friends

His Feet Stink

by

Chapter 11

The door opened. Nonna, stood there in her black dress. She held her kitchen carving knife in her right hand. She looked at Zeke, “It’s you, I was a making sure. You tell that no good Palitroni fellow you hang out with he make one move to me I gonna cut him.”

Mickey spoke up from behind Zeke, “I’m not going to make a false move, Nonna.”

“I’m a no you Nonna. You betcha you not gonna make a move to me. I’m a gonna go swish and swish, you never get married, believe me.”

“He believes you, Nonna. Honest,” said Zeke.

“Okay, now we know a my house rules, you boys can come in and have some wine with me. I only drink after noontime. Then I drink until I go to sleep.”

Nonna led Zeke and Mickey into her living room. The boys sat on the sofa. Nonna came back with a bottle house red wine and two wine glass. She handed Zeke and Mickey a glass, then filled them. She returned to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and a crystal class. She sat in a chair, filled her glass, and placed the bottle on the floor.

“I give you boys the cheap stuff, because one of you is a Palitroni. No way I’m a gonna waste the good stuff on Palitroni’s. Salute,” said Nonna raising her glass.

“Salute,” answered Zeke and Mickey.

“Whatchu boys what? I’m busy. I got a big night planned.”

Nonna piqued Zeke’s curiosity, “Nonna, what plans do you have tonight? There a senior dinner at Saint Anthony’s?”

“You make a nother wise crack like that, I gonna smack you across the head, Zeke. I expect that from Palitroni, but not from you. You one of us.”

Zeke held his hands up in surrender, “No offense, I was just thinking.”

“You never been good at thinking. That’s why you dropped out of school.”

“I didn’t drop out, Nonna. I stopped going. There’s a technical difference,” said Zeke.

“You watching too much Judge Judy and think you a lawyer. You last name’s Pratti, not Silverstein. You don’t think I know the difference?”

The conversation is getting away from Zeke. Mickey, who is not as bright as Zeke rises to the occasion, he slides the package in front of Zeke.

“Nonna, the reason we’re here is to ask you for help. This is the package Tony Gallino had us pick up. We want to know what’s inside it. Can you use your inner eye and tell us?” asked Zeke handing the package to Nonna.

Nonna took the package. She set it on her lap. She placed both palms flat on the package and began singing a song in Italian. She moved the palms of her hands to the sides of the box and began chanting. Then she said loudly, “Rocco, you tell me what’s a in this a package or I gonna sleep with Mario tonight.”

Nonna’s eyes were closed. Her lips moved, but no words were heard. Her head nodded. She picked the box up and pressed it close to her chest. Then she said, “It’s a good thing for you, Rocco, you tell me whats a in here because you best friend Mario he’s a making a big time play for me. He tells me this is what you want. Now, I gonna put a curse on him because you tell me to be true. Ciao.”

Mickey couldn’t help himself, “Nonna, what did Rocco tell you?”

Nonna opened her eyes, she looked at Zeke, “Who asked Palitroni to speak? I didn’t. Besides his feet stink. You tell him to wash his feet if he want to come with you next time to my house.”

Zeke nodded.

“This is whats a in this package.”
What is in the package? Will Mickey wash his feet? What will Zeke and Mickey do?

I Should’ve Ordered A Philly Cheese Steak

by

Chapter 9

Zeke was driving, Mickey was in the passenger seat. His arms wrapped around a package, ten inches by six inches by four inches. Zeke glanced over, “Any address on the package?” asked Zeke.

Mickey looked at it. “All the address says is P.O 191, 273 Court Street, Brockton, Mass 02302. That’s all. Can I shake it?”

“You crazy, Mickey. What if it is a bomb from one of Tony’s competitors?”

Mickey’s eyes widened as big as saucers. He bent over and pressed his chest against the package. “Slow down. If we crash we’re going be blown up. Why didn’t you tell me there was a bomb in the package. We’re going to die, Zeke. I can feel it. It’s going to hurt like hell when it happens,” said Mickey.

