Just a Note

Most of us have Internet and e-mail accounts, and we use them for our primary communications. Many of us pay our bills online, or shop online or just say hi online. And we’ve migrated from computers to laptops and now to smart phones.

Technology is great. What is now reality was just a few short years ago only in someone’s imagination.

Along the way, a key piece of communication has been lost … the written note. Simple thank yous, family updates, friendship notes and, unfortunately, even some birthday or anniversary greetings make their rounds electronically rather than by old fashioned, hand written snail mail.

I’m not faulting anyone and, in fact, have used the electronic media to communicate myself. But I do miss the excitement of going to the mailbox and finding a note instead of the daily deluge of bills and junk mail. You can’t wait to get inside to read it.

I have a very special friend who has mastered the personalized note. Often I will get a thank you for doing what friends do, always hand written. It tells me she took the time to think about me. It’s a boost to my self-worth.

I try to send cards periodically to my family and special friends. I , want them to know I am thinking about them, give them some encouragement, cheer them up. And every week, I send out a postcard to my family and special friends with a cartoon {one of these posts I’ll tell you the story about cartoons} and a little nugget of homespun truth. The cartoon is above, the quote was from C.S. Lewis, “There are only two kinds of people in the end: those who say to God, ’Thy will be done,’ and those to whom God says, in the end, ‘Thy will be done.’”

My challenge for you is to pick out someone special this week and send them a hand-written note … just to let them know you’re thinking about them. It will cost you 45 cents, but it will be worth a fortune to the recipient.

THOUGHT TO REMEMBER: Keep your lid on.

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Seasonal Transition

I had the opportunity for some R & R over the Labor Day weekend. A special friend invited me to her camp in the Catskills. The weekend was interrupted by a burned out water pump, but thanks to friends and rural work ethics, even on a Saturday morning of a holiday weekend, the inconvenience was just a few hours. And it ended with good company, needed rest and plenty of relaxation.

I was sitting on the front porch, soaking in the sounds of silence, interrupted only by the occasional rush of the dogs to play with the squirrels or other animals. I watched as the still-green leaves starting their migration from limb to ground. As the sun started setting, the temperature started dropping. It wasn’t a fall chill, but a marked change from summer. On the way back home, you could see tinges of red, gold and yellow on the horizon.

Yeah. We’re in seasonal transition.

I like having four seasons. Winter white is my favorite and the transitional seasons of colorful fall and awaking spring aren’t far behind. Summer gives us extra hours of sunlight.

What about you? Do your like the four seasons? Which is your favorite season?

THOUGHT TO REMEMBER: When you allow what someone says or does to upset you, you’re allowing that person to control you.

 

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“Conversations” with God

Have you ever been really angry with God? I mean, arguing with Him angry?

I have. Many times. And I’ve always felt guilty afterwards.

But I’m beginning to think that’s wrong. I think it’s

A) normal

B) necessary

C) expected by God.

If you believe Scripture, Jacob wrestled with God, Abraham, Moses, David, Elijah, Hezekiah, Jeremiah, Job, Jonah, Lot and Solomon and a whole lot of others had their moments with the Lord. The apostles never quite understood who Jesus was and, I suspect, had some lively conversations with Him. When guards came to arrest Jesus, Peter defied His Master and cut off the ear of the high priest’s slave. Judas betrayed Him.

Even mild mannered Jesus displayed moments of anger, bias and questioning. Remember the scene at the Temple? Remember when He was at the wedding at Cana? Or his words to the Gentile woman in Tyre who wanted Him to heal her daughter? (Mark 7:24-30). Jesus first dismissed her and referred to her as a “dog” — a derisive term in the Middle East. Let the children [the Jews] be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs [the Gentiles]. But she answered Him, “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” Then He said to her, “For saying that, you may go — the demon has left your daughter.” Remember the agony in Gethsemane? His words on the cross, My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me, which is also, by the way, a quote from David in Psalm 22?

The point is sometimes we have to plead out case before the Lord. We have to let out the hurt and the anger and the disappointment and the fear so we can let in the grace of God.

It may be unconventional, but it is — in its purest sense — prayer.

I’m not suggesting we argue with God. But I do suggest we have an intimate conversation with Him with no limits, so we can recognize a power much greater than our own.

Amen,

THOUGHT TO REMEMBER: We can’t control all our circumstances, but we can control our reactions.

