Images of Hope

My father is the type of wine aficionado that restaurants hate. Rather than just buy the most expensive wine in the hope that will yield the best experience, he uses his knowledge to select the sleeper, the highly rated wine that is priced well below the market price. To help keep my father informed, every year we buy him a subscription to Wine Spectator for Father’s Day. Hopefully by the time Dad has read this, he has already opened his card. I would hate to ruin the surprise.

Wine enthusiasts like to talk about “terroir”. This is the idea that the land from which the grapes are grown impart certain unique characteristics into the wine. This probably comes as no surprise as the vine that feeds the grape is impacted by temperature, amount of sunlight and water, as well as soil pH and composition.  The concept of terroir expands well beyond grapes. Certain types of cheese, coffee, ham and even vanilla are revered for their unique taste imparted from a localized geography.

It is a bit macabre to think that “terroir” impacts our taste. I am sure that Hannibal Lechter, the character from “Silence of the Lambs”, would argue differently. However, I suspect that sharks do not purposely chomp down on surfers from Hawaii because they are raised on Spam.

If I were to look at my own personal terroir, I would carry the certification “Appellation Pittsburgh”. Being a product of two parents native to the Three Rivers, I cannot deny that the city does not play a part in who I am.

Pittsburgh has many nicknames. It has been called the “Smog City”, “Iron City”, “Renaissance City” and “City of Champions”. The one I relate to the most is “Steel City”. Not just because the Steelers are the greatest football team ever. The reality is that I feel that Pittsburgh reflects the qualities of the product that gave the city worldwide renown. Steel is tough, durable and strong. In short, steel has integrity.

It comes as no surprise then that “The Steel City” nourished my father with copious amounts of integrity. Although my father is loving, unselfish, understanding, and loyal, integrity may be his defining characteristic. I can only hope to have a received even a small amount of this most admirable trait.

I consider myself fortunate to have married a Pittsburgh girl. She too comes from a family with deep roots in Pittsburgh. Her father exhibited the same terroir.

That brings me to Father’s Day. It is one of those rare holidays where I get to both give and receive. I get to celebrate all that my father has contributed to my life. Thank you, Dad. As a father myself, I also get the opportunity to be thankful for how my own son has not just given me purpose, but has become my cherished friend. When I look at the many things that I admire in him, I should not be surprised that he is a man of deep integrity. It is part of his terroir.

In this world where integrity seems to be in short supply, I have reason for hope.

Images of Hope

To me, this image exemplifies the innocence of youth. A brother and sister, enjoying the cool caress of water from the fountain as it trickles through their hands. They are not preoccupied by their school studies. They are not stressed out about getting into the right college or having the perfect career. They are not comparing the square footage of their house to their neighbor’s. I suspect that they are not even aware that the world is in turmoil. They are simply enjoying being a child.

There continues to be debate as to whether children are truly born a blank slate or if their development is predetermined by genetics. The reality is that child development is guided to some extent by both. However, there is growing evidence that confirms that attitudes toward race begin to develop at roughly the age of the children in this photo. More importantly, those attitudes are influenced primarily by their environment. In short, racism, or the lack thereof, begins at home.

There is incredible hope in this understanding. We are not predisposed to hate someone due to the color of their skin. If we raise our children to respect difference, we can in fact displace bigotry.

We find ourselves in a desperate race to find a vaccine to eliminate the scourge of COVID-19. The world has tasked all of its smartest people and employed its most sophisticated resources to develop an antidote to this viral curse. So why can’t we do the same to eliminate prejudice?

If we look to our leaders to help solve our problem with racism, I am afraid the vaccine will take even more generations to develop. It is like asking the oil producers to develop a zero emissions vehicle. They have too much at stake to effect change. When our politicians fuel bias and prejudice to build a base of support, do you really think that they will show respect for all citizens?

The beauty of our situation is that we already know the solution. We need to teach our children to respect themselves and the differences in others. If we do not take action, our children will learn that inaction is acceptable. Much like the COVID virus, I do not think that any of us can tolerate a second, and potentially more catastrophic, wave of bigotry.

