a quirky piece of my heart — or maybe that’s just the leftover pizza! I love your comments and interactions like a dog loves a squirrel, as they send me spiraling into the depths of my imagination, making this digital circus not just my show, but a delightful collaboration of goofiness and creativity!

Where is Shadow the Snake? A Survival Story

On August 4th, I blogged about Shadow the snake, the unofficial HOA manager of my front porch, who has become somewhat of a local legend in our neighborhood. Shadow, with his sleek, shimmering scales, often basked in the sun, drawing the admiration of passersby. However, I haven’t seen Shadow since then, and I was beginning to wonder if he had unfortunately become a victim of mother nature’s fickleness or if he simply decided to move on to greener pastures. Well, to my surprise, I found the skin that Shadow crawled out of recently, nestled by my foundation, a remarkable reminder of his presence. It was both a relief and enlightening to see that Shadow is still around, thriving and growing, and hopefully, I will spot him again before the cold weather sets in and he begins to take a long winter hibernation nap, disappearing into the depths of his cozy burrow until spring heralds his reappearance.

August 4 blog

Muffin Man: Transforming Chaos into Comfort Food

From my book, “Tales of TomT2.0 Book Three”

LINK Thru August 29th Kindle edition no charge

In the bustling city of Bed Springs, where skyscrapers pierced the clouds and villains lurked in every shadow, there was a hero unlike any other: Muffin Man. His real name was Don, a lanky barista with a perpetually tired expression, who often found himself daydreaming of a life far more exciting than pouring lattes and cleaning coffee spills. His only power was turning anything—anything—into a mildly disappointing sandwich, a gift he discovered one fateful morning when a spilled cup of espresso sparked a culinary accident. While the city’s residents expected grand, heroic feats, Don could only offer them his peculiar creations, which often left people scratching their heads in confusion rather than awe. Yet, in a world filled with chaotic crime and villainous schemes, sometimes even averageness could be a source of solace, as his unassuming sandwiches became a strange comfort for those facing the wild unpredictability of life in Bed Springs. Little did they know, Muffin Man’s true strength lay not just in his sandwiches but in his unwavering spirit to bring a little bit of joy—and a lot of confusion—into their daily routines.

It started one fateful day when Don, wiping down the counter at Brewed Awakening, got zapped by a rogue ray from a mad scientist’s “Matter Morphew” during a botched robbery. The ray didn’t kill him or grant him super strength. Instead, it gave him the ability to transform objects, people, even abstract concepts, into sandwiches that were… fine. Not terrible, not great—just mildly disappointing. A soggy BLT with slightly wilted lettuce. A turkey on rye with too much mayo. A PB&J where the bread was just a tad stale. At first, Don thought it might be a prank or a side effect of not having enough coffee that morning, but as the days went by, he realized this peculiar power was all too real. He once turned a pair of his old sneakers into a sandwich that resembled a simple ham and cheese, yet tasted strangely bland, leaving a lingering sense of mediocrity. On another occasion, he inadvertently transformed a frustrated customer’s complaint about slow service into a grilled cheese that appeared perfectly melted but lacked the satisfying crunch that any true cheese lover would expect. As the bizarre occurrences multiplied, Don came to understand that his gift, or curse, would forever alter his mundane life behind the café counter, pushing him toward a destiny filled with unusual possibilities and the inevitable quest for culinary redemption.

At first, Don didn’t know what to do with his power. He discovered it when he accidentally turned a customer’s phone into a ham and cheese on white—crusts uneven, cheese slightly melted but not enough. The customer sighed, took a bite, and muttered, “Eh, could be worse.” In that moment, Don felt a strange mix of embarrassment and intrigue; he had never considered the implications of such an unusual ability before. That’s when Don realized: this was his calling. With newfound determination, he began experimenting with small items around him, transforming mundane objects into delightful snacks, to the amazement of friends and family who watched in awe. Each successful transformation filled him with exhilaration, igniting a passion he never knew existed. Soon, he began to see not just food but also joy in the smiles of those he fed, leading him to ponder how he could truly make a difference in the world one bite at a time.

Bed Springs, crime rate was soaring. The villainous Dr. Chaos was terrorizing the city with his army of robotic drones that struck fear into the hearts of its residents, stealing valuables and spreading chaos at every turn. The mayor, overwhelmed and desperate, begged for heroes to rise and restore peace, but the A-listers—Captain Blaze, with his fiery powers, and Thunder Woman, wielding the strength of storms—were off saving the world from alien invasions, battling extraterrestrial foes light-years away. In the midst of this turmoil, Don, a local shop clerk known for his eccentricity, donned a thrift-store cape and a mask made from a brown paper bag, feeling an unexpected surge of determination. He knew that while he may not possess superpowers, he had the heart of a hero and a clever plan to outsmart the drones, rallying the townsfolk to take back their city.

His first mission was at the Bed Springs Bank, where Dr. Chaos’s drones were looting vaults and wreaking havoc in the otherwise quiet establishment. Don sprinted in, dodging laser blasts that whizzed past him like angry fireflies and pointed at a drone hovering menacingly near the gold reserves. Poof! It became a tuna salad sandwich, the kind with too many onions and not enough crunch, the stench of which immediately filled the air. The other drones paused, bewildered by the bizarre transformation, as Don zapped them one by one with a precision that only years of practice could provide. As each drone fell victim to his quirky powers, the bank floor was soon littered with sandwiches—egg salad with a faint fishy aftertaste, chicken salad with slightly dry bread, and a few bizarre combinations he couldn’t even name. The chaos escalated as the scent of lunch overtook the atmosphere, making it almost comical. Dr. Chaos screamed, “This is absurd!” his frustration palpable as he tried to regain control over the situation, but Don was relentless. With a swift motion, he turned his ray gun into a meatball sub with sauce that was just a bit too cold, flinging it towards the villain with a grin, fully enjoying the absurdity of the moment.

The city was baffled but grateful. News headlines read: “Muffin Man Saves Bank with Mediocre Meals!” Citizens started calling him to fix minor problems, and his quirky culinary solutions quickly gained a reputation. A broken-down bus? Now a roast beef on whole wheat, a little light on the beef, which turned out to be not quite filling but oddly comforting. A mugger? A veggie sandwich with not enough avocado was hastily prepared, its lack of generosity a humorous jab at the situation, leaving everyone amused at the absurdity. Even a rainy day became a soggy club sandwich, its lettuce wilting under the weight of the moisture, which didn’t help much but made people shrug and eat anyway. As word spread about his unorthodox approach to problem-solving, the Muffin Man became a beloved figure in the community, proving that sometimes, laughter and a light meal could be the best remedy for life’s little calamities.

Don never became a legend like Captain Blaze. His powers didn’t inspire awe, just mild sighs, a polite acknowledgment of mediocrity. But he kept at it, patrolling Bed Springs, tirelessly wandering the streets, turning chaos into slightly underwhelming lunches that left citizens more puzzled than impressed. One night, as he sat on a rooftop eating a self-made grilled cheese (too little butter, as usual), he smiled at the absurdity of his existence. Heroes didn’t necessarily need glory or grand narratives; they needed to simply show up, day after day, in a world that often forgot them. And in that chaotic landscape filled with villains and relentless disappointment, Muffin Man was there, making things just a little bit edible, offering a moment of comfort amid the disarray, reminding everyone that sometimes, the smallest acts of kindness could cast the longest shadows.

Discover Fall Foliage in the Upper Midwest

The New England states are known for their fall foliage displays, showcasing vibrant hues of red, orange, and yellow that attract travelers from far and wide. However, there is another captivating area in this great country, and that area is the upper Midwest, particularly the stunning states of Minnesota, Michigan, and Wisconsin. My wife and I embarked on this memorable trip in the fall of 2009, eager to explore the autumn splendor of these regions. As we traveled through picturesque towns and breathtaking landscapes, we were mesmerized by the natural beauty surrounding us. From the rolling hills dotted with colorful trees to the serene lakes reflecting the clear blue skies, every moment was a feast for the eyes. The unique charm of this bus trip encouraged the spirit of adventure, and I couldn’t resist writing a forty-page book on this adventure after we returned home. It was truly an interesting and exciting journey filled with delightful surprises, local folklore, and encounters with fellow travelers who shared our enthusiasm. Hope you enjoy the vivid descriptions and experiences I’ve captured from our unforgettable journey.