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9/11

For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. — 1 Corinthians 1:18

I remember the day well, etched in my memory. Karen and I had just finished our morning coffee and shared our plans for the day. It was a Tuesday, production day, so my tasks were simple — write, re-write, edit and paginate the latest issue of the Reveille/Between the Lakes, a routine that would consume most of the day and night and into the wee hours of the next morning. Karen had a date with the dust mop and vacuum. Cleaning and polishing was on her agenda.

For some reason, I had to go upstairs. As I rumbled back down, I was expecting to hear Bon Jovi or DirecTV’s Malt Shop Oldies blaring, but instead caught Karen staring at the television, her coffee cup pressed to her mouth but not drinking.

“What’s wrong, hon?” I asked, and without moving a muscle she told me a plane had just crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers in New York City. We just stood there in disbelief, trying along with the rest of the world to figure out just what was happening that fateful morning 11 years ago. I managed to get the coffee cup away from her, and we hugged as we watched the smoke plume around the building. Just after 9 a.m. — about 10 minutes into our viewing — a second plane crashed into the south face of the south tower. We both gasped at the sight and just held each other tight through tear-filled eyes. We knew right then and there, one plane could have been an accident, but not two. Terrorism had hit our shore. This was our Dec. 7, our “day of infamy.”

In quick succession reports came in about a third plane crashing into the Pentagon, quick evacuations of federal buildings in Washington and a fourth plane down in the Pennsylvania countryside southeast of Pittsburgh.

The day was surreal. County and municipal buildings closed shortly after federal and state building were ordered shut down. A primary election was postponed. The two prisons in our county shifted to a higher level of security with armed guards at the entrances. Schools cancelled after-school activities. Businesses closed early. Churches opened for public and private prayer services. Evening meetings were cancelled.

I managed to get a paper out that week, but each time I passed the television I stopped for an update and a hug. Karen didn’t do any housework.

Friday, the National Day of Remembrance, Karen and I attended a noontime service. As the bell tolled at United Methodist Church of Waterloo, we held hands with friends and strangers. One of those former strangers, Jan Marquart, summed it best by saying the key now was “to pray … and trust in God.” She added, “We have to give what we can and learn to love one another again.”

Over those few days, there were no Democrats or Republicans, no conservatives or liberals, no blacks or whites, no gays or straights … just Americans reeling from a gut punch.

I can’t say I knew any of the victims in New York, Washington or Pennsylvania or their families. But I do know there were many reports of victims calling family members that morning to say “I love you” one last time. This morning, I made sure to tell my family and closest friends I loved them. It’s a habit we should get into … every day.

The sobering aftermath of the events of 11 years ago is the realization every day could be our last, so we must make every day count. Live and love like today is all you have, because some day it will be.

As Ron Hutchraft stated on this day, “Be ready for eternity whenever it comes. More than anything, I think that’s what screamed — and still screams — to me from the rubble of Ground Zero. We just can’t count on tomorrow.”

Which brings me to Paul’s comment to the Corinthians. The simple sentence was part of Sunday’s reading. I knew it had to be shared … at the time I didn’t know how. In the aftermath of the terrorist attack, many of us — Karen and I included — sought comfort with our God. To unbelievers, that’s just foolishness … but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.

We have to use that power, not silently, but as a witness to show our friends and relatives what we know about what Jesus did on the cross for us and for them. Give them a chance to live — forever.

THOUGHT TO REMEMBER: You cannot give God thanks and stay down and discouraged.

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Going home

There are those who say you can never go home again. And there is another school of thought that insists you can always go home. I say, there is a little truth in both contradictory statements.

You truly can’t go home again after the homestead is sold. But home isn’t necessarily a house … it’s an area, a neighborhood, comfortable surroundings. And you can always go back to those memories.

For me, “home” is northern New Jersey. I grew up in Paterson and one of its suburbs, Totowa. After we got married, Karen and I first lived in East Paterson, Paterson and Ogdensburg up in Sussex County. While we moved to Belvidere, IL, Toledo, OH, Laurel, MD (Howard County side) and Seneca Falls and Romulus, NY, we both always considered northern New Jersey our “home.” We were comfortable there.

Yes, over the many, many years, the landscape has changed in northern New Jersey. My elementary and high schools are closed. My first place of employment has new residents. Even some of the cities have changed names (East Paterson is now Elmwood Park and West Paterson is now Woodland Park). South Paterson morphed from an Italian neighborhood to an Arab neighborhood with the aroma of falafel and kebabs replacing bacala and home made pasta sauce.

Still, when I get the chance, I love heading down to New Jersey. I never get lost and I never get intimidated by the cultures. I grew up there. I’m comfortable.

I always make sure I stop at the Paterson Falls … sometimes a trickle and sometimes thundering. I generally stop at Falls View for two dogs all the way and Frenchies well done, washed down with birch beer. White Castle is often another stop, and Pizza Town USA is a must. I love wandering through Pathmark and perhaps picking up a couple of rolls of Taylor’s Ham. If I’m in an Italian mood, it’s Corrado’s. And I try to pay my respects to my mom and dad and grandparents, although they are scattered in three different cemeteries.

If I want to get back to my center, though, I have to go to the Jersey shore. I prefer this time of year when the crowds are thinned. I could walk for hours along the ocean shoreline — and have. I am completely mesmerized by the ebb and flow of the tides. It’s my quiet place. It’s where I re-connect with God. It’s where I come to peace with myself.

Less than a month after Karen died, I found myself at the Jersey shore. We — me in the flesh and Karen in her urn — drove down to watch the sun rise over the ocean. I needed that to help me start healing.

I still do. If I’m really getting overwhelmed, I’ll head down to the Jersey shore, sometimes for just a couple of hours. As I breathe in the salty air, I can literally feel the anxiety ebb. As I watch the birds play in the surf, all my cares are lifted. When I walk down the pier into Barnegat Bay, I’m in a different place … and it carries over for days and weeks.

And there is always the bonus of the best sausage and peppers sandwiches in the world!

Where is your special place?

THOUGHT TO REMEMBER: Get up in the morning and have a song of praise in your heart.

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The Color of Rain

This review I wrote first appeared in the Reveille/Between the Lakes

I’m not sure I qualify as a book reviewer. In truth, I don’t read a lot of books. I mean I read a lot, but I think the last book I actually read cover to cover was Nicholas Nickleby and other Charles Dickens tomes back in college for senior research.

But, not only did I read The Color of Rain by Michael and Gina Spehn, I looked forward to spending time curled up in my chair under the blanket soaking in their story.

I was introduced to the Spehns through the Huckabee television show and became intrigued by their story. In sum, it was how two families found faith, hope and love in the midst of tragedy.

To briefly recap, then Gina Kell lost her husband Matt after a two-plus year battle with leiomyosarcoma on a late Christmas night. He not only left Gina, but two young boys as well. Michael Spehn lost his wife Cathy just two months later. What started as intermittent headaches became more frequent and more painful as the days dawned and in just 16 days she succumbed to a fast-growing mass – glioblastoma multiforme, GMB – in a “very bad part” of her brain. She left Michael, a daughter and two boys.

The meat of the story, of course, is how these two people came to know each other, share their grief and grow into a Brady-esque blended family. It was that hope – that moving on – I zeroed in on when I thought about reading the book.

Matt and Cathy had been high school classmates, but Gina and Michael did not know each other and, until Cathy’s funeral, had never met. However, they both had their respective spouse’s permission to grieve for awhile, then move on. Matt told Gina on that Christmas Eve, “When I’m gone, I want you to find a good Christian man and marry him” and despite protestations from his wife, added, “I just want you to know it’s okay.” Just hours before passing from this existence to the next, Cathy, out of the blue, told Michael, “Call Gina Kell. She has two boys and they will need to learn basketball. You’re a coach, you can help them.” Again despite protestations from Michael, she opened her eyes and squeezed his hand. “Call Gina Kell. She’ll help you, too.”

The skeptics might believe these deathbed conversations were just asides and the blending of the Kell and Spehn families were a culmination of isolated events that just came together. The believers know better. The conversations were part of God’s plan – as painful as it was – to bring these families together and find the hope and love they lost through the faith they had.

Gina summed up the book near the end.

“… Like everything else in life, that which is visible to the world is only part of the story. The lessons of our history, and the promises and permissions for our future, are what impel the unseen current that runs beneath the surface, moving us along through life.

“Everything we had done to arrive at this day [Michael and Gina’s wedding] was motivated by our appreciation for what had been given, and for what had been taken away. We had found the peace that lives in the space between grief and celebration. There was no explaining it, but one thing was certain. Our faith told us that without suffering and loss, we would never come to know such peace.”

I must say the format was a little disconcerting. Michael and Gina took turns writing chapters in the book … more like reflective vignettes on a theme. The problem was they weren’t always on the same theme. They were at different places in their lives, they were at different stages in their struggle, they were at different times in their grieving. So, I understand why they wrote it the way they did, and how valuable it was in providing background and insight into what they were experiencing.

Still, it might have been effective if they talked about common connections, especially after their love started swelling. Things like the first dinner Gina made at Michael’s, their first date and even their wedding preparations were given generally only from Gina’s perspective. It would have been interesting to hear Michael’s take on those topics.

I wouldn’t recommend this book to the newly widowed. In fact, even after three-plus years, its intensity and graphic description of preparing for death, dying and dealing with grief often ripped open scarred-over wounds for me and made them raw again.

But, if you can insulate yourself, the book makes for a fascinating read … one that brings you directly into the world of Gina and Michael Spehn through a prism of their words, your mind and both their and your experiences.

It also gives insight into the numbness, invisibility, pain and vulnerabilities faced after the loss of a spouse. You can feel the quiet in a crowded room and hear the deafening wails in solitude. You can experience the triteness of words spoken when, really, there aren’t words to be said. You are a part of the roller coaster and irrationality of emotions. And you can see the hand of God in every thing … even loss

As Michael tells it, “Love is not simply a gift from God; it is, in fact, the fundamental nature of God. God is love. And, like love, he can’t be ‘figured out.’ He must be experienced. I don’t know anyone who has love all figured out. You can read books about it, sing songs about it, write poetry and dream dreams about it. In the end, you can only really know love through the experience of love itself.

“It’s the same with God. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to figure him out. I’ve read his book and I’ve sung his songs. I’ve recited his Psalms and imagined his heavenly home. In the end, I never really knew him until I experienced him. I experienced him on those trips to Barrington with my dad and diagramming game-winning buzzer beaters as head coach. I’ve seen evidence of him waiting for me at the end of the wedding aisle and at the bedside up on 8-South. The experience of God is a sometimes glorious, sometimes painful one. But it is always right. Abundant with rainstorms and rainbows, wedding bells and funeral hymns, it always leads toward love. Our job is to remain open to the love that is revealed.

“That can be hard to do when you experience loss. The death of a loved one creates profound grief. However, grief is meant to be an emotion, a transient reaction to the tragic circumstance of loss. It can actually be an extremely healthy experience. Grief honors your relationship with those you have lost and allows survivors to give expression to the unspeakable pain they feel.”

Through these pages, the Spehns allow you, the reader, to become part of and enriched by their lives. What more could a writer ask for?

The Spehns began New Day Foundation for Families (www.michaelandgina.com), a 501(c)(3) dedicated to bringing understanding and hope to the families of children who suffer the devastating loss of a parent to cancer. Michael and Gina Spehn also host Your Family Matters on WLQV AM 1500 Detroit, MI, every Saturday morning at 9 a.m. and streamed live at www.FaithTalk1500.com.

 

The Color of Rain: How Two Families Found Faith, Hope and Love in the Midst of Pain,

Michael and Gina Spehn, Zondervan, Grand Rapids, MI. 280 pages. ISBN 978-0-310-33197-1 (hard cover) Also available as a Zondervan ebook and audio edition

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Pepperoni Dreams

Do you dream? I mean, vivid, right there in the action dream?

I do … especially after eating sausage or stick pepperoni, good old greasy sausage or pepperoni with just that right ingredient that triggers the emotions, ideas, images and sensations. I don’t know what that ingredient is … but I sure would.

I don’t generally get nightmares. In fact, I can’t remember ever having a true nightmare, even when I’m in a dark mood. I do, occasionally, have some disturbing dreams. But I wouldn’t say my dreams migrate toward the horror genre; they are more action-adventure with a touch of comedy thrown in.

I would also have to say the tone of my dreams have changed. When I was younger, I was right there in the action, battling dragons or ne’er-do-wells or chasing bad guys. There was a time a spandex clad Joe (I told you there was comedy thrown in) jumped from building to building and down hallways chasing the scoundrels without benefit of a cape or spidy aids or witty sidekick. Now, I’m more sedentary, generally a spectator watching somebody else (my avatar?) do the chasing. Hey, it works for me!

But a couple months ago I must have had some good pepperoni! I had one of those dreams that just stuck with me.

In short, apparently I was an angel flying with someone. I presume it was my wife Karen … but I never saw my flying, silent partner. I was just holding a hand. We were flying over New York City and I answered an imaginary question with something like, “We can eat anywhere?” Then I start diving down toward an outdoor café and reached out and grabbed food off a plate of one of the diners. I came up with a handful of string beans, to which I say, “You’ve got to be kidding! String beans? String beans? I need a lot of practice with this!”

{Laughter in heaven}

We head back above the buildings and seem to lock in on the World Trade Towers which were still in smoke. As we fly toward the towers, buildings and bridges start unfolding like a puzzle. It was like New York City was being built in a puzzle-like diorama. Just before we reach the towers I woke up.

With my eyes wide open, I realized time was affected in this otherworld realm. It was just a stupid nonsensical dream, but it got me to thinking. What was is and what is was and will be … all at the same time.

That’s pretty much my vision of God as well … Alpha and Omega … beginning and end … was, is and will be. And I get to share that mystery some day … time … what’s the right word? Pretty deep, huh?

It also got me thinking if I end up an angel who can fly and flitter wherever I want, I really, really need some practice. I have to go after that steak and potatoes, not the string beans!

What about you? Do you have any weird dreams you would like to share?

THOUGHT TO REMEMBER: We have what we need to be happy. We just don’t always have the right perspective.

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Political swear jar

The political conventions are over (thank you, Jesus — can I get an Amen??) and its time to settle in on something important … football.

Okay, we still have some more political posturing to go through. And we do have an important assignment ahead of us — VOTING. It is not only our right, but also our responsibility.

This is another crucial election, not only for president/vice president, but also on the congressional level, state level and, in some cases, local level. This is our turn to look at the candidates and see how their views, values and policies match with ours.

I’m not going to suggest who you should vote for. That’s the beauty of American politics, the decision on who to vote for is strictly ours and it shouldn’t be taken lightly.

This post has a different slant. I hope the tone of especially the presidential race over the next two months takes a sharp, more civil turn. And I do have a suggestion or two.

We all know about the swear jar — the little jar that collects our pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters and even folding cash when we say something, well, really off color.

I suggest a political equivalent of a swear jar, although I’m recommending we forget about the paltry change and stick to the folding cash. It works something like this …

Every time a candidate or one of their surrogates of either stripe talks about his opponent, it’s a buck in the jar. If the smear is unnecessary, it’s five bucks. If it’s egregious, that’s $10. And if it comes from a PAC, let’s toss in $100. Each time.

I don’t know about you, but I cringe every time I hear a politician say “Our friends on the other side of the aisle.” That’s a buck. Point out your opponent’s flaws … $5. Inferring he is a felon or not an American by birth … well that’s going to cost you $10. Just on principal, PACs should contribute $100.

I don’t want to hear about Romney’s tax returns or Obama’s lack of business experience … especially from their opponents. I want to know what THEY ARE GOING TO DO. I want to know what their plans are. I don’t care about the past. There is enough blame to go around on both sides of the aisle. I want to know how we are going to move forward … in detail … without reference to their opponents.

My second suggestion is to turn over proceeds from this swear jar back into the general fund. The way things are going right now, if we adopt this simple little plan, we can retire the national debt, probably by Election Day!

And, by the way, this little tax would impact both Obama and Romney, both 1% ers, and leave us middle classers alone. Sounds like a win-win to me. What do you think?

THOUGHT TO REMEMBER: It’s amazing what a few kind words can do.

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Mad Max

I either have the most mellow cat in the world or the dumbest cat in the world. Well, Max is not really my cat. I inherited him from my mother-in-law, daughter and grandson. And he stays outside all the time, making himself a comfortable abode under my back porch which keeps him cool in the summer, warm in the winter and dry when the rains and snows come. He doesn’t seem to mind … and neither do my allergies.

We have an arrangement. While the coffee is brewing, I poke out the back door with cat food in hand. Wherever he is, his little paws race to the porch. If I’m late, he’ll be there at the back door waiting.

Max is not a gobbler. He is a nibbler. Generally he’ll nibble until I head out to the gazebo, then take a break to follow me there. He’ll jump up on the wicker chair and just sit there while I eat my breakfast and drink my coffee. When I get up, he jumps down and walks back along the path to the back porch to nibble some more … at his own pace, which is generally a lot slower than mine.

But that’s not the story. The other morning, Max left his food, jumped up on the wicker chair and watched as another cat went up on the back porch for a few kernels of food. I looked at Max and said, “Max! Look at that!” He looked at me and then at the other cat, but just sat there. I shooed the cat away.