“I didn’t say there was a bomb in there, Mickey. I said maybe there’s a bomb in there. I don’t think there is a bomb in there because Tony said to hold the package for him until he was ready to collect it.”

Mickey breathed a sigh of relief. He straightened up. He said, “I could use a beer after that close call. You know how they say your life flashes in front of you when you’re going to die. Mine flashed in front of me and I saw the white light too. I guess I’m not ready to die.”

Zeke didn’t want to travel down that path, “It was a close call. Let’s go over to Marzelli’s and grab a sub. If he doesn’t sell beers, we’ll take our subs to go and pick up a six pack.”

“You got all the good ideas, Zeke. Your brain works faster than a forklift,” said Mickey putting his hear to the package. He added, “I don’t hear no ticking.  So, I think you are right, it’s not a bomb. You think we should take the package by Nonna after we have our sub and beer? Maybe she can use her inner eye to tell us what’s in it.”

Zeke turned left onto Warren Ave. “This is the Puerto Rican neighborhood. Know how you can tell?”

“How?” asked Mickey.

“Just look out the window. That’s all you see is Puerto Ricans,” said Zeke.

“I know a Puerto Rican, Julio. He’s a nice guy. He took me to a chicken fight one time and I won ten bucks. Julio taught me how to pick out a tough chicken,” said Mickey.

“How come I never met Julio? You never told me about the chicken fights,” said Zeke.

“The cops raided it the next night. Julio got arrested and since he had priors he’s doing five to ten at Cedar Junction. It’s too bad. Think about it, no body complains when they kill chicken and eat it. I call that murder. That’s different than assault. Besides, Julio was not doing the assaulting. It was the chickens doing the assaulting,” said Mickey.

Zeke tried to respond. His brain refused to send a signal to his mouth. He nodded his head and pointed to Marzelli’s. It was packed. He pulled into his reserved spot. The one in front of the fire hydrant. He got out of the car. Mickey got out still clutching the package. The boys walked into Marzelli’s ordered a large meatball sub and a large Philly cheese steak sub and two beers. They took their orders and sat in the only empty booth. Zeke sat facing the door. Mickey placed the package on the seat next to him and faced the window.

“This meatball sub is good. It’s really good. Marzelli should franchise. How’s the Philly cheese steak. Maybe I shoulda got that. I haven’t had one since I went to the Pats game with you last September,” said Mickey.

“The best one I ever had. I like the idea of going back to Nonna. Maybe she’s done with making a curse. I was thinking what if there is a million dollars in this package and we’re carrying it around,” said Zeke.

“Can I peek?” asked Mickey.

Will the boys succumb to the temptation to look inside the package? What will Nonna advise them to do?

Schmucks Do His Dirty Work

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Chapter 8

Zeke and Mickey sat in Zeke’s Chevy parked on Court Street in Brockton, across from Security Postal. Next to Security postal was a Goodwill drop off store, next to the Goodwill store a liquor store, and on the other side of Security postal was a boarded-up sub shop. The buildings, were stuck together since some time early in the last century and looked like they were never cleaned.

“This place gives me the creepies. Why would Tony, who’s got so much dough, pick a place like this for his mail pickup.”

“That’s because he never goes here. He sends schmucks like you and me,” said Zeke.

“What do you think is in the box. Do you think the cops are watching? What about the guy on NCIS? What’s his name?” asked Mickey.

Zeke took a sip of Dunkin Donuts coffee along with a bite of a raspberry jelly donut, mixed the donut and coffee inside his mouth, chewed somewhat then swallowed. When he finished, he said, “I saw this rerun of CSI. I think it was CSI Vegas. No, it was CSI Phoenix. No, it was CSI Chicago.”

“No, I know the one you are thinking about, is it CSI Jersey? I know it’s either that one or CSI Worcester,” said Mickey.

“They never made a CSI Worcester. Half the country can’t say the name right,” said Zeke.

“Then it’s to be CSI Jersey,” said Mickey. He continued, “There was this guy and this other guy and they was going to break into a lab and torch the whole thing to destroy the evidence.”

Zeke interrupted Mickey, “Mickey, what’s this show got to do with picking up a box inside Security Mail?”

A confused look came over Mickey. He fell silent for a moment, then he said, “Nothing. I just like that show. I was thinking we could learn something from it.”

Zeke said, “I’ll have to remember to watch the rerun. Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to go in and get the box and I’ll keep the car running in case we have to make a quick getaway.”

“That doesn’t sound fair, Zeke. We should flip a coin to see who gets to go in,” complained Mickey,

“Can’t,” said Zeke.

“Why,” said Mickey.

“Because I only have insurance coverage for me on this car. And, I don’t have you on the policy. You’d be in big trouble if you got in an accident,” said Zeke.

Mickey thought about for a second, he scratched his groin, “Thanks for thinking about me, Zeke. What’s the number of the box?”

“It’s on the key. Here it is. It’s 1 6 1,” said Zeke handing the key to Mickey.

Mickey took the key and looked at it, “What if it’s 1 9 1? It could be. Look? If I put the key into the wrong mailbox, somebody might think I’m up to something and call the cops.”

Zeke looked at the key. He flipped it over several times, “Why’d he have to go and get a number that can be two numbers? The way I figure it we got only a chance in a hundred to picking the right box. When I get nervous, I like to eat. I wish the sub shop wasn’t closed.”

Mickey said, “I got an idea, Zeke.”

“What?” said Mickey.

“We both go in. Since you’re the brains, you go to counter and asked whoever is behind the counter if they know where you can find a sub shop because you’re hungry for a sub. I go and try my key in 1 6 1 and if it doesn’t work I’ll try it in 1 6 2 and keep going until I get to 1 9 1.”

Zeke said, “This is a good idea, Mickey. I got one little tweak I gotta make. You try 1 6 1 first and if it doesn’t work you try 1 9 1. You skip everything in between.”

“You sure, Zeke?” asked Mickey, a worried look on his face.

“I’m sure,” said Zeke.

“I got another question, Zeke?”

“What is it, Mickey?” asked Zeke.

“When you ask about a sub shop, ask if they know one that makes good meatball subs,” said Mickey.

“Okay,” said Zeke.

The boys got out of the car and crossed the street. Zeke walked in first, Mickey followed. There was guy behind the counter sorting mail. Mickey walked to the mailboxes. Zeke went to the counter.

“You know where I can get a good meatball sub?” asked Zeke.

“Do I look like Bobby Flay on the Food Channel?” snapped the guy behind the counter.

“You bear a remarkable resemblance if you had hair and real teeth. But I am being respectful and I would like some respect in return,” answered Zeke.

“I don’t respect myself, why should I respect you?” said the guy behind the counter.

Zeke looked over his shoulder, Mickey was trying to jam the key into 1 6 1. Zeke turned back to the guy behind the counter, “For one reason you should respect me, I don’t pee on your door when you are closed. Your door smells like hell.”

“It’s the damn homeless people. They think my door is a urinal. You’re not a bad guy. I’ll tell you the best sub shop in the city, it’s Marzelli’s over on Warren Ave. Don’t go past the 1200 block, that’s where all the Puerto Rican’s live. They don’t know a good sub from a bad hamburger. Know what I mean?”

Zeke looked over his shoulder, he saw Mickey pulling a box out of 1 9 1. “I know what you mean. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Now, get the hell out of here.”

What’s in the box? Will Zeke and Mickey go to Marzelli’s for a sub?

Everyone Needs A Friend

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Everyone needs a friend. We need someone who’ll set everything down when we need a hand.We need someone who’ll listen and listen until we feel better.We need someone who will accept us for who we are, warts and all, and still love us. Ye, we all need a friend. That’s the kind of friend I want to be. A young girl teaches us about friendship in short Vimeo video. Enjoy! 

The Deer Whisperer from Brad Herring on Vimeo.

A Life’s Lesson in Three Minutes

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How are you living your life? Grab hold of it with both hands. Be grateful for this wonderful and wonder-filled gift. Discover what you love and  passionately embrace it. Grab hold of life and make a difference. Enjoy your family and friends. Enjoy nature. Enjoy ever sip of coffee and bite of food. Take nothing for granted. Enjoy it all. Be grateful for it all.

 

The Holstee Manifesto Lifecycle Video from Holstee on Vimeo.

I Need My Piece of Chocolate

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“La Flor*, I think it’s time we had a frank discussion about chores in our house.”

“I don’t have time, Ray. My plate is full.”

“Help me, La Flor. What do you mean by, your plate is full?”

“Do you really want me to tell you everything I do? It will take some time.  I’ll cut to the chase, I need an administrative assistant.”

“You need an administrative assistant? Why?”

“If you followed me. Ray, you’d understand. I don’t know how much longer I can keep up my frantic pace. Please create one in for me?”

“Create one for you? Surely, you’re jesting?”

“I jest not. Make my administrative assistant about 6 feet 3 inches. A male with a six pack and I’m not talking beer.  He’ll need a good sense of humor to match mine. Thick dark hair so I can run my hands through it. He’ll look good in jeans or a tux. A personality that will jump at my beck and call. And, one who is going to escort me wherever I want to go, when I want to go.”

“Having a tough time finding a guy to fill this description?”

“It’s a tough world I face every day, Ray. I’d like to think one of your species might step up.”

“I see you’ve put a lot of thought into this, La Flor. How long have you been thinking about an administrative assistant?”

“Since the breakup. I’m not getting enough sleep with everything I have to do. You might think of picking up a bit of the slack.”

“What do you do, La Flor, besides giving me a difficult time? Do you think you could fold, sort, and deliver clothes after they come out of the dryer.”

“No can do, Ray. That is one the ten worst jobs in the world. It’s a big time stress producer. I’ll ruin my nails. The heat from the dryer will damage my skin. When I took this job as your alt ego, there was nothing said about folding, sorting, and delivering clothes from the dryer. No alt ego in her right mind would accept such a job. Notice I did not say “his” because we all know that male alt egos are often not in their right minds, so they might accept the job.”

“Just tell me a couple of the things you do that keep your plate full.”

“I’ll give you the biggee. I have to spend a google of time in front of the mirror making myself look beautiful, tough, and edgy. Remember, I am La Flor, PI.”

“You will not let me forget you are La Flor, PI. What else do you do?”

“I consult with my friend at the mystery writers blog.  We go out for coffee at Starbucks. They make a much better cup of coffee than you do, Ray.”

“That one hurt. How much time do you spend at Starbucks?”

“It depends. We might be there all day if there are any good looking, unattached guys hanging around. It’s a full-time job looking for the right guy. They are a rare find in your species.”

“How about cooking meals once or a week?”

“That is so old school, Ray. Have you heard of the code word restaurant?”

“What about vacuuming.”

“I prefer to get my exercise at the gym. You never know when I’ll need a good-looking guy to spot for me as I lift weights.”

“I suppose cutting the grass is out of the question?”

“Yes, it’s out of the question. So is sweeping the floor. So is cleaning the bathroom. Do you think the Queen of England does any of these things? And, do you think any of the first ladies have ever done any of these things? Case closed.”

“Are you comparing yourself to the Queen of England? Or, to the first ladies?”

“Oh no, I have so much more going for me.”

“Can you see how my plate is full?”

“I think I just entered a parallel universe.”

“I don’t have time to go there.”

“Where?”