Images of Hope

Look below at this high school team photo and select the player that would go on to play thirteen seasons in the NBA. Now take another look at the picture. What player would you choose to become your friend? If you chose number 54 as the answer to the first question, ask yourself how you came to that conclusion. If you did not choose number 54 to the second one, ask yourself why. I’ll revisit these responses later in today’s blog.

As you could probably guess by now, number 54 was the correct answer to both questions. Number 54 was Armon Gilliam. Armon went on from high school to UNLV where he still holds the record for the most points scored in a season. He then had a successful career in the NBA, playing for the Hornets, 76ers, Nets, Bucks & Jazz. Armon was a friend of mine. This son of a preacher and a librarian, was genuine, hard-working and could make you laugh to tears. He was also the first black person I ever met.

This is a picture of my sophomore high school basketball team. That’s me, number 50, standing next to Armon in the back row. I grew up in a Northeast Ohio town that was so lily white it was nicknamed “Caucasian Falls”. However in 16 years of residence, I never heard a disparaging word ever spoken about a black person. Not in my house. Not by my friends. Not in my friend’s homes. The quality people that surrounded me was a shield to the blatant racism that apparently existed in my hometown. I have since learned that Cuyahoga Falls was well-known for intimidating any minority that chose to live within the city limits, hence, the label.

I had the privilege of guarding Armon every day after school at team practice. When you are in such close contact with a person, you learn quite a bit about them. In a futile attempt to block Armon’s jump shot, I frequently found my face buried in his armpit. I quickly learned that his sweat was just as salty as mine. I also had many opportunities to see that our blood shared the same crimson color. Armon, being the only African-American on the team, and I, being recently transplanted to the Pittsburgh suburbs, shared the same level of social acceptance. We naturally sat together on the team bus. We shared a strange friendship. I know that we genuinely enjoyed each other’s company and had a mutual respect. However, we never got to the point where we ever invited each other to the house.

Armon tried hard to teach me his basketball skills, but that too, was futile. He literally willed me his jumping skills in his high school testament. However when you have earned the nickname “Buffalo” due to your inability to achieve any significant airspace between your Nike high tops and the court, it was a hopeless effort. What I did learn, is that we had more in common than our skin color would indicate. It went beyond basketball and a love of the music of Quincy Jones, Rick James and the Gap Band. We were both built on similar spiritual foundations, neither of which weakened by racial prejudice.

I recently heard a black comedienne say that the death of George Floyd and the following incidents we have seen displayed on our TV’s are a “white people problem.” I was immediately struck by the inherent racism of this statement. She too is missing the point of all this upheaval. This is not simply a white problem or a black problem. This is an American problem.

Now to revisit the previous questions. Reflect honestly on what influenced your answers. Each one of us must take a sincere look into our hearts and determine what biases guide our actions. What unconscious decisions do we make about each other regarding the color of each other’s skin, religion, gender, sexual preference, weight or political affiliations? If we are honest with ourselves, we will probably find that we are not free of prejudice.

Prejudice is dividing our country. The red and white stripes on our flag, although distinct, exist side by side. They form a symbol of our continuing effort to form a more perfect union. We must be conscious of the forces that are purposely fueling our biases. We must understand that what makes this country great is not the size of our economy, strength of our military or our “beautiful laws”. What makes this country great is freedom, equality and opportunity for all. If we do not take action to stamp out this intolerance, we may find that our flag has unraveled into an indiscernible pile of thread, lying next to the broken glass and boarded-up buildings.

Images of Hope

Philadelphia. The place that I call home. A place I truly love.

There are many reasons for this 30 year affair of mine. This city is proud of its position as the birthplace of this country’s freedom. Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell pavilion are hallowed ground.  Two of this nation’s defining documents, The Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, were penned here. This is a city of fighters. Whether it is the washed out Rocky Balboa battling the champion Apollo Creed or the gritty Broad Street Bullies slugging it out with the Rangers or Bruins, this town never backs down. Yes, there is a bit of a chip on the city’s shoulder. What other town would throw snow balls at Santa? That very attitude is woven into the fabric of Betsy Ross’ flag, stitched right here in Philadelphia. Yet this town can be amazingly refined. It may not be possible to find better food, museums, music, educational institutions and medical facilities anywhere else in the world.

