Missouri

Day Three. 

Day three was mostly about St. Louis.  

We began the morning in Ray's RV park where Ian and I tried to catch a Bass in the private lake. After an hour we hooked a couple of fish, both of which decided to eat the lure, break the line, and swim away so we headed off to St. Louis. 

I spent Junior High and part of High School in St. Louis so we drove through my old neighborhood while I quietly reminisced about the trouble I got into at each landmark. I drove past the homes of my good friends and remembered even more trouble. 

We stopped by the Meramac River where I spent many summer days swimming and cooling off in the nearly unbearable heat that my boys were learning all about. The Meramac is like a page out of a Mark Twain novel. I used to lay on the banks of the river in the shade, swing from a rope swing into the water, and basically waste the day. 

Apparently some time in the last twenty years the rope swing disappeared and this section of the river which was previously a private beach for my high school friends and me has been discovered by the "Duck Dynasty" fan club. It once was a scene from Huckleberry Finn and now is known by the locals as, "Redneck Rivera". At least it cooled us off. 

At night we met up with an old friend (who used to share the memories with me in the Meremac River) and we watched the St. Louis Cardnials play the San Diego Padres. Though we are from San Diego it was simply coincidental that they played the Cards but it meant no matter who won, we won. 

My boys got a few autographs and we headed to our seats for the game. I had a great time reconnecting with an old friend that I have not seen in twenty years. Since we are guys we pretty much picked up where we left off twenty years ago and had a great day. 

Because we can

"Why would you do that" is the response I get the most often when I say I am driving across the country with my three boys. "How often did you sustain a head injury as a child?" Is the second most common response.

This idea doesn't really sound that bad does it? My boys and I are driving from San Diego to Maine and back in a twenty foot RV and watching Major League Baseball games during the hottest time of year. What could possibly go wrong with that?

The truth is I know this trip might be a little insane and some days will go on forever but some experiences have the potential to be amazing.  That is really the point... The potential to be amazing. Creating memories with my boys (memories that will surely get better as time goes on) is a unique opportunity that only happens when we just go for it.

So for the next three weeks we will enjoy all this country has to offer and try something unique simply because we can. See you on the road.

This Year in Jerusalem

My family is currently living in Jerusalem so please check The Jerusalem Letters for stories of travels this year. Posts will resume here in the future.

Childhood Lost

(The name in the following story has been changed to protect the identity of the main character.)

I met Darko on my first trip to Bosnia a few years ago. He was a skinny, dark haired boy with tanned skin and cheeks flushed red. For being ten years old he spoke English very well and served as my translator with the kids in the orphanage. I talked with him more than most other kids here because of his ability to communicate in my language. For the rest of the orphans who had to rely on my knowledge of the Bosnian language, we had trouble getting past, “What is your name? What do you like to do? Waiter, may I please have another coke?” So Darko was one of my favorites.

It was a warm summer night and Darko and I decided to get some Ice Cream. For a Half-Mark (equivalent to twenty five cents) I could get one scoop of Jagoda (Strawberry) and one scoop of Chocolate. For fifty cents I could win friends at the local orphanage and it cost me less than buying one donut back home. On our way home we sat in the park eating our ice cream and talking about life. The skinny little boy I once knew was much taller now and his voice was deepening. As we sat and talked I realized that I never asked him about his story. I couldn’t believe that after four years of knowing him I still did not know how he ended up living in an orphanage. It is a hard thing to ask an orphan because it brings up bad memories of life that went wrong at an early age or it reminds the child that he doesn’t even know his story because the cold walls of this sterile building is all he has ever known.

After four years I had to hear it from him so I asked what he knew and with beautiful openness he told me his story;

“My father had already died from drinking so I lived with my mother, sister, and younger brother. During the first year of the war my younger brother died so my family decided we could not bear living here any longer. We packed everything we owned into our tiny, broken down car and headed out of town. The chances of making it all the way through Bosnia and into Macedonia without harm were not good but we had no other option. Food was scarce, we had no electricity, and reminders of my brother’s death were everywhere.

Early in our journey my mother explained to me that we had to make a stop before continuing with the drive. We turned down the narrow dead end street and saw the orphanage hovering ominously at the bottom of the hill. With tears in her eyes, my mother explained that the three of us would not be able to make the journey to Macedonia and that I would be staying here. She helped me carry my bag out of the car and we walked up the stairs passed the glaring eyes of sullen faced kids who would be my new siblings in my new home.