“The parallel universe. I forgot to mention with everything I have to do, I don’t have time to waste in some parallel universe. Is that down by The Gap? Are we done? I’ve got something important to do.”

“What’s that, La Flor?”

“I need my piece of chocolate so my heart will be healthy. I’m going to take a box of chocolates and go to see my friend at the mystery writers blog. We will have chocolates, something to drink, and good conversation. I’d love Pasta tonight, ciao.”

“Ciao?”

Each day life fills us with surprises. Some we embrace with open arms, others embrace us whether we like it or not. Getting upset over life’s unpleasant surprises doesn’t help solve the problems they present. Identifying constructive ways to work through or around our problems is an emotionally healthy path to follow. 

* La Flor is a fictional character and acts as my alt ego. Her character has evolved over the blog posts. She began with a single letter as her name. Her name gradually grew to two letters, then three before she settled on La Flor. She liked the name because it fit her idea of a beautiful, tough, and edgy feminine PI.  It is my interaction with her persona that serves as the source of these blog posts. I have no notion how La Flor will continue to evolve. It is an adventure for me as well as the reader.

 

 

 

 

 

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

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I open the door to La Flor’s room. She’s lying on her bed in a fetal position, her pillow covering her head. Her iPad blaring blues music.

“La Flor* what’s wrong?” I said.

Her muffled voice said, “I don’t want to talk, Ray. Leave me alone go away.”

“No, I am not going to leave you alone until you talk to me. I want to know what’s wrong. You are not a blues music kind of girl. You walk and talk with the beat of life kind of girl. Now get out of the fetal position and let’s go into the kitchen and have some coffee and talk about whatever is bothering you.”

Grudgingly, Flor untangled herself from her fetal position and sat up on the edge of the bed.

I took a look at her and said, “I think you should go to the bathroom and freshen up a bit.”

“Do I look that bad?” La Flor’s eyes raised to meet mine.

“Yes,” I answered. I knew right away, I said the wrong thing. It’s a species thing. I got to work on it.

“Are you going to put that in the blog? I don’t want my readers thinking I had a bad look.”

“Too late, it’s already in,” another male faux pax.

La Flor rose from the bed, went to the bathroom, turned to me, and said, “Is there any ice cream left? What about the chocolate cake? I think there were couple Fudgsicles left.”

“You cleaned up the ice cream. You licked the crumbs from the one-third of chocolate cake that was left until the plate. The Fudgsicles sticks have no chocolate stain on them.”

“Can you send out for pizza?”

“You can’t eat your way through this.”

“I can try.”

“Do you know how much weight you will gain if you keep this up?”

“If you’re good friend, you will write that no matter how much I eat I don’t gain an ounce.”

“I’m a good friend, but not that good of a friend. You’ve got to get control of yourself. Now go freshen up and we’ll talk.”

“10 minutes later I knocked on the bathroom door, “La Flor you have to come out of the bathroom.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You have to face the world.”

“I don’t have anything to live for.”

“Coffee and a snack are ready for you.”

The bathroom door opened. La Flor stepped out. I gave her a smile. She walked past me into the kitchen.

We sat at the table.  La Flor and I both have filled coffee mugs in front of us.

“Where is my snack?” she said.

I walked to the refrigerator and brought out a small bowl of blackberries and strawberries.

La Flor stared at them, then said, “At least you could have had chocolate covered strawberries and chocolate covered blackberries.” She got up, went to the cupboard and pulled out a jar of peanut butter.

I said, “Okay La Flor, spill the beans what is it, I have a feeling it is guy trouble.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“No, I could hardly tell anything was bothering you.”

“I do hold my feelings well.”

“Yeah, it was a wild guess on my part,” I said.

“I got an email from Jack.”

“And, what did Jack say?”

“He said he was thinking of getting a court order to have me cease-and-desist from stalking him.”

“Were you stalking him?”