LINK TO THE PDF FILE

Starting a Small Business: Jeff’s Journey

Website

Just want to relay that I am proud of my oldest son, Jeff, his is taking the big step and starting his own business. I am excited and enthusiastic about this new adventure in his life.

Meet the Owner

I’m Jeff, the owner of Red Clay Fixworks. After working as a mechanical designer/drafter for 25 years, my once hobby of home improvement has become my passion. I strive to help all homeowners keep their homes in top shape. Whether it’s a small repair, routine maintenance, or a home improvement project, I take pride in providing dependable, high-quality work. No job is too small!

Building trust is just as important as completing the job right. Every project is completed with the same precision and respect I’d give my own home.

Thank you for supporting my local small business! If you have a project in mind, I’d love the opportunity to help. Send me a message or give me a call for a free estimate.

Exploring Washington D.C.: A Memorable Travel Experience

In spite of the cold weather and gloomy skies, this was an enjoyable trip filled with memorable experiences and delightful discoveries. Our hotel was conveniently located near The National Mall, providing easy access to some of the most iconic landmarks in the city. Each morning, we would wake up excited to explore the rich history and culture that surrounded us. It was incredibly convenient to have accommodations close to the mall, as we could effortlessly stroll to museums and monuments without the hassle of transportation. The convenience also allowed us to return to our room whenever we needed a break from the chill or wanted to freshen up before heading out again for dinner or evening walks beneath the dimly lit skies.

Arlington National Cemetery and The Iwo Jima Monument are sites that cannot be missed, as they offer a profound glimpse into the sacrifices made by brave servicemen and women throughout history. Visiting Arlington, one can pay respects to countless heroes while surrounded by the serene beauty of its manicured landscapes and historic marble headstones. The majestic Iwo Jima Monument, depicting the iconic flag-raising event, stands as a powerful tribute and draws visitors from around the world who marvel at its sheer size and the emotion it evokes. Nearby, Mount Vernon is a beautiful area that adds to the charm of the region, featuring the historic estate of George Washington, with its stunning gardens and breathtaking views of the Potomac River, making it an ideal destination for those looking to immerse themselves in American history and natural beauty.

Colonial Williamsburg is another gigantic historical site that immerses visitors in the rich tapestry of American history, showcasing life in the 18th century. Jamestowne and Yorktowne, both significant colonial settlements, offer further insights into the early American experience, highlighting the challenges and triumphs faced by the first settlers. From the reconstruction of colonial buildings to interactive exhibits that bring history to life, these sites provide unique opportunities to explore the foundations of democracy and the diverse cultures that shaped the nation.

Link to the PDF file of the book

Tips – Donations

Protect Yourself from Phishing Scams

Never click on a link or open a file you receive from someone or a business—at least not until you’ve made sure it’s truly what it claims to be. In today’s digital world, the danger doesn’t come with a rattlesnake’s warning buzz; it arrives dressed up like your bank, your insurance company, or even your neighbor. One careless click can invite trouble straight into your computer, and once it’s inside, it doesn’t politely wipe its feet.

If something shows up unexpectedly, treat it the way you’d treat a stranger knocking at your door after dark: look through the peephole first. Go to the company’s website yourself, call the friend who “sent” the file, or simply delete the whole thing and move on with your day. A moment of caution now saves a whole lot of headaches later.

If your email allows reporting suspicious emails, take the time to report the suspicious emails you receive, as this small but important action can significantly contribute to the overall safety of the online community. By reporting these emails, you not only help your own inbox stay free from potential threats but also assist in protecting others from the headaches and potential financial loss that could have been prevented through your vigilance. It’s crucial to remember that many people may not be aware of the risks posed by phishing or scam attempts, so your proactive efforts can create a ripple effect of awareness and security, ultimately fostering a safer digital environment for everyone.

Tips appreciated https://tomt2.com/tips-and-donation/

A Digital Ghost Story: The Haunting of Facebook

 

A short story from Tales of TomT 2.0 https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DZHSGH35

In the quiet town of Meeker, Dee, a lonely librarian, spent her nights scrolling through Facebook, seeking connection in a world that often felt isolating. The platform, once a vibrant hub for friends and community, had grown eerie by 2025, its feeds cluttered with cryptic ads and posts from long-abandoned accounts that felt like forgotten echoes of past lives. One night, amid the stillness of her dimly lit apartment, a friend request popped up from “Angie Gray,” a name Dee didn’t recognize, sending a shiver of curiosity down her spine. The profile was sparse: no photos, no posts, just a single status from 2013: “I’m still here.” Intrigued by the haunting simplicity of the message and sensing a strange connection, Dee accepted the request, wondering who Angie could be and why she had resurfaced after so many years, even as a chill of apprehension settled in the back of her mind. 

Messages from Angie began immediately. “You’re awake. Good. I’ve been watching.” Dee’s skin prickled as a cold rush of unease spread through her. She checked Angie’s profile again, but it was gone, vanished from her friends list as if it had never existed. Yet the messages kept coming, relentless and penetrating, fueling her anxiety. “Look behind you.” Dee spun around, her heart pounding in her chest, but her room was empty, the familiar shadows appearing almost menacing. The silence felt heavy, as if the very air was holding its breath. She typed back, “Who are you?” hoping for some clue, some semblance of understanding, but there was no reply. Instead, just a photo appeared: Dee, asleep in bed, taken from above, a snapshot that sent chills down her spine. Her phone hadn’t been touched, lying innocently beside her, the implications of the messages hanging in the air like a dark cloud. 

Panicked, Dee deleted her account, but the app wouldn’t uninstall, stubbornly clinging to her device like a malevolent shadow. It reopened on its own, displaying a live video of her living room—empty, except for a faint, translucent figure in the corner, a haunting silhouette that sent chills down her spine. Angie. Her face was blurred, distorted as if seen through a foggy window, but her eyes burned with unnatural light, glowing like embers in the darkness. Dee’s heart raced as she tried to make sense of what was happening. Images of their friendship flooded her mind—happy memories tainted by the weight of loss. In that moment of sheer horror, Dee screamed, hurling her phone across the room. It landed face-up on the floor, the video still playing, capturing her terror as if it were the climax of a nightmare from which she could not wake. 

Desperate, Dee drove to the library, digging through old records as the weight of her curiosity pressed heavily on her chest. After hours of sifting through dusty files and fading newspapers, she finally uncovered a 2013 news article buried deep within the archives: Angie Gray, a local woman, had tragically died in a car accident shortly after posting on Facebook about feeling “trapped” in her life, a post that had struck a hauntingly familiar chord with Dee. Though Angie’s account had long since been deleted, the chilling stories that circulated in the community suggested that her spirit lingered online, haunting those who dared to stay up too late, their screens glowing in the darkness like beacons inviting the restless to reach out. Dee felt an unsettling chill as she read, both intrigued and unnerved, as she began to wonder if there was more to Angie’s story that remained hidden, waiting for someone to discover the truth behind her ghostly presence. 

Back home, Dee’s laptop flickered on, Facebook loading despite her deleted account, a haunting reminder of what she had tried to escape. A new message appeared on the screen: “You can’t leave me.” The words shimmered ominously, sending a chill down her spine. The screen glitched violently, and suddenly, Angie’s face filled it, her mouth moving silently as if trapped in a frame of time. Dee’s heart raced; she unplugged the laptop in a panic, hoping to sever the connection, but to her dismay, the screen stayed lit, its glow casting an unsettling light across the room. A voice, hollow and distorted, echoed from the speakers as fear enveloped her: “I’m in the code now.” The realization sank in—Angie was no longer just a part of her digital history; she had become something more, something that she could not easily escape. 

Dee contacted a hacker friend, Leo, who had earned quite a reputation in the underground tech community for his skills. As he worked diligently to trace the messages, the tension in the room thickened. “It’s not a person,” he finally whispered, his voice barely above a murmur. “It’s… something embedded in Facebook’s algorithm, using old data to mimic a user, almost like a ghost haunting the platform.” He attempted various methods to purge the anomaly from his system, but as he navigated through layers of code, his computer suddenly crashed. In that fleeting moment of chaos, it displayed a single ominous word: “Angie.” Panic surged through Dee as she processed the implications of what Leo had just uncovered. 