I was introduced to the disinterested Orphanage director and brought up to my room. I walked with my mom back to the front steps, she kissed me, and said ‘goodbye’. I remember the anxiety I felt sitting on those steps as my mother and sister drove up the hill and out of sight. I tried not to cry so that my new roommates would not think I was weak but I was too young to have mastered that skill.

I was six years old and all I felt was fear. I feared that my family would not make it to Macedonia, I feared that I would not make it in Zenica, and I feared that I would never again see the only people I had left in my young life.”

With tears I listened to Darko’s story and all I wanted to do was to wrap my arms around him and give him the life he missed out on. I wanted to take him home and allow him to laugh and cry and run and play like a normal kid. As he described watching his family disappear over the hills and into a new life I knew that more than his family drove away that day. Sitting in that car next to Darko’s mother and sister, my young friend watched his childhood disappear.

Bosnia

Most people would not plan a trip into a war torn country in the Balkans for their first experience in Europe but here I am in a car waiting to get through the border as I leave Croatia and enter Bosnia. The excitement of being here is defeating my body’s desire to give in to the effects of jet lag. Not only did I travel 10 time zones to the east, but I also left the sunny winter days of Southern California and arrived in the dull frigid days in East Central Europe. Remnants of a recent winter storm still whiten the plains and add a contrasting background for the gray barren trees and the golden winter grasses.

The devastating war ended a few years ago but I could easily be convinced that it was last week. The town of Bosinski Brod lies in complete ruins. Rooftops along the river facing Croatia are all caved in and the crumbled brick walls of what I assume were houses is all I can see. The bridge into Bosnia looks completely untouched by the war but that is because the old bridge was bombed and the new one recently arrived courtesy of the United Nations. The road is filled with holes from what is sure to be a combination of Bosnian winters and three years of war. Burned cars still line the roadway reminding all that pass through that much work is still needed to restore any sense of order. Yellow tape displaying the word, “mine” litters the countryside and surrounds nearly every house. No, these are not selfish people declaring what property belongs to them, this is a warning that active land mines are still in the area and will need to be removed.

Entering Bosnia, I feel like I have traveled back in time at least 50 years. Horse drawn wagons loaded with freshly cut firewood pass by on the only road through town. Tired looking elderly men hardly notice our car as they steer the wagon through the brisk winter air. Their eyes are cold and the deep wrinkles hide the stories of pain from the brutal conflicts that fill this land’s history. Think of every major empire that has ruled the world and you will find the Balkan region on the list of conquered lands. From the Greco Empire of Alex the Great, to the oppressed lands of Communist Russia, the people of this region have endured them all. And with each empire, the people of this region adopted new ideologies and new ways of living. As a result, division and conflict is the way of life.

I continue to head south through Bosnia in the region known as Srbska Republica (Republic of Serbia) not to be confused with the present day country of Serbia. I am amazed at the vast amount of destruction throughout the land. We drive on and on and are hard pressed to find any houses fit for living. House after house lie in ruins from the brutal conflict that pitted neighbor against neighbor with nothing other than religion serving as the dividing line. The landscape is beautiful as densely wooded hills slope carelessly into a meandering river valley. It is hard to believe that this land that seems so peaceful could have been wrapped in a conflict so fierce. The landscape continues like this throughout the better part of the country with only occasional towns to break the monotony of the scenic drive.

In each town I see evidence of new beginnings but I also see evidence of lessons unlearned as newly constructed mosques and churches stand face to face across the town. It is almost as if each religion is more concerned that the church buildings survived the war than the people who will fill those buildings. It is not uncommon in Bosnia to see a mosque across the street from a Catholic church or an Orthodox church. Each religion insisting that the actions of their people were justified throughout the war. It is important to know that in Bosnia, one’s religion is equal to one’s nationality. Orthodox Christianity is a Serbian religion, Catholicism is synonymous with Croatian, and Bosnian means Muslim. One can imagine the dilemma when one’s parents each represent a different religion.

On my journey to Bosnia, I traveled with a man whose mother was a non-Muslim Bosnian married to a Serb. She served in the Yugoslavian National Army during Croatia’s war for independence, but when that war ended and the struggle in Bosnia began, she had to leave the army and live separated from her husband. At the time of this journey, she lived in central Bosnia, and he still lived in Belgrade (Serbia). Their son, my friend, split time between living with his mother and father. This perfectly healthy marriage is just one of the many unnoticed casualties of the war.