“No, I was not stalking him. He mistook my 300 texts a day as stalking.  And, only 100 texts each day were selfies so he wouldn’t forget me.”

“It appears that your relationship is over. Look in the mirror, you are Leflore, beautiful, tough, and edgy, PI.”

La Flor pulled the teaspoon full of peanut butter away from her lips and smiled. She said, “Ray, you are right. He’s getting to be old-school. I’ve got to set my sights higher. He probably goes to bed at 9 o’clock. My day is just beginning at that time.”

“You’re a night owl.”

“That’s when the action starts, Ray.” La Flor looked over to the trash basket and said, “Did you eat all the cake and ice cream? You didn’t save me a Fudgsicle? I have a suggestion for you.”

“What is it, La Flor?”

“When you go to the Y, spend two hours at full speed. Maybe you can cut half of those calories off.”

“Maybe so La Flor, maybe so.  What are you going to do?”

“I’m texting my friend at the mystery writers blog and seeing if she wants to go out with me tonight. There’re lots of fish in the ocean.”

May the good Lord have mercy on the male alt ego species.

We all have down times. We all slip into depression. That’s where friends count. A friend who will be there with us. A friend who will not judge us. A friend who will listen quietly. And, a friend who will help lift us out of the darkness and into the sunlight.

* La Flor is a fictional character and acts as my alt ego. Her character has evolved over the blog posts. She began with a single letter as her name. Her name gradually grew to two letters, then three before she settled on La Flor. She liked the name because it fit her idea of a beautiful, tough, and edgy feminine PI.  It is my interaction with her persona that serves as the source of these blog posts. I have no notion how La Flor will continue to evolve. It is an adventure for me as well as the reader.

 

 

 

 

 

The Tomato Heist & Really Tough Love

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Joey Giamano’s dad owned Giamano’s Pizza and Bar. A warehouse separated Giamano’s Pizza and Bar from the tenement building where I lived. You’re probably wondering where is Ray going with this boyhood story – you in the last row, turn your iPad off, quit staring at your iPhone.

It’s Joey’s story. Joey and I are the same age – that is, if Joey’s alive. Chances 60-40 Joey’s not with us any longer. Joey never went by Joey. He was always Joey G. I believe he started using Joey G because he couldn’t spell his last name. He told me once, it had too many vowels. He goes, “You know it like the stuff that makes you go to the bathroom.”

I said, “You’re talking bowels or vowels?”

Joey G said, “Bowels, vowels it’s all the same.”

Now you must be getting an inkling of Joey’s intellect.

Here’s where it started to go wrong for Joey. My salvation was the grace of God and a dad who, after he gave me tough love (that’s what they call it these days); except it wasn’t the kind of tough love they talk about these days. It was really, really, really tough love. Lesson delivered. Lesson received. Oh my, was it ever received. I think it still hurts.

One lazy July afternoon, Joey and I were tossing rocks at a telephone poll in front of Giamano’s Pizza & Bar – this is what kids did before the Internet. It was harmless fun until a rock accidentally hit a passing car. Throwing rocks helped me to … did you think I was going to say become a pitcher? No, they help me to think that there had to be more to life.

Well, Joey G’s dad, Rocco Giamano, opens the door. I never saw Rocco without a full white apron with sauce stains. He calls Joey G, and said, “Joey G, we’re running short of fresh tomatoes. I want you to go to the store (it was 50 yards down the street) and get me a basket full. Tell the Beak to put it on my tab.” The Beak was Aldo

He calls to Joey G, “Joey G, we’re running short of fresh tomatoes. I want you to go to the store (it was 50 yards down the street) and get me a basket full. Tell the Beak to put it on my tab.” The Beak was Aldo

The Beak was Aldo Mangi. We all had big noses, but Aldo’s nose was something else. Hence, he got the nickname, The Beak.

Joey G said, “Pop, Aldo is way over there (Joey’s pointing at Aldo’s store). I’m in the middle of a game with Ray. Can it wait?”