That night, Dee’s phone buzzed relentlessly with notifications, each one pulling her deeper into a whirlpool of emotions. Posts appeared on her wall, tagged by Angie: an array of photos of Dee’s childhood, moments frozen in time, secrets she’d never dared to share online, memories that felt both nostalgic and haunting. The final post, however, was far from innocent; it was a chilling video of Angie’s accident, looping endlessly, her screams cutting through static like a knife, reverberating in Dee’s mind long after the first watch. Dee’s heart raced as the images played out before her, her breath hitching in her throat. Suddenly, her lights flickered ominously, casting eerie shadows across the room, and a cold hand grazed her shoulder, sending shivers down her spine and making her question if the world around her was truly as real as it seemed. 

Dee fled to a motel, vowing never to touch Facebook again. But at midnight, her new phone lit up with a notification: a friend request from Angie Gray. Dee stared, trembling, as the accept button pulsed like a heartbeat, its glow beckoning her like a siren’s song. Memories flooded her mind—Angie’s laughter ringing through times long past, their shared secrets echoing in the corridors of their friendship. Somewhere in the digital void, Angie was still watching, her ghost woven into the platform’s forgotten code, forever seeking connection in the endless scroll, haunting Dee’s thoughts like a whisper that refused to fade away. Each pulse of that button seemed to taunt her resolve, reminding her of their history, and the promise she made to start anew, away from the ties of the past that still echoed in the vastness of the internet. Would clicking accept mean opening a door she intended to keep firmly shut, or could it be a chance for reconciliation that her heart secretly longed for? 

Tips – Donations https://tomt2.com/tips-and-donation/

A Humorously Awkward Snake Standoff

I’ve always said the foothills teach you things—usually gently, sometimes with a little nip. Out here, the mornings come slow, the coffee comes strong, and the wildlife comes whether you invited it or not. Shadow, my unofficial porch snake, has been part of that rhythm for a while now. He minds his business, I mind mine, and we’ve reached a gentleman’s agreement: he gets the sunny corner by the planter, and I get the rest of the porch.

But yesterday, I decided to test the boundaries of our détente.

It started with a simple plan: sweep the porch. That’s it. A normal, everyday chore. I stepped outside with my broom, humming some tune I probably made up, and gave the boards a good tap to shake off the dust. That’s when I heard the rustle.

Shadow slid out from behind the planter like he was late for a meeting. Not fast, not aggressive—just purposeful. I froze mid‑sweep, broom raised like I was about to joust. He paused too, tongue flicking, as if to say, “Really? This again?”

Now, I’ve lived long enough to know when I’m being judged by a reptile.

I tried to play it cool. “Easy there, partner,” I muttered, as if talking to a horse. “Just doing a little housekeeping.”

Shadow didn’t care. He kept coming, slow and steady, like a man walking to the front of the church to confess something. I backed up, broom still raised, dignity slipping away like a dropped ice cube on a hot day.

Then came the moment—the one that will live in my personal Hall of Fame of Bad Decisions.

I thought, Maybe I can just gently nudge him away.

A nudge. With a broom. A wild snake.

He looked at the broom, then at me, and then—because nature has a sense of humor—he coiled just enough to make me rethink every life choice that led to this porch.

I dropped the broom. I stepped back. I may have squeaked. Shadow, satisfied that he had won whatever contest we were having, slid off the porch and into the yard like a king returning to his kingdom.

I stood there, broomless, pride dented, heart thumping like I’d just outrun a bear instead of a mildly annoyed snake.

And as I watched him disappear into the grass, I said the only thing a man can say after trying to outsmart a creature who has survived millions of years without ever needing a broom:

I should have known better.

My 6-Month Photo Challenge Experience

This is my second book that was created in 2009. At that time, I was an active blogger at yourhub.com, a vibrant online platform operated by the now defunct Rocky Mountain News newspaper. The challenge was to post a photo blog every day for six months, which required not just creativity but also discipline and dedication. I was successful in accomplishing this challenge, even taking a memorable trip to Washington DC during that period. It was fascinating to capture the sights and sounds of the city, and I made it a point to post a photo for that day, no matter how busy my schedule became. Even while on vacation, I would take the time to find interesting angles and moments to share with my readers. What did I receive for this challenge? The only gift was the self-satisfaction that I posted a blog every day for six months, a testament to my commitment to chronicling my experiences. It was incredibly rewarding to engage with an audience and see my blog grow in popularity. It was fun, though, and I enjoyed doing it; each post became a small piece of history, capturing not only the moments but my journey as a blogger and storyteller.

CLICK ON THE BELOW LINK IF YOU WANT TO CONTINUE

LINK TO A PDF FILE OF THE BOOK

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Historical Fluctuations of Gas Prices in 2008

I was going through my book I published in 2009, “Photo a Day”, and ran across this about gas prices of November 18, 2008.

I then asked Grok, “what happened around 2008 that made gas prices high and then low“.

This was the response. In 2008, U.S. gasoline prices rose to a record high (around $4.11–$4.17 per gallon nationally in July) before crashing sharply to about $1.60–$1.67 by the end of the year. This tracked crude oil prices, which peaked near $145–$147 per barrel in early July 2008 and then fell more than 70% (to the low $30s by late December/early 2009).

Why prices went high (leading into mid-2008)

A combination of strong global demand and constrained supply built up over several years:

  • Booming demand from emerging economies (especially China and India) plus a relatively strong U.S. economy increased oil consumption.
  • Supply was tight: limited spare production capacity, earlier disruptions (e.g., related to the Iraq War and Hurricane Katrina in 2005 affecting Gulf Coast refining), and production challenges in places like Nigeria.
  • Other contributing factors included a weaker U.S. dollar (oil is priced in dollars), geopolitical tensions (Middle East, etc.), and financial speculation/investment flows into oil futures markets.

These pressures pushed oil (and thus gasoline) prices steadily higher through the mid-2000s, culminating in the mid-2008 peak.

Why prices then dropped sharply (second half of 2008)

The global financial crisis (and resulting Great Recession) caused demand to collapse:

  • The crisis intensified in September 2008 with the failure of Lehman Brothers and broader credit/market turmoil.
  • Millions of job losses, falling incomes, reduced driving/travel, and a broader economic slowdown sharply cut oil and gasoline consumption worldwide.
  • At the same time, oil production had increased in response to earlier high prices, creating a temporary oversupply relative to the sudden drop in demand.
  • Speculative money also exited the oil markets, amplifying the decline.

Prices fell rapidly—gasoline saw its largest recorded drops in some surveys as crude slid and demand weakened. By late 2008/early 2009, the national average was back near $1.60–$2.35 for the year.

In short, the high prices reflected a multi-year demand surge meeting limited supply growth, while the subsequent crash was driven by the sudden economic collapse that crushed demand. Gasoline prices closely follow crude oil (with refining, taxes, and local factors adding costs), so the oil market swings dominated. Similar dynamics have appeared in other oil price spikes and crashes historically.

I thought this was interesting due to the price and instability we are seeing these days, especially as many people are feeling the effects of inflation on their everyday expenses. The fluctuations in prices have not only impacted essential goods but have also created uncertainty in various markets, leading consumers to be more cautious in their spending. Additionally, it’s fascinating to observe how these economic conditions are shaping consumer behavior and influencing decisions on everything from investments to long-term financial planning.

Exploring Italy: A Journey of Adventure and Writing

In September of 2007, my wife, Dee and I took a trip to Italy, a journey that turned out to be one of the most enjoyable and exciting experiences of our lives. As we wandered through the enchanting streets of Rome, admired the breathtaking art in Florence, and savored the delectable cuisine. I felt an overwhelming urge to document our adventures. During this time, I also heard of a self-publishing site from a fellow blogger, which sparked a new idea in my mind. Somewhere in 2008, inspired by our unforgettable Italian getaway, I decided to take the plunge and try my hand at publishing a book, believing our trip to Italy was an ideal subject to share with others. Below is a link to view the entire book of forty pages, a labor of love that encapsulates our travels and the emotions we experienced along the way. This journey was not only about exploring stunning landscapes and indulging in gelato but also became one of the key motivators to start a path of writing books. Since then, I have poured my heart into my passion, and now, I proudly have fourteen books available on Amazon. LINK While I may never make the best seller list, the joy and fulfillment I derive from this creative journey far outweigh the goal of commercial success, and I am thoroughly enjoying and having fun on this trip of book writing, which continues to evolve with every page I write.