They call it the City of Brotherly Love. For the most part, I believe that the label is true. With a racially diverse population separated by extreme economic disparity, the City coexists surprisingly well. Localized issues arise on occasion but there is no pervasive tension that is palpable. Although the city was founded by a Quaker on the principles of non-violence and religious freedom, I may be naive to think that Philadelphians are more enlightened than our other metropolitan neighbors. I am, however, optimistic those mature roots continue to feed the hearts and souls of its residents.

It is painful to watch the rioting that has taken place on the streets that I know so well. I remember bringing our two year old son home from the hospital after surgery. There was incredible relief knowing that he would be alright. However, I remember seeing the sutures and realizing that our son was no longer “perfect”. He would carry that scar with him for the rest of his life. That is how I felt last night as I watched the ugliness of the riots unfold on the television. My beloved city would be forever scarred.

I recognize that my vision of the city from the safe distance of the suburbs is distorted. There are growing tensions in the city. Even prior to the arrival of COVID-19, Philadelphia had the highest poverty rate of any major city. The opioid epidemic has killed more Philadelphia residents than the virus by a factor of three. If that is not enough bad news, Philadelphia’s murder rate ranks in the top 25. Clearly, the scars run much deeper than my perception, formed by frequent, yet brief, forays into the city, has conceived.

Our son is now thirty. He chose to go to college, work, and now reside in a gentrifying neighborhood of Philadelphia. He does not judge people by race, religion or size of paycheck. It is people like him who will help to heal these wounds. He understands that the City is not perfect. However, much like a loving parent, he is a dedicated custodian of its future.

Images of Hope

Memorial Day weekend is finally here. The unofficial start of summer. I am having a difficult time getting my head around this reality. I am pretty sure that we did not have a spring. The last thing I remember from winter was that there was a Super Bowl, although I can’t recall who won or even what teams competed. I can tell you who performed in the half time show however. That was memorable but probably for all of the wrong reasons.

There seems to be a gaping hole in the video tapes of my mind. It is almost as if someone purposely erased a whole season so that no one would ever see them. I know that I used to watch the Cosby show every Thursday night as a sanity break from my college studies. However, there is no longer any trace that Dr. Huxtable ever existed. Same thing for Fat Albert reruns. These were all clearly figments of my imagination.

The truth is that for the last several months, Monday feels like Friday, which feels like Sunday. Fortunately, I have been able to mark the time through this weekly blog. My wife and I have also been taking time each weekend to listen to some classic albums on the audio system (stereo for those older than 40). We have found great comfort listening to the likes of James Taylor, The Beach Boys and Carole King. The music reconnects us to perhaps happier times, and at least in our lives, more innocent ones where our parents shielded us from the harsh realities of life.

This subtle image, taken during one of our annual Memorial Day trips to Lewes, Delaware, has always resonated with me. It is a simple photograph, where the subjects are remnants of a bygone, and at least in my mind, a more romantic era. The graceful lines of sailboats were replaced long ago by monstrous, smoke-belching machines. More recently, the reassuring flash of the lighthouse has been obsoleted by the unseen signals broadcast by unmanned radar and GPS systems.

Yet, these two objects, both deemed unnecessary, came together as a reminder that although times change, we are still connected to our past. This image assures me that there is no gap in the space-time continuum. At some time I will be able to remember this spring as a time of both great suffering and unselfish heroism. Isn’t that what Memorial Day is all about?

Images of Hope

Over the winter I responded to an open call for entry to a photography exhibition at a local gallery. A handful of my images have been selected for shows in various galleries across the country. This particular exhibition intrigued me as it was located only a half hours drive from my house. Should any of my photographs be accepted, the close proximity would give me an opportunity to see my work displayed in public, something that had not occurred since the 6th grade open house at my elementary school. That’s a long drought.

Like so many things in life, the hardest part of deciding to participate in any type of contest is that fear of failure. None of us want to come out of the event feeling worse than before, especially when it is something as personal as your artwork. However, my competitive spirit and the need for validation seem to always tip the scale. My fragile ego loses the battle and before long I am fantasizing that this next submission will be the one where I am finally discovered as the next Ansel Adams.

Since this was an open call, I selected my best images, regardless of theme. My submission included landscