Characters welcome....

One is happy to visit the city when the city begins to only represent a name. By that time, you need to get out there and be amongst the rest of humanity……just rolling along ……taking it all in….and giving something back.


I'm gonna inject your soul with some sweet rock 'n roll
And shoot you full of rhythm and blues………jt

The thing is that no matter when or where you merge into Chicago…..or submerge, or reemerge, it always graces you with its people. Yeah, the cities buildings getcha, and the side alleys scareya…..but the people, yeah the people really thrillya.

The adrenaline following a Cubs win is infectious, but like recently, a loss can set a slightly more somber tone, and open the hidden wounds we all share.

You can sit tight and observe--no foul. Or you can speak up and engage; anywhere, anytime, and you will get a response. And that response will make you laugh, cry, or beg for more. This of course is because the city attracts all the needs and wants of the wide spectrum. And it is from this kaleidoscope that we reaffirm ourselves as human. Off comes the customary masks and we become just one of the many characters…..always welcome in the city.


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On a path to tomorrow.......

Everyone has a different path to follow. When he spent time for eggs and toast in a small diner in Hopkinton, the town where the Boston Marathon has commenced for the previous 114 years, he sensed an excitement in the air, as well as some apprehension.

On this morning the town resembled a small rural hamlet inhabited by quiet folks, mostly older, who wished to simply enjoy this day first, before the world descended on them  the following morning. The transition was amazing, and the eggs and coffee weren’t bad either.

Not everyone gravitates to the chaos of human spectacle. Most do understandably, but some just stay the course, walking the track that got them there and which leads them further along their path to tomorrow.




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Remind us again about "Freedom".......

He kept fading in and out of the right mindset for such an experience. With a Starbucks in hand he walked across the dark field that would soon be the battlefield. After all…..the Brits were in fact coming.

Clearly a David and Goliath sort of event, as the well trained British were sent to maintain their control over the new lands and the quickly changing citizenry. Yes this rag tag militia was comprised of farmers who were fed up with control from across the pond. This was clearly the early stages of insurgency and terrorism.

Amazing what a quick relearn of our founding ways will remind us of who we really are as a people, and more importantly, what this concept of freedom really embraces.

By coincidence, the author of a new read titled “Eaarth” (with two a’s) was born and raised in New England and includes a brief chapter on these moments in our national history. Of particular interest is how it relates to our current dilemma regarding our national identity, and the exhaustion of our current over consumptive and destructive patterns as citizens of this planet.


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Rock, soil, and water....

It is difficult to imagine for some reason what it would take for the majority of us to engage in manual labor during our waking hours. We, of course, have become accustomed to a more leisurely gate, using our minds and our pocketbooks to direct the muscle and machinery needed to move time and space in the direction of our desire, and our good fortune.


There was a time though, alive in the memory of a few still breathing, when work only got done sometime after we began. Looking back just one lifetime further he stood in the fields that leave testimony to these truths. Stone walls of time and labor.

They go on and on, mile after mile, throughout New England. It took him many days driving by to get his mind around these walls, to understand their purpose, and how they were constructed. Were they for defense? Or perhaps to delineate property? But he was busy traversing the landscape doing the work that brought him here until one afternoon he just stopped, walked into one field and sat down. There he sat for a couple hours allowing the past to creep in.

When the colonists first appeared on these lands they must have been overjoyed with the quality of the soil for planting and harvesting. However soon after they began to till they realized that just below the surface was rock, in all sorts of sizes. Their only choice was to break up the rock and cart it, carry it, of drag it, to the edge of the field. He lifted one of the rocks for a better understanding of the magnitude of this task times many and he just gasped at the notion. Every rock, for as far as he could see, one rock at a time……..one rock at a time.


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Special for a day......

Like the day of the funeral, when grieving folks can momentarily bask in the attention of an unusual moment filled with nuance and grace, the flood victim feels part of something larger than themselves, filling a role in the play that up to that point always had belonged to someone else.

They actually would prefer not to look ahead and imagine their lives restored back to normalcy just yet. That will come. For now though, the opportunity for reflection on the human element so prevalent in these events, the kindness and effort doled out for one another, resonating at high levels now, only to recede back to normal and drift away downstream to someone else just as quick. The concept of 15 minutes each is real. That’s it.

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Individuals emerge.....

With both roads inaccessible, he considered the legitimate position of retreat. After all, there were plenty of folks at the shelter and many more who had returned to their soggy homes that required attention as well. In fact, there are guidelines in place that discourage reckless inspections, making the decision to move on down the list that much easier. But then again…..

So he ended up 25 miles north and west, and then came to a manageable river crossing allowing him to reach the farm house from the opposite side. There, sitting on what was the river bank, now partially submerged, was a classic New England farmhouse, circa 1790, barn red.

He had learned about this river, the Sudbury, by talking with the residents and officials around the nearby town of Wayland. “This water course drops only an inch in twenty miles” said one long-timer, “when she floods, she pops her banks and goes wide in both directions,” he surmised.

Parked up on high ground he pulled on his waders and slowly descended on the lone structure. The rains had all passed now and the sun was shining and the air was fresh and cool. He could hear a violin strumming from the farmhouse, almost a “titanic” sort of sound that emphasized the melancholy.

The first floor was submerged, yet there were 2” x 12”oak planks that led from the dry ground to the front porch. Reaching the porch he began to call out the name on the list and got no response, but the music played on. Stepping into the front door he saw the source of the melody standing in front of the fire place, up on a makeshift wooded platform, staring at sheet music, perched on an easel, sawing away on the instrument above the cold river water.

This home had been in his family for generations. His great-great had built it. You get the idea…..he wasn’t leaving. So he just found a dry place to sit, and there he sat for twenty minutes or so, listening. Turns out “old John” could really play, and play well. John was 76 years old that day, the same day the river came calling to his front door.


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