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PDF file of complete Book Link

Dining at IHOP: An Unexpected Act of Kindness

Yesterday, my wife and I went to lunch at IHOP, a place we both enjoy for its cozy atmosphere and diverse menu options. It was a good and uneventful lunch, allowing us to relax and catch up on our week. We go there quite often because it is conveniently close to our home and easy to get to, which makes it an ideal spot for a quick bite or a leisurely meal. Additionally, they usually have many customers, which is a good sign that the food is acceptable and priced reasonably; seeing families, friends, and regulars enjoying their meals as we did only adds to the inviting ambiance of the restaurant. The wide selection of pancakes and breakfast items always tempts us to try something new while still satisfying our cravings for our favorites.

When it was time to get the check, the waitress comes over and says, “you are good to go.” I say, “we didn’t get our check yet.” She responded, “the booth over there took care of your bill.” It was empty now, and I couldn’t help but feel a rush of curiosity mixed with gratitude. I vaguely remember it was a young man with his son that was around ten years old, both seemingly enjoying their meal together just moments before. We asked, “why did he pay for our meal?” She replied, “he didn’t say, just that he was going to pay for your meal. She also commented that he comes in quite often, but she doesn’t know his name.” My wife says she remembers that he pointed over at us when he was talking to the waitress once, which made it feel all the more personal, as if he was intentionally choosing to extend kindness our way. We don’t have a clue why he did this, but we felt a strange connection to him as if he had somehow recognized something in us. I remember going to the restroom and walking past him—I didn’t recognize the person and at that moment, our lives didn’t intertwine, which only added to the mystery of it all. Naturally, I didn’t pay that much attention when walking by, but the thought lingered in my mind. It was surprising that such a simple act could resonate so deeply. Anyway, that was a gesture that came out of nowhere and it goes to show that there are still many good people around—individuals willing to do good things for complete strangers, which can be very surprising and heartwarming, leaving a lasting impression of hope and kindness in a world that often feels chaotic and indifferent.

Tips – Donations

Transforming Chaos into Clarity

I was in need of a phone number for a friend, and I had difficulty finding this number, which turned out to be more challenging than I had anticipated. I had accumulated a list of phone numbers and addresses over the years, a collection that seemed to hold the potential answers I sought. My wife, too, had ventured into her own project, obtaining her own set of numbers through various means, including old contacts and resourceful inquiries. Our collective efforts resulted in a stack of paper books filled with many cross outs and handwritten changes, a testament to our tireless search. It was at this point, after becoming increasingly frustrated with the chaotic nature of our records, that I decided to embark on a new project. This endeavor involved taking all these accumulations of lists and meticulously combining them into a singular, organized database. With this purpose in mind, I created an Excel spreadsheet, a powerful tool that allows me to keep everything up to date, make necessary changes, and sort the information in any way I desire. It is truly amazing what modern technology allows one to do; it transforms what once seemed like a daunting task into a manageable, efficient process, bringing a sense of clarity and organization to my efforts.

As I was composing this database, it was saddening to see all the names and contacts that have passed on, each representing a cherished memory and a story that will forever remain etched in my heart. However, amid this reflection on loss, I feel very fortunate to live as long as I have, to witness the beauty of life, and to meet and enjoy so many friends and family who have enriched my journey. Their laughter, kindness, and wisdom have shaped me in ways I can hardly express, turning ordinary moments into lasting treasures that I carry with me. Each entry in this database serves as a poignant reminder of the deep connections we’ve forged and the legacy of love that continues to inspire me every day.

TIPS – DONATIONS

Living with a Snake: The Unofficial HOA President

I woke up this morning to find Shadow—the unofficial HOA president of my front porch—coiled up like he’d been waiting for me. You know that look snakes get when they’re about to deliver bad news? Sort of a silent, judgmental squint. Shadow had it.

Apparently, he’s upset about “recent changes to porch policy.” I didn’t know we had porch policy. I also didn’t know he could file complaints.

But there he was, tail tapping like a tiny gavel, clearly ready to litigate.

His grievances, as best I could interpret:

  • I moved the rocking chair. Shadow claims this disrupted his “commute.” I explained that most commutes don’t involve slithering under furniture, but he hissed something that sounded like “ableist.”
  • I swept. He said this was “an act of aggression.” I said it was Tuesday.
  • I stepped outside without announcing myself. He insists I should knock before entering my own porch. I told him that’s not how porches work. He said that’s exactly what someone who doesn’t respect boundaries would say.

Then he stared at me for a long moment—one of those slow, reptilian blinks that feels like a performance review—and slithered off to sunbathe, clearly exhausted from the emotional labor of managing me.

So now I’m living with the knowledge that my porch snake thinks I’m a menace.

I’m considering drafting a formal apology, maybe even offering him a tiny union card. But knowing Shadow, he’ll demand dental benefits, which seems unreasonable for a creature with fangs that regenerate like discount razor blades.

Anyway, that’s the update from the foothills: I’ve been reprimanded by a snake. Again.

How to Stay Cool During a Heatwave

Hot Enough for Ya? A Survival Guide for the Season That’s Trying to Cook Us

After ten straight days of summer behaving like it’s auditioning for the role of “Inferno: The Musical,” I think it’s time we acknowledge the obvious: the sun has lost its mind. It’s no longer shining. It’s attacking.

The Heat Has Entered Its Villain Era

There’s hot, and then there’s Colorado-in-July hot, where the air itself feels like it’s been microwaved and the squirrels are walking around with tiny towels draped over their shoulders. Even Shadow the porch snake is probably lying belly-up somewhere muttering, “I didn’t sign up for this.” After ten days of this, you start to realize the sun isn’t just shining—it’s judging you. Step outside and it feels like it’s saying, “Oh, look who thought shorts were a good idea.”

Signs You’ve Been in a Heatwave Too Long

  • You’ve begun rating shady spots like they’re Airbnb rentals.
  • You open the front door and immediately close it again, whispering, “Nope.”
  • You’ve started carrying water bottles the way medieval knights carried swords.
  • You’ve considered befriending the neighbor’s swamp cooler.
  • You’ve caught yourself saying things like, “Maybe I’ll go outside later,” knowing full well you won’t.

How to Survive Without Melting into a Decorative Puddle

  • Hydrate like you’re training for the Olympics. At this point, water isn’t a beverage—it’s a lifestyle.
  • Move slowly. Not because you’re tired, but because rapid movement creates friction, and friction creates heat, and we’re not adding any more heat to this situation.
  • Eat cold things. Watermelon. Ice cream. Popsicles. Frozen peas straight from the bag. No judgment.
  • Become nocturnal. The raccoons have been doing it for years. They seem fine.
  • Avoid any activity that requires thinking. Thinking generates brain heat. Brain heat is unacceptable.
  • Stand in front of the fridge with the door open. Yes, your parents told you not to. But your parents didn’t live through this.

Bonus Tip: Embrace the Delirium

After a week of heat, everyone gets a little weird. You start talking to your houseplants. You start naming your fans. You start believing your air conditioner has opinions about you. Lean into it. Summer is a character-building season. Mostly it builds the character of someone who mutters, “Good grief,” every time they step outside.

Closing Thoughts from the Foothills

We’ll get through this. We always do. The monsoon rains will eventually wander in like a late dinner guest, and we’ll all pretend we weren’t about to lose our minds.

Until then, stay cool, stay hydrated, and remember: if you see me outside between noon and 6 PM, something has gone terribly wrong.

The Dream of Justice

 Audio Podcast five minutes

The dream clung to me like damp fog, vivid and unshakable. In it, I stood on a jagged cliff overlooking a churning sea, the sky bruised purple, heavy with the weight of an impending storm, and the air thick with salt and dread. Below, the ocean roiled violently, and from its depths, massive shadows moved—big fish, monstrous and untouchable, their scales glinting like stolen gold in the eerie twilight. They darted through the waves with an elegance that belied their colossal size, twisting and turning as if in a dance of primal instinct. They weren’t just creatures; they were politicians of power, the kind who’d slipped through nets for decades, leaving chaos in their wake, tales of lost fishermen and sunken boats whispered in frightened tones along the coast. In the dream, I felt an unsettling urgency build within me: a gnawing realization that before my time was up, I’d be destined to see them caught, bound, and dragged to justice, their reign of terror finally ending, and restoring peace to the restless country. 