That wasn’t the first time I saw Max in inaction. Earlier this summer when I came home, there was Max sitting on the back porch watching — yes, watching — a squirrel eat his food!

But the other morning watching Max do nothing, it struck me he has it right. Even though he is a good mouser, he would rather wait on me for sustenance. He looks for me and seeks me out when I’m late. He follows me around like a — sorry — puppy dog. In a sense, I am his god. He knows I will take care of him … even if I’m not a cat person.

Well, we have a real God who is willing and able to take care of our needs. Yeah, sometimes it seems we’re on this journey alone, but we’re not. We seem to get by one day at a time. Some call it happenstance … I call providential guidance.

Max realizes he has enough — not from his own work — yet he is more than willing to share. Are we?

THOUGHT TO REMEMBER: We have to realize every day is a gift from God.

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Music Appreciation

I can’t tell the difference between a sharp and a flat. Riffs and bridges have other meanings not associated with music. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. And I have no idea what all those squiggly lines mean in songbooks.

But I do love music … the sound of it, the melody and even, sometimes, the words. I always have, dating back to those days of the transistor and AM only stations. It was/is a way of soothing me, even the loud music of my youth. And I generally play/played it loud enough to scare critters off the road or let people know I am arriving.

I don’t like all music – jazz, opera, hip-hop and rap come to mind – but I think I have a melodic palate that includes Christian to Adult Contemporary, Southern Gospel to Oldies/Classics, Country to Classical. Thanks to ontheradio.net,  on any given day, you can hear Third Day, Katy Perry, Gold City, Diana Ross and the Supremes, Carrie Underwood or the London Philharmonic Orchestra playing Beethoven’s Concerto No. 4 in G Minor coming out of my computer speakers at work and even overnight. And thanks to my
SmartPhone apps like I Heart Radio, Pandora, radioPup and TuneIn Radio, and a Wagner Sleek signal booster, my enjoyment extends to my car.

The twist to all this is I’m not “restricted” to area broadcasts. I can – and do – listen to stations from around the nation. I mix and match genres. For example, I’ve been listening my way alphabetically in the aforementioned genres across the country and, ironically, am currently locked into New York stations.

The listening experiment has given me a new appreciation of the diversity of the country as well as its uniformity. Many stations use “canned” content, but just as many have
original content streaming. I prefer the latter over, say I Heart Radio, NPR or K-LOVE, which “switch” to their own advertising over the local station.

I like listening to the local news … even if I don’t know the neighborhood. The issues tend to be the same, but the inflection gives a clue to what triggers the audience. For example, in the Midwest, you can’t have a news break without a farm report. Urban news is so different from rural reports.

I didn’t particularly care for Hawaii’s radio choices, but I was fascinated by Alaska. I heard
local reports of the primaries in both Iowa and Michigan (a different take from national coverage). I heard an ad for a bar/restaurant in Junction City, KS, Karen and I actually ate at! (You just can’t forget anything about Junction City.) I re-lived connections in Illinois,
Maine, Maryland and New Jersey and can’t wait to “revisit” Ohio.

I was part of a tornado watch that turned into a warning in Mississippi, and “cooled off” listening to weather forecasts of “four more days of 100 degree temperatures” in Nebraska while battling with 90s here. Last winter in Fairbanks, AK, I was impressed with the calm report “we might actually see a plus temperature today with little wind.”

My favorite anecdote – also from Alaska – was a call in. The caller said a guy was emptying a van on the highway – television, furniture, etc., – apparently after an argument with his female traveling companion. After the station played a song, the caller called back to report. “Forget about the big screen TV. Somebody took it.”

Kids, close your eyes and stop reading. I have to admit I failed my college music appreciation class (actually, I think it was an incomplete). I couldn’t tell the difference between Bach and Beethoven and those sharps and flats and riffs and bridges things had something to do with it. But it was probably more because I missed at least half my classes. It was scheduled at 4 p.m. on Fridays – well after my last getaway class of the day that wrapped up at 11 a.m.

However, I always went on the field trips. Going to school in Manhattan, Broadway shows, concerts and recitals were available at little or no cost. I almost always took a date (mostly Karen) so it served a double purpose!

As I look back, I did indeed fail music appreciation … but I learned how to appreciate music.

THOUGHT TO REMEMBER: No one has yet invented a good substitute for good nature.

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