Another more obvious casualty of this war was the reason for this visit. Over the next week, I would establish connections with a state run orphanage that housed hundreds of children, many of whom survived three years of brutal conflict. One boy, who I will write about more in detail at a later time, lost his younger brother in the war so his mom brought him to the orphanage as she fled to Macedonia. He was just 5 years old and still recalls in vivid detail how he felt as he watched his mother drive away leaving him to his new home. I would soon learn that stories like this were hidden deep in the eyes of everyone I would meet. Each person had stories of how the war changed their lives. Elderly couples recalled “the good o’l days” of life under the dictatorship of Joseph Tito, young kids dreamed of life on “the outside”, and those in between stared blankly as if the past few years of war wiped any sign of life that once flourished in their eyes.

One U.N. worker I met warned me that Bosnia has a strange appeal to it and that after visiting most people find that they need to return. My experience in Bosnia was just beginning, but with new friendships and plenty of work to do this attraction would set in and I would become a regular visitor of this mysterious land.

On Riding the Bus

Sometimes we don't have to travel to find adventure.

One day I had the great fortune of waking up too early. By too early I mean before the sun. Many great men have done well by living by the proverb, “the early bird gets the worm”, but I am no great man. I prefer giving the sun some time to chase off the devils and to warm the air. One who believes he must be ahead of the schedule set by the sun is too ambitious to really live. But this is not the point. The point is one day I rose too early.

Because I rose before the sun I was in no state to think clearly. So without thought I left my house into the cold and the dark of morning. For no particular reason I walked to a coffee shop. In a moment of temporary insanity I even thought of jogging. But even with the delirium of morning and the trickery of night demons, I resisted the temptation and continued at a casual pace.

When I reached the coffee shop I met many others who were either too ambitious or, like myself, too tired to remain in bed. Apparently a whole sub group of people denies the sun each day to gather at the local coffee shop. It is amazing what problems are solved and what philosophies are made by a group of people surviving on caffeine and cigarettes. I have seen these people in the heat of day, but I had no idea that they began their process of sitting outside of coffee shops so early. I was so impressed that they were not in bed that I sat down with them to discuss life.

We talked about politics, religion, and even important things like sports. To my amazement this group of people were able to formulate an opinion on each subject. I even thought of bringing up imaginary theories to hear their opinion. I was certain that given the opportunity to talk about fairies, this group could discuss the pros and cons of their existence. At least someone would relay a personal account of an interaction with a fairy. The ability of these people to talk about any and everything was inspiring. Perhaps I too should leave bed too early each day.

When the sun was fully at work and the air reached a comfortable temperature, I decided to walk to the bus stop. I never ride the bus and don’t even have a need to do so, but this day was different. Perhaps it was because I rose too early and was still feeling the ill effects of this decision, or maybe it was the inspiration of the morning’s dialogues. Whatever the reason, there I was waiting for the bus.

When the bus arrived I asked the driver where he was heading and if he wouldn’t mind if I came along. The driver said that for a dollar I may ride as long as I desired, or as long as the bus was in service. So I boarded the bus and took a seat next to a rather large woman. It was not because it was the only available seat; in fact most seats were available. I was feeling a sense of new life and adventure so why not continue the adventure with another new acquaintance. If she cursed and threw me into the aisle my life would grow to new depths. If she opened up in conversation, I would find myself on the edge of a great new adventure. If she simply ignored me, I would still get to where I was going, even if I had yet to determine this destination.

My heart skipped with excitement when she asked if I would mind sitting in a new seat. It was not exactly a perfect conversation starter, but it was successful nonetheless. I kindly consented and asked if she was saving the seat for someone else. Looking rather shocked she said, “no, but there were plenty of other seats open for you to use.”
“But what if those seats belong to someone else? Do you know if anyone rides the bus and has a seat they prefer?”

Again looking shocked she said, “Well, a young lady and her baby sit in those seats right over there. And an elderly man usually sits behind me. He likes to go to the mall to walk and to watch people. Oh… and a very nice looking man gets on in a few stops on his way to work. He drives a delivery truck and is always very friendly.”