I woke with the taste of salt on my lips and a fire in my chest, an insatiable yearning igniting my spirit. The world, my world, was no different from that dream-sea, where shadows danced in the depths and whispers of destruction lingered. The big fish were real—men and women in sleek suits, hiding behind glass towers and bought loyalty, their eyes cold and calculating. They were the untouchables: CEOs who’d tanked economies, politicians who’d sold laws for favors, kingpins whose empires thrived on misery while they lounged in their gilded cages. For years, I’d watched them glide past accountability, their smirks sharp as shark teeth, slicing through the fabric of justice as they forged ahead unchallenged. But the dream promised change, a tidal wave of reckoning, and I believed it, feeling the swell of hope building within me like the roar of the ocean, ready to manifest itself into reality and wash away the rot that had taken root. 

I wasn’t alone in this. The dream had sparked something in others, too—a quiet, growing hunger for justice that echoed in the hearts of many. We were ordinary, not heroes: a teacher who inspired young minds, a coder who crafted lines of code that could topple giants, a retired cop weighed down by unsolved cases, and a journalist with a half-dead blog clinging to the remnants of truth. We met in a dingy diner, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and grease, swapping stories of the fish we’d seen slip away, sharing tales of loss and determination. There was Pam, whose brother overdosed on pills pushed by a ruthless pharma giant, a painful reminder of the lives lost in the pursuit of profit; Raj, whose code exposed a tech mogul’s data theft, risking everything to unveil the corrupted truth; and me, a nobody with a knack for digging up dirt, driven by an insatiable desire to bring those in power to account. We called ourselves the Trio, a nod to the dream that bound us—a web of courage and conviction ready to ensnare those who exploited the vulnerable. 

Our first target was Jim Stone, a senator whose empire stood on  bribes and threats, a titan of Congress who had built his wealth on the backs of the vulnerable. His name was whispered in the dream, lingering like a dark cloud, his face flashing on the news as he grinned at charity galas, where he feigned generosity while plotting his next opportunistic move. We didn’t have guns or badges, just patience and purpose, an unyielding resolve to dismantle his empire piece by piece. Raj hacked public records, sifting through endless files and finding trails of dirty money that linked him to various illegal dealings. Pam rallied victims who had suffered under his reign, their stories flooding social media and sparking outrage among local communities. I dug through archives, unearthing a paper trail of corruption that revealed not just his dealings but also the complicity of those meant to uphold the law. The journalist, Rose, wove it all into a story that hit like a harpoon, striking deep into the heart of the public’s consciousness and igniting a movement against the injustices perpetuated by stone’s empire. 

It took months, but Stone finally fell under the weight of investigations that seemed endless. The feds moved in swiftly, cuffs gleaming as cameras flashed, capturing the moment for all to see. His trial was a spectacle—evidence stacked like a pyre, witnesses fearless for once, recounting harrowing tales that spoke of betrayal and greed. Tension filled the courtroom like thick smoke, with hearts racing as the jury deliberated. When the gavel dropped, sentencing him to a harsh fifty years, the diner erupted in cheers, patrons raising glasses high as if toasting to justice. We weren’t done, though; the dream whispered of more fish, bigger ones, still swimming free in the depths of the shadows, beckoning us with the promise of their elusive presence. Each of us felt the pull, an unquenchable thirst for what lay ahead, knowing that the world of intrigue and deceit had merely paused, waiting for our next move. 

By day, I’m still a nobody, filing papers, paying bills, and navigating the mundane realities of life. But at night, I dream of the sea again, the vast, endless horizon calling to me, the big fish thrashing in nets we’ve woven with care and determination. Each arrest, each sentence, feels like a wave crashing closer to shore, pulling me deeper into the currents of my purpose. My time on this earth isn’t over yet, and neither is the hunt; I can feel the thrill of the chase pulsing through my veins. The dream promised justice, a chance to right the wrongs that weigh heavily upon my conscience, and I’ll see it through—one fish at a time, each capture tightening the net of resolution I’ve cast around my ambitions. 

A STORY FROM “TALES OF TOMT2.0 BOOK 4 link https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FMJJJHR2

From Personal Stories to Fiction

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 775 posts on the platform, each one capturing a snapshot of my life and interests. I have learned that podcasts are the large item these days. So, I also include an audio podcast on many of 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 nineteen 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.

Link to my Amazon author page.

The Snake That Calls My Porch Home

Shadow has lived under my front concrete porch slab for three seasons now. I don’t know if Shadow is he or she, and honestly, Shadow doesn’t seem too concerned about clearing that up. What I do know is that when the weather warms, Shadow slides out from the little gap near the roses and stretches out in the sunshine like it’s a personal spa appointment. Shadow is the name I gave because it slithers into the shadows when I come near.

We’ve developed a kind of understanding, Shadow and I. I water the roses most mornings, and the moment that first splash of cold water hits the soil, Shadow gives me a look—if snakes can give looks—and quietly slips back into the nest beneath the porch. No fuss, no drama, just a smooth retreat, as if to say, Alright, old man, I’ll let you finish your gardening.

By the time the sun climbs high again, Shadow is usually back out, soaking up the heat on the walkway. I’ve come to expect the sight, the same way you expect a familiar neighbor to wave from across the street. There’s something comforting about a creature returning year after year, choosing your porch as home base.

I never planned on having a snake as a seasonal roommate, but here we are. Shadow keeps the yard free of pests, I keep the roses watered, and we both enjoy the Colorado sunshine in our own ways. Not a bad arrangement for two very different creatures sharing the same little patch of earth.

Unlocking the Past

Audio Podcast 5 minutes

It happened on one of those early summer mornings when the air is cool enough to feel borrowed from spring, but the sun is already hinting at the heat it plans to deliver later. I stepped outside with my coffee, expecting nothing more than a quiet moment on the porch. The foothills were still wearing their soft morning colors, and the neighborhood hadn’t quite woken up. Even the birds seemed to be whispering.

That’s when I saw it—something glinting in the grass near the edge of the yard.

At first I thought it was just dew catching the light. But dew doesn’t usually sparkle in one spot like a tiny beacon. I squinted, leaned forward, and felt that little tug of curiosity that has gotten me into trouble—and into stories—my whole life.

I set my coffee down and walked toward it.

The grass was still wet, brushing against my ankles as I stepped off the walkway. The glint came from a small patch near the lilac bush, half-hidden, as if it had been dropped there by accident or placed there on purpose. I crouched down, knees protesting the way they always do, and brushed the blades aside.

There, nestled in the green, was a small brass key.

Not a modern key. Not the kind you’d use for a mailbox or a padlock. This one looked old—thin, ornate, with a delicate looping bow and a long narrow shaft. The kind of key that might open a jewelry box, or a diary, or a drawer full of secrets.

I picked it up. It was warm, as if someone had been holding it moments before.

I looked around the yard, half expecting to see a neighbor waving, or a child running off after dropping it. But the street was empty. The only movement came from a fox—Fred, of course—trotting casually along the sidewalk as if he were supervising the morning. He glanced at me, gave a nod that could have meant anything, and continued on his way.

I turned the key over in my hand. It was surprisingly heavy for its size. The brass had a patina that suggested age, but the teeth were sharp, not worn. It didn’t look like something that had been lying in the dirt for long.

So how had it gotten there?

I stood up slowly, key in hand, and walked back to the porch. My coffee was still warm. I sat down, staring at the little object resting in my palm. There was something almost… intentional about it. As if it had been left for me to find.

Now, I’m not the type to jump to magical conclusions. But I’ve lived long enough to know that life has a way of placing things in our path at just the right moment. Sometimes it’s a person. Sometimes it’s a memory. And sometimes, apparently, it’s a key.

I thought about the old wooden box in the attic—the one I’d inherited from my grandfather. It had a tiny lock on the front, purely decorative, I’d always assumed. I’d never tried to open it. The box had been with me for decades, and I’d treated it like a keepsake without ever asking what it might actually keep.