Rocco wiped his pizza sauce hands on his apron and said, “You don’t get your bleep moving (only he didn’t say bleep) I”m gonna kick a field goal and you find yourself landing at the Beaks.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going. Can I take Ray?”

“I don’t care if you take Goldilocks, get me my tomatoes.”

Joey G turns to me, “Listen up. We’re going steal Aldo’s tomatoes from his garden in back of his store. He won’t miss anything.”

“I don’t know Joey G.”

“You chicken or something?”

That did it for me in those days. You could live with most things, but being called chicken was not one of the things you could live with. I agreed to go on the tomato heist.

We snuck into Larry Z’s garden. The problem is that Aldo is not in the store. He is in the garden. I said to Joey G, “We got to leave before Aldo sees us.”

Joey G doesn’t say anything. He grabs three ripe tomatoes and starts throwing them at Aldo. One of them catches Aldo smack on his clean white shirt. Joey G, throws the fourth one and takes off. Aldo runs after him only stopping after he spots me on the ground. He grabs hold of me and marches me home. He and my dad talked. They shook hands. I do not want to go into the details of tough love. Let’s say, I could no longer pal around with Joey G. Joey G was no longer welcome in the house.

Joey G was in juvenile detention when I graduated from high school. He got out when I enlisted in the army. He was in the state prison when I graduated from college. That’s the last I heard about him. The moral of the story is don’t toss ripe tomatoes at Aldo. Hey, that’s the best I could come up with on one cup of coffee.

I’m grateful for parents who made me walk a straight line. Grateful they knew who was a good influence on me and who was a bad influence on me. And, I am grateful after receiving tough love, I still felt loved.

 

Trust Your Instincts

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“The more faithfully you listen to the voice within you, the better you hear what is sounding outside of you.” – Dag Hammarskjold

I never had a real mentor. I had three people who touched me along my journey. I wrote an article for a prestigious journal titled, “Friends Along The Journey.” These three people showed up at the right place, right moment, with the right push in the right direction.

I share a brief story about the first of the three “friends.” J was my supervisor early in my career. I’ve always been a free spirit and did things differently from many others viewed as the “correct” way to do them. Somehow, the style worked for me. I’m not sure I would recommend my free-wheeling ways to others. Colleagues grumbled about me. I wasn’t like them. They complained to J. It wasn’t long before J invited me into his office. I knew I was in trouble, or so I thought.

I walked in with the attitude, “take it like a man.” J was a former football player, large, muscular, an imposing figure by any stretch. He looked up from his work, pointed an index finger the size of nice-size dowel, and said, “Sit.”

“Yes, Mr. J,” I answered.

J pushed his glasses down to the edge of his nose, leaned forward, and said, “Ray, you have good instincts. Trust them. That’s it. You can leave.”

“Thank you. Mr. J.” He brushed me off with the wave of a hand.

How fortunate I was to have an authority figure I trusted to give me permission to trust my instincts. I followed his advice from that moment on and it made all the difference in my life.

Trust your instincts.

Trust your gut.

Trust your heart.

Give it whatever name you want to give it, but trust it. It is your inner guide pointing the way for you.

voice in the heart

The Power of Love

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“Only those who attempt the absurd can achieve the impossible.” – Albert Einstein

I am a guy dancing alone. In reality, I’m only alone if I choose to be alone. I am surrounded by great neighbors. I have great friends. I have wonderful daughters and grandchildren. Everywhere I travel I meet good people, kind people, compassionate people.

I am attempting the absurd, as Einstein says – I am proving to myself and to all who share a similar journey, suffering doesn’t have the last word. Love has the last word. Despair has no place in the conversation. Love is the conversation. Sorrow will not triumph. Love will triumph over all.

Yes, believing in the awesome, healing, renewing, recreating power of love is absurd. It is the path I follow to achieve the absurd.

Power of Love.jpg

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