On and on she described a bus full of people all of whom join her on the daily ritual of sitting in silence as a stranger drives to different locations throughout town. I was so excited about my new adventure that I paid no attention to where I was going. My new friend and I talked and talked as the bus lumbered through the hills of our quiet town. Our conversation abruptly ended as she informed me that this was her stop so we said “goodbye” and we were on our way.

The fortunes of the day’s events were almost too much to handle. Purely by accident I rose early, discussed new philosophies, met new friends, and just when I couldn’t expect another thing I glanced out the window and realized the bus driver took me straight to my workplace. He politely stopped the bus for me, I thanked him for the ride, and headed off to work. I was so excited of how this day was proceeding that I was no longer bothered that I woke up so early.

My co-workers must have noticed a spring in my step as I greeted them with a smile. When asked why I was so cheery I told them it was because I rode the bus to work. When asked why I rode the bus to work I could only respond, “because if I rode the bus to the beach I might lose my job”. That would be another adventure worth trying. Maybe tomorrow…

Skydiving

My first jump out of a plane happened in small town of Chehalis in the State of Washington. This old logging town had a bar, a bowling alley, and an airport. Any town that considers these three amenities as the top three in priority obviously has an aggressive vision for future town growth so needless to say this place was happening.

My adrenaline was already boiling over by the time I arrived at the airport hangar with my friend who happened to be a jumpmaster in this boomtown. It was early morning and a gathering of about five other skydiving junkies was already formed. They all stood drinking their coffee and talked endlessly about skydiving stories that are sure to have been told to the same few friends many times before. Stories of chute malfunctions and close calls echoed through the lofted tin ceiling of the hangar. When I arrived they sensed the smell of “first timer” blood and on cue the stories became more harrowing but I was determined to show no sign of fear and smiled as I listened as if to say, “bring it on”.

The time had come to get dressed and to head out to the plane. Putting the parachute on for the first time brings a feeling of finality to the whole process. At this point there is no turning back. For me, I had dreamed of joining the birds and the bugs as they float weightlessly above the busyness that happens on the earth so I found myself more impatient than hesitant to board the plane.

Along with my jumpmaster and one other “newbie” we took the stroll from the hangar to the plane. The beautiful thing about skydiving in Chehalis, Washington is that even the planes feel no pressure to impress you with their looks. The little Cessna that would usher me into this new chapter in my life looked like it would fit in parked next to the cars at the local bar. The paint was old and chipping off and the front propeller honestly had duct tape wrapped around one of the blades. I think this was to add to the charm more than to serve a function but either way it was fun to see.

We climbed into the plane that had all but the pilot’s seat removed and sat crowded on the floor. As our pilot strolled out I was shocked to find that he was one of the skydive junkies standing around and telling stories. He wasn’t wearing his captain uniform and had no captain’s hat upon his head. There was no brief case containing important documents that I expect all pilots to carry before boarding the plane. He was a scruffy faced guy with torn blue jeans and a faded blue baseball cap. The look in his eye was one that welcomed adventure and risk.

He smiled and introduced himself and explained that he would take us up but we would be responsible for getting ourselves back down. He strapped on his parachute (which didn’t seem like a good sign) and proceeded to start the plane. Again, as if it was planned to breed fear into the lives of the newbies, the plane engine would not start. With a smile and a laugh our pilot ran into the hanger and returned holding an extension cord and a battery charger. He looked into the plane and told us, “Don’t worry. We need electricity to get the plane going, but not to keep it going.”

Although his statement was true, it didn’t feel right. For the first time in my life I would throw myself into the air in hopes of floating gently down under a nylon canopy but now I had doubts that my plane could get me high enough for the process to begin. Right on cue the plane engine started and soon we were in the air.

As we approached the drop zone the jumpmaster opened the sliding door of the plane and looked over the edge. Just as we practiced on the ground, he asked me to move over and sit in the doorway with my legs hanging out. Then I had to hold on to the wing and step out on a platform just outside the door. At this point I was standing outside a plane several thousand feet above beautiful downtown Chehalis. I looked over at the pilot and with a huge smile he gave me the thumbs up sign. I know it is commonplace for people to ride outside on the wings of airplanes so I need not bore you with the description of exhilaration and joy that I felt. You already know how amazing it is for a moment to feel like superman and feel the wind brush pass your face but in case you have never experienced this, allow me to tell you that there is nothing like it.

Then the time had come. In seconds my jumpmaster would tell me to let go and to leave the safety of this tin flying machine. I was already warned on the ground that many people freeze up on their first jump so I had determined that when my time came I would have no hesitation and will immediately take the plunge. He looked over at me and said, “Let Go”. As promised I did not hesitate and I lunged away from the plane. The first few seconds are a bit surreal and I don’t really remember anything but just hoped that what we practiced would work out. I would jump and take the proper arched position and the chute would soon deploy.

Everything went as planned and I found myself floating peacefully back to earth. With my chute deploying somewhere around 3000 feet, I had around one minute to take in the sights, smells, and sounds of this new dimension of the earth. Never before was I able to hear the noise of stillness and feel the rush of absolute calm that happens up there. I floated over houses, a river, and of course the town bowling alley and soon saw the ground approaching. I landed more smoothly than I had expected and quickly found myself back in the airport hangar.

The same crowd was still standing and talking about their lives but now they were drinking beer instead of coffee as the day began winding down. They all welcomed me into the club of people who discovered the most peaceful place on earth. A place that I would travel to several more times in the course of that year. A place that I miss and hope to one-day return.

Venetian Sunrise

Sometimes when traveling I stumble upon a perfect moment that brings me to a state of complete satisfaction. It might be on the peak of a snow-covered mountain with my skis strapped and ready to take the plunge. It might be out in “the bush” under the African moonlit skies. Some of these moments have been in the middle of big cities with crowds of people and some have been lost in the middle of Minnesota cornfields.
One summer I spent a few days relaxing in Venice, Italy and I came across one of those moments. I climbed out of bed early on a hot August morning and headed out into the maze of canals and narrow alleys that make Venice what it is. Although it was early, the humid summer air from the Mediterranean already chased off any hint of chill that the night could bring. I wandered without any goal of where I was going so I knew I would get there soon. The city was still asleep and only occasional shopkeepers could be found preparing for another day of the endless throngs of people who would hurry pass their doors.
This particular morning I was taking it slow. I wandered passed an aging Italian Nun who I assume was on her way to church. I smiled at her and she uttered something in Italian to which I responded by simply smiling some more. I would like to think that she said, “Good morning gracious one blessed of God”. But it is just as likely that she said, “Get out of my way, I’m late for work and the Lord needs me”.
Still feeling the effects of the morning blessing, I wandered a moment longer until I found a little café nestled comfortably next to a canal and tiny footbridge. The storeowner must have been hired by a talent agency because his short, stalky body and his round cheery face was the quintessential picture of an Italian café worker. He greeted me once again in Italian and I responded by asking for a cappuccino (an Italian word I know) and a croissant.
That morning I sat at a tiny outdoor table drinking my cappuccino and eating my croissant while surrounded by a mass of locals all who believed in beginning their day with some espresso, some friends, and some second hand cigarette smoke. As the sounds of old men and old women talking and laughing in Italian filled my ears I thought this is close to the perfect moment for me. I imagined for a moment that I was one of them. I was an old Italian man who ate pizza and drank wine everyday. I liked spaghetti for lunch and playing Bocci Ball in the park. I spoke English in a quiet tone reminiscent of Marlon Brando in the Godfather and I always wore suits.
Then I drifted back into reality just as the sun appeared over an old brick building that had picturesque window boxes overflowing with summer flowers. The canal next to me was perfectly calm, the warm summer sun provided a golden tone across the sky, and the smell and taste of my cappuccino and croissant livened my senses. With nowhere to be and nothing to do, I wanted to freeze this moment in time and stay there a while. My Venetian Sunrise was the perfect way to start the day.