The idea came to me gently, like a whisper: What if the key fits?

I laughed at myself. It was ridiculous. The box was probably empty. The lock probably didn’t even work. And what were the odds that a random key in the grass would match a lock from the 1940s?

But the thought wouldn’t leave me alone.

So I finished my coffee, slipped the key into my pocket, and headed inside. The attic was warm, dust motes swirling in the sunlight that filtered through the small window. I found the box on the shelf where it had always sat, quiet and unassuming.

I brought it down, set it on the table, and took a breath.

The key slid into the lock as if it had been waiting.

I turned it. A soft click echoed in the stillness.

Inside the box were letters—dozens of them—tied with a faded blue ribbon. The paper was yellowed, the handwriting elegant and looping. I recognized the signature immediately.

They were from my grandfather to my grandmother, written during the war.

I sat there for a long time, reading the first few lines of the top letter. His words were tender, hopeful, full of the kind of love that doesn’t fade even after the people who wrote it are gone. I felt something shift inside me—a sense of connection, of continuity, of being part of a story much larger than my own.

And all because of a key in the grass.

I still don’t know how it got there. Maybe it fell from a moving box years ago and only now worked its way to the surface. Maybe a neighbor dropped it without realizing. Or maybe—and this is the explanation I secretly like best—maybe the world has its own quiet ways of nudging us toward the things we’re meant to find.

Whatever the reason, that little key opened more than a box. It opened a window into the past, a reminder that the people who came before us still speak, still teach, still reach across time in unexpected ways.

A Grateful Start to the Week

I woke up this Monday morning, and at eighty-plus, that feels like a pretty good start. The chances of enjoying another day are still in my favor, and that’s something I don’t overlook anymore. Each sunrise brings with it a sense of hope and renewal, reminding me of the precious time I have left to savor life’s moments. The older I get, the more these simple mornings feel like small blessings—quiet, steady, and worth noticing. I often take a moment to appreciate the stillness of the house, the gentle sounds of nature outside my window, and the comforting aroma of my morning coffee brewing in the kitchen. These fleeting instances of peace allow me to reflect on my journey, celebrating not only the milestones but also the everyday joys that make life rich and meaningful.

Nothing fancy on the agenda today. Just a cup of coffee, a little sunlight sneaking through the blinds, and the familiar rhythm of another day beginning. At this stage of life, that’s more than enough to make me grateful.

Here’s to another Monday, another chance, and another day to appreciate the ordinary, to find beauty in the routine, and to embrace the little moments that often go unnoticed. It’s a fresh opportunity to set new goals, reconnect with our passions, and inspire those around us with positivity. As the week unfolds, let us celebrate the simplicity of everyday life, the laughter shared with friends, and the satisfaction of small achievements that accumulate and shape our journey.

Remembering Fathers

Father’s Day has a way of sneaking up quietly, without the big buildup that comes with other holidays. Maybe that’s fitting. Most dads I’ve known weren’t much for the spotlight anyway. They showed up in quieter ways—fixing things, steadying the ship, offering a ride, a hand, or a nudge in the right direction.

As the day rolls around, I find myself thinking less about grand gestures and more about the small moments that stick. A bit of advice that didn’t make sense until years later. A laugh shared over something that wasn’t all that funny. The way a father can say a lot without saying much at all.

Not everyone has the same story with their dad, and Father’s Day can stir up a mix of feelings. But maybe that’s the point of the day—to pause long enough to notice whatever shaped us, taught us, or stayed with us.

So here’s a gentle suggestion: take a moment today to remember a father, stepfather, grandfather, mentor, or any steady presence who helped you along the way. A quiet thank‑you, even unspoken, can go a long way.

Advancements in Cataract Surgery

Yesterday my wife had double cataract surgery, a significant procedure that marks a crucial point in her journey towards clearer vision. I had surgery myself in 2002 and again five years later in 2007, so I understand firsthand the emotional and physical aspects of the experience. In those 20 plus years, I have witnessed remarkable advancements in medical technology and techniques, which have improved not just the safety but also the effectiveness of the procedure. The changes in these two decades, including innovations in lens materials and surgical methods, have contributed to faster recovery times and better outcomes, giving us hope for a brighter future post-surgery.

When my procedures took place, I had a regiment of antibiotic eye drops starting 2 days before the procedure and continuing for 3 to 5 days after the procedure to ensure proper healing and to combat any potential infections. However, I recently learned that the current approach has shifted significantly; now, it seems they don’t act very concerned about eye infections at all. This change intrigued me, so I felt compelled to ask the medical team about the reasoning behind it. They explained that over time, their research and observations revealed that very few patients actually end up developing eye infections following the procedures. As a result, they determined that the routine use of prophylactic antibiotic eye drops could be eliminated, which not only streamlines patient care but also minimizes unnecessary medication usage. It’s fascinating how medical practices evolve based on emerging data and patient outcomes.

When mine was done, it was a strict no-no to perform surgery on both eyes at the same time, due to the potential risks and complications involved. Surgeons advised waiting for one eye to heal completely before addressing the other, as this cautious approach was deemed necessary to ensure the safety and effectiveness of the procedure. However, in recent years, advancements in medical technology have significantly changed this perspective. Now, they say that if the eyes are ripe for surgery or in urgent need of replacement, they frequently operate on both eyes simultaneously with increased confidence and without significant concerns. This shift in practice not only accelerates recovery time for patients but also enhances their overall visual outcomes, allowing many to return to their daily activities much quicker than before.

It is still an outpatient procedure, and the time takes around 4 hours, which allows patients to return home the same day without the need for an overnight hospital stay. Additionally, a follow-up appointment the next day is required to ensure everything is healing properly and to address any potential concerns. It is just amazing how the medical innovations have progressed, making such procedures safer and more efficient, ultimately improving patient outcomes and enhancing the overall experience for those undergoing treatment. Patients can feel more at ease knowing that advancements in technology and techniques have significantly reduced recovery time and minimized discomfort.

If you reach the age of 60 you will more than likely need cataract replacements sometime in your remaining years.

UPDATE: IN A FOLLOW UP VISIT, I FIND OUT THEY GIVE AN ANTIOBOTIC THROUGH AN I V DURING SURGERY.

Link to post of November 2023 blog

The Fragile Threads of Dreams

Audio PODCAST

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.

Understanding Flag Day

June 14th slips onto the calendar without the fanfare of the big summer holidays, but Flag Day has its own kind of quiet charm. It’s a day that asks us to pause—not for fireworks or parades, but for a simple moment of appreciation. The American flag has flown over our best days and our hardest ones, over front porches, schoolyards, stadiums, and small-town streets across the country.

For many of us who’ve lived our whole lives in the Denver Metro area, that flag has been a steady backdrop to decades of change. Today is a reminder that symbols matter because the people behind them matter. Neighbors, families, veterans, teachers, first responders, and all the everyday folks who keep this place moving forward.

So on this Flag Day, take a second look at the red, white, and blue waving in the warm June breeze. It’s not about politics—it’s about gratitude, history, and the shared story we’re still writing together.

Do You Remember This?

June 12, 1987, President Ronald Reagan famously told Mikhail Gorbachev to “tear down this wall” at the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin, a powerful declaration that resonated around the world and symbolized the growing desire for freedom and unity in a divided Europe. This iconic moment occurred during a significant period in the Cold War, when tensions were high and the Iron Curtain divided East and West. Reagan’s words urged the Soviet leader to take a bold step towards dismantling the barriers that separated families and friends, emphasizing the importance of liberty over oppression. As millions watched on television and gathered in the streets, this call to action not only inspired hope among those living under communist regimes but also marked a pivotal turning point in the struggle against tyranny, setting the stage for future changes in Eastern Europe.

Finding Joy in Everyday Moments

Some days don’t need fixing. They just need noticing. This Thursday feels like one of those days.

Maybe it’s the way the morning light shows up without any drama, or the quiet comfort of a familiar routine. Maybe it’s simply the reminder that we get another chance today—another cup of coffee, another laugh, another moment that surprises us in a good way.

There’s always at least one small good thing waiting to be found. A friendly wave. A memory that makes you grin. A breeze that carries the promise of summer. Pick one and let it lift you a little.

Surviving Monday Mornings

Good morning, readers.
If you’re reading this, congratulations—you’ve survived another Monday morning. That alone deserves a medal, or at least a second cup of coffee.

Mondays have a personality all their own. They don’t tiptoe in politely. No, they kick down the door like a sitcom neighbor and shout, “Rise and shine, sunshine!” while we’re still trying to remember our own names.

The alarm goes off, and suddenly the bed feels like the most comfortable place on earth. The dog looks at you like, “You’re getting up? Voluntarily?” The coffee maker sputters like it’s also questioning your life choices. And the to‑do list you wrote last night—when you were feeling optimistic and borderline delusional—now reads like a cruel prank.

But here’s the thing: Mondays are honest. They don’t pretend to be anything other than what they are—a slightly chaotic, mildly judgmental restart button. And once you get past the first ten minutes, they’re not so bad. You find your rhythm. You remember how to be a functioning human. You even start believing you might accomplish something today.

So here’s to Monday: the day that tests us, teases us, and occasionally trips us, but still gives us a fresh start whether we’re ready or not.

May your coffee be strong, your patience be long, and may you avoid replying‑all to anything before noon.

June 6, 1944

June 6, 1944, stands as one of the most consequential mornings in human history—a day when the course of World War II, and the world itself, shifted.

On the early morning of June 6, 1944, the Allies launched the largest combined naval, air, and land operation ever attempted. Codenamed Operation Overlord, it was the long‑awaited invasion of Nazi‑occupied France. In the dark hours before dawn, airborne troops dropped behind enemy lines to secure key positions, and at 6:30 a.m., the first waves of soldiers began landing on the five assault beaches: Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno, and Sword.

By the end of the day, roughly 156,000 Allied troops had come ashore, establishing a foothold that would grow into the liberation of Western Europe. The cost was staggering—thousands of Allied soldiers were killed facing the fortified German defenses—but the mission succeeded.

The images we remember—grainy photos of young men stepping into surf under fire—capture only a fraction of the courage it took. Those troops faced what seemed like an impossible task, yet they pressed forward, beach by beach, yard by yard.

D‑Day wasn’t just a battle. It was a turning point. A day when ordinary men performed extraordinary acts, and the world began its long march toward freedom.

Do they even teach about this anymore?

Why I Write: The Magic of Words

Audio Podcast 2 minutes

Good morning readers.

I’ve come to accept that I suffer from a lifelong case of diarrhea of the pen. Words just… happen. They spill out, tumble forward, and insist on being arranged into something—anything—before the day is done. Fourteen books on Amazon, nineteen magazines, and nearly five blog posts a week stand as evidence that whatever this condition is, it’s chronic and probably incurable.

And honestly, I hope it never gets cured.

I don’t write for money. I don’t write for bestseller lists. I don’t write because I think the world is waiting breathlessly for my next paragraph. I write because something in me feels more alive when the words are moving. I write because stories tap me on the shoulder like impatient children and say, “Well? Are you going to let me out or not?”

Most days, I simply give in and let them run.

My joy doesn’t come from sales charts or rankings. It comes from the quiet, human magic of knowing that someone—somewhere—read something I wrote and felt a spark. Maybe a smile. Maybe a memory. Maybe a moment of comfort. Maybe just the sense that they’re not walking this earth alone.

That’s enough for me. More than enough.

Writing has become my way of staying awake to the world. It keeps me curious. It keeps me grateful. It keeps me connected to people I may never meet but somehow still understand. Every sentence is a small bridge, and I’ve always loved building bridges.

So I’ll keep writing. Not because I’m chasing anything, but because this is who I am: a man who finds meaning in the steady rhythm of words, day after day, page after page. A man who knows that creating something—anything—is its own kind of success.

And if even one person reads it and feels a little lighter, a little seen, a little more connected, then every word was worth it.

Simple Joys and New Beginnings
Dirt trail through colorful wildflowers leading to a snow-covered mountain with sunset light

Good morning, readers.

June has a way of arriving without fanfare. No fireworks, no parades, no dramatic seasonal shift. It just steps onto the stage with a gentle clearing of the throat and says, “I’m here. Let’s begin.” And somehow, that’s enough.

Today is the unofficial start of the easy season—longer light, warmer mornings, and that subtle lift in the air that reminds us we’ve made it through another winter, another spring, another stretch of life’s unpredictable weather. June 1st is the doorway to the days we’ll remember later: the ones filled with iced tea, porch conversations, and the kind of evenings that linger long after the sun has technically set.

There’s a promise tucked inside this date. Not a loud one. More like a quiet invitation to slow down, look around, and let the small things count for more than they usually do. The first hummingbird at the feeder. The first tomato blossom. The first morning you step outside and realize you don’t need a jacket anymore.

June doesn’t demand anything from us. It simply offers itself—thirty days of warmth, light, and possibility. And on this first one, we get to choose how we’ll meet it.

So here’s to June 1st: a gentle beginning, a soft reset, a reminder that even halfway through the year, there’s still so much ahead worth leaning toward.

May today bring you something simple and good. May it feel like the start of something you didn’t know you needed.

What small thing is signaling “summer” to you this morning?

Why Fred the Fox is Our Beloved Local Celebrity

Audio Podcast 3 minutes

Good morning, readers. Let me tell you a little tale about Fred—the neighborhood fox who has, over time, become something of a local celebrity around here. Fred isn’t just any fox. He’s got personality. He’s got charm. And he walks these foothill streets like he’s the unofficial mayor of the block.

Fred first showed up a 4 summers ago, trotting down the sidewalk with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going. Tail high, ears perked, eyes bright—he had the look of a fox who had places to be and opinions about how quickly he should get there. The neighbors noticed him right away. You don’t ignore a fox who behaves like he owns the HOA.

Over time, Fred developed a routine. Every morning, just after sunrise, he’d make his rounds. He’d pause at the corner house where Mrs. Callahan leaves out a bowl of water. He’d sit for a moment in the shade of her lilac bush, as if reviewing the day’s agenda. Then he’d trot down the street, stopping occasionally to inspect a flower bed or stare curiously at a lawn ornament that hadn’t been there the day before. Fred likes to stay informed.

One of my favorite Fred moments happened last July. I was sitting on the porch with a cup of coffee when Fred strolled up the driveway like he had an appointment. He stopped at the bottom step, looked at me, and gave a single nod—as if to say, “Morning. Hot one today. Stay hydrated.” Then he continued on his way, leaving me with the distinct impression I’d just been given advice by a fox.

Adults adore him. Even the dogs seem to respect him. There’s something about Fred that brings out the best in everyone. Maybe it’s the way he moves—calm, unhurried, completely at ease in his own fur. Maybe it’s the reminder that even in a busy neighborhood, nature still wanders through, checking on us from time to time.

This year, as the hot days of summer settle in, Fred has adjusted his schedule. He’s a dawn‑and‑dusk fox now, avoiding the midday heat like a seasoned local. I saw him just yesterday, stretched out under the shade of a pine tree, looking for all the world like he was on vacation. If foxes could wear sunglasses, Fred would.

There’s something comforting about having him around. He reminds us to slow down, to pay attention, to enjoy the simple things—a cool patch of shade, a quiet morning, a familiar path. Fred doesn’t hurry. He doesn’t worry. He just lives, fully and confidently, right where he is.

And maybe that’s why we love him so much. Fred is a little piece of wildness, a little spark of joy, a reminder that even in a world full of noise, there’s still room for wonder.

Not a bit of truth to this tale

Why We Still Observe Daylight Saving Time

Good morning, readers. Recently in the news the conversation about eliminating the routine of Daylight-Saving Time every spring and fall. Here are my nickels worth.

Here we go again—Daylight Saving Time. That twice‑a‑year ritual where we all pretend moving the clock forward or backward somehow gives us more control over the sun. Every March and November, we do this little dance, and every time I find myself wondering who, exactly, we’re trying to fool. The sun certainly isn’t paying attention to our clocks. No matter what, there is only 24 hours in a day.

Still, there’s something almost ceremonial about it. The moment you change the time, you feel the shift. Mornings get brighter or darker, evenings stretch or shrink, and suddenly the rhythm of the day feels just a little off. It’s like someone nudged the world a half‑step sideways.