Venice Basics

I arrived in Venice via ferry and was immediately excited at what stood before me. I would spend the next few days exploring the city and trying to relax in the midst of the typical chaos that is found in a popular European city. With narrow streets, endless throngs of people, and hot stale air, some would say that relaxing here is not an option. For me, relaxing has to do with where my mind is more than my body. For example, a roaring thunderstorm can literally shake the foundations of a house and at the same time bring a great sense of comfort. And can you imagine a more terrifying thought than drifting alone in the middle of a calm ocean? This is not the point. The point is that I was in Venice and I was relaxed.
When visiting Venice, one should not be in a rush. Not because there is so much to see, but because there is not much to see. A seemingly endless maze of canals and narrow alleyways linking houses, hotels, restaurants, and churches sprawl throughout this small island making up the whole of Venice. To the visitor, this sprawl appears to be a repeating pattern designed specifically by the locals to trap and confuse those of us who intrude on their sinking paradise.
Following a map is an excersize in futility so you must attempt to "feel your way". You can try to follow the Grand Canal on the bordering sidewalks but inevitably the sidewalk will run into a building and then you have to enter back into the maze with no hope of keeping the canal in sight. If you walk long enough, you will eventually find Piazza San Marco, which is the main tourist attraction in Venice. After five minutes it becomes apparent that the buildings are impressive in the plaza but the crowds and the prices in the cafes here are simply not worth the time.
After stumbling upon the plaza, I decided this was not for me so I attempted to head back to my room by retracing my steps. I soon realized that retracing my exact steps was a laughable thought so I once again made the most of the wandering journey home. The excitement of a crowded cafe and the smell of baked calzones provided an irresitible detour for lunch. I chose a spot at a crowded table where I enjoyed my fresh cut Pastrami sandwhich. After lunch I continued my journey through the Labrynth home.
I found the best thing to do was to walk slowly and look at everything as if it was something worth seeing. It is also important to stop for Italian Gelatto. For 7000 lira I had a double scoop of Chocolate and Strawberry. With Gelatto in hand, I would wander over bridges, through alleys, and at times cut directly through what appeared to be private courtyards and eventually I would find myself right back where I began. I would applaud myself for my keen sense of direction and ask myself why my Boy Scouts Leader never noticed such a rare specimen of navigational genius. Then I would curse my room key for not working in the door before realizing that I was trying to open the room next to mine. At least I got the building right.

The Adventure Begins

To go around the world in 80 years. This is not so much a dream of mine as it is what I hope will be the natural consequence of living. I believe that the world is just too big to sit comfortably in my own local community. There are too many enticing foods, too many interesting people, and too many breathtaking views to just sit at home.
I believe in literally stopping to smell the roses. I believe in pausing to watch the sky come alive with color as the sun drifts off into the horizon for another night. I believe in swimming under a waterfall and lying in the rain. Am I a romantic? Not really. I am just not convinced that working overtime and skipping vacation leads to the good life. I am not sold on the idea that being busy is a good thing. Plenty of busy people rush around so much that they never notice the brilliance of autumn trees. They have no time to find wonder in running through fog that hangs weightlessly off the ground. They don’t even care to ask how birds learn to make nests and how dogs know to pee on hydrants. This world is filled with wonder and I too often forget to be amazed.
That is why I travel. Getting away from home heightens the senses and teaches us to notice all the little things that make life worth living. Traveling teaches me that stars shine brightly away from the city and animals can still be wild. Traveling helps me remember that people are generally kind and helpful and when given the chance, the majority of humans are willing to serve each other. Traveling also reminds me that my culture is just one way to live; it is not the best way, and it is not an inferior way, it is just a way.
Coming home from traveling has great benefits as well. When I return home I notice that the trees can be as beautiful in my own town as they are in the hills of New England. I remember that the lake on the corner from my house is every bit as blue as one in a secluded mountain meadow (although I would not drink from it as I would the latter). I notice that the roses bloom all year and the birds never seem to leave. When I stay home for too long I grow used to these things and my senses are dulled. That is when I know it is time to leave so my senses can be shaken from their slumber.
This belief in the value of traveling and in all the world’s wonders has led me to make a “list for life”. Included in this list are foods I would like to eat, people I want to meet, experiences I would like to enjoy, and places I want to visit. I have over 80 countries I would like to explore and dozens of specific adventures listed for these countries. I understand that some may never be able to pursue a list such as mine and that some may never even want to pursue such a list. For some, camping for an evening at a State Park is a big adventure, for others an adventure might simply be randomly pointing to a map and heading off into the unknown. Any way you look at it, your own journey around the world in 80 years is an adventure worth taking. For me, it is an adventure I must take and one that I will share with you throughout the following entries.
I hope you will find these entries entertaining, inspiring, and informative. Some can be used as travel guides, some as real life “Chicken Soup for the Soul” moments, and some can be printed as used as toilet paper. I will not pretend that you must read these to have a more full life and I won’t be so arrogant to even think they will all be worth reading. Nonetheless I will bring you pieces of my travels to this point in life and hopefully travels that will continue into the future. The entries will be in no particular order but will eventually be archived in a manner that will be easy to navigate. I will post on the beginning of each week. Thanks for reading along… enjoy.