The funny thing is, everyone has an opinion about Daylight Saving Time. Some people love the longer evenings. Others grumble about losing an hour of sleep. And then there are those who swear their pets never recover from the disruption. (Honestly, I think the pets handle it better than we do.)

For me, the beginning of Daylight Saving Time always feels like a gentle nudge toward the warmer months. A reminder that summer is out there warming up in the bullpen. The days stretch a little longer, the light lingers a little later, and the foothills start to glow in that late‑day gold that makes you want to sit on the porch just a few minutes more.

But it also makes me think about time itself—how we measure it, how we chase it, how we try to control it even though it moves with or without our permission. Maybe that’s why this little clock‑changing ritual feels so human. We’re trying to shape the day to fit our lives, even if only by an hour.

President Franklin D. Roosevelt instituted year-round “War Time” DST from February 9, 1942, to September 30, 1945, for energy conservation and it has been around since. Just because of the simple fact that there are only 24 hours in the day I could never understand or agree with Daylight Savings Time.


How do you feel about Daylight Saving Time? Love it, hate it, or just tolerate it?
Share your thoughts below—I always enjoy hearing how others navigate this twice‑a‑year shuffle.

Summer Beauty Amidst Water Rationing Challenges

Good morning, readers. Step outside and you can feel it already—the beginning of the hot days of summer. Not the polite warmth of late spring, but the full‑throated heat that settles in like a long‑term houseguest. The kind that makes the sidewalks shimmer, the kind that sends dogs straight to the shade, the kind that reminds us we live in the West, where summer doesn’t ask permission before it arrives.

This year, though, the heat comes with a companion: water rationing. It’s not unexpected—we’ve seen the signs for years—but it still feels strange to be told how much water we can use, as if we’re all suddenly sharing the same canteen on a long hike. And in a way, we are.

The foothills look a little drier than usual, the grass a little more sun‑bleached, the air a little more eager to steal moisture from anything that stands still too long. Even the birds seem to be pacing themselves, conserving energy the way we’ll soon be conserving water.

But here’s the thing: summer has always asked us to adjust. We slow down. We drink more. We find shade. We learn to live with the heat instead of fighting it. Water rationing is just another version of that same old dance—an invitation to be mindful, to use what we have with a little more intention.

And honestly, there’s something almost communal about it. We’re all in this together, every household doing its part. You can feel it in the neighborhood: shorter showers, fewer sprinklers running, more conversations about how to keep the tomatoes alive without breaking the rules. It’s a shared challenge, and shared challenges have a way of bringing people closer.

The hot days of summer also bring their own kind of beauty. Long evenings that stretch lazily toward dusk. Sunsets that look like someone spilled a box of crayons across the sky. The smell of warm pine drifting down from the hills. The simple pleasure of a cold drink on a shaded porch. Summer reminds us that even in scarcity, there is abundance—if we know where to look.

So as the heat settles in and the rationing begins, maybe this is our chance to practice gratitude in small, practical ways. To appreciate the water we do have. To notice the resilience of the land around us. To remember that living here has always meant adapting, adjusting, and finding joy in the middle of challenge.

And now I’m curious—how are you planning to handle the hot days ahead? Any tricks for staying cool or conserving water that you’ve learned over the years? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Memorial Day Reflections

On this Memorial Day, we pause to honor the men and women who gave their lives in service to our country—ordinary people who showed extraordinary courage. Their sacrifice is woven into the freedoms we enjoy every day, often without thinking. Today is not about politics or division; it’s about gratitude, remembrance, and the quiet weight of knowing that others stood in harm’s way so we could stand here in peace. May we carry their legacy forward with humility, kindness, and a renewed commitment to the values they fought to protect.

As we honor this Memorial Day, Do you have a family member, friend, or story that comes to mind on a day like this? Your reflections—whether a memory, a name, or simply a feeling—help keep the spirit of this day alive. If you’re comfortable, share a thought below so we can remember together.

Embracing Clarity and Humor at Eighty Plus

Hello readers, let me tell you something I’ve learned about living past eighty.
It’s not what I expected. In fact, it’s better.

When you cross that eighty‑year mark, life starts to feel like a bonus chapter the publisher forgot to mention. You turn the page thinking the story is winding down, and suddenly—surprise—there’s more. And not filler material either. Good stuff. Rich stuff. The kind of pages you read slowly because you finally understand there’s no need to rush.

At this age, mornings feel different. The light comes in softer, almost like it’s checking on you. Coffee tastes better because you’re not gulping it on your way to somewhere else. Even the rain—those long, steady Colorado rains in the last couple of days—feels less like weather and more like company.

One of the great joys of being over eighty is that the small things become the big things.
A comfortable chair.
A neighbor waving from across the street.
The foothills changing color as the day moves along.
A good conversation.
A quiet house.
A warm jacket that still fits.

You stop apologizing for enjoying these things. You’ve earned them.

And let me tell you—perspective becomes your superpower. You’ve lived through enough storms to know that most of them pass. You’ve seen the world spin through cycles of anger, hope, confusion, renewal. You’ve learned that people are more alike than they admit, and that kindness still works, even when the world forgets it for a while.

There’s also a certain humor that comes with being this age. You misplace your glasses only to find them on your head. You walk into a room and forget why you’re there, but you stay anyway because the room is comfortable. You catch yourself saying things your grandparents once said—and now you finally understand why they said them.

But the best part, the part I wouldn’t trade for anything, is the clarity.
You know what matters.
You know what doesn’t.
You know which people deserve your time and which worries don’t.
You know that memories are treasures, not burdens.
And you know that love—given freely, received gratefully—is the real currency of a life well lived.

Living past eighty isn’t the end of the story.
It’s the chapter where the writing gets deeper, the humor gets warmer, and the gratitude gets louder.

And every morning you wake up, you realize something simple and beautiful:
You’re still here.
Still learning.
Still noticing.
Still becoming.

Thank you for visiting my website

Rainy Days May Inspire Our Best Thoughts

The rain had been falling for three days straight, the kind of steady, unhurried rain that didn’t bother with theatrics. No thunder, no lightning—just a soft percussion on the roof, like someone drumming their fingers while thinking of what to say next. By the third morning, the foothills were wrapped in a gray shawl, and the whole neighborhood seemed to be speaking in whispers.

Stan stood at the front door with a mug of coffee that had gone lukewarm while he wasn’t paying attention. He liked days like this. Rainy days slowed the world down to his preferred speed. They made it easier to notice things: the way the street glistened like polished stone, the way the pine trees bowed slightly under the weight of the water, the way the air smelled like wet earth and memory.

He decided to take a walk.

Not a purposeful walk. Not the kind where you count steps or aim for a destination. Just a meander, the kind of wandering that rainy days practically insist upon. He grabbed his old canvas jacket—the one with the frayed cuffs and the pocket that always caught loose threads—and stepped outside.

The rain greeted him like an old friend.

It wasn’t cold, just cool enough to remind him he was alive. Puddles gathered along the curb, each one holding a tiny, trembling version of the sky. He stepped around them at first, then through them, because there are moments in life when you’re allowed to be eight years old again.

A few blocks down, he passed Mrs. Shaw’s house. She was on her porch, wrapped in a quilt, watching the rain as if it were a movie she’d seen a hundred times but still loved. She waved. He waved back. No words needed. Rainy days have their own language.

He kept walking until he reached the small park tucked between two streets. The swings were empty, gently swaying as if someone had just hopped off. The picnic tables were dark with water, and the grass looked greener than it had in months. He sat on the bench under the big cottonwood tree, the one that had stood there longer than most of the houses.

The rain softened. The world smelled like renewal.

Stan closed his eyes and listened. Not just to the rain, but to everything beneath it—the distant hum of a car, the soft rustle of leaves, the quiet thump of his own heartbeat. It felt like the world was reminding him of something simple and important: that life doesn’t always need to be chased. Sometimes it just needs to be noticed.

When he finally stood to head home, he felt lighter. Not because anything had changed, but because rainy days have a way of rinsing off the noise, we didn’t realize we were carrying.

Back at his desk, he opened his laptop, rain still tapping the window beside him. He began to write—not because he had to, but because rainy days make good stories, and someone ought to catch them before they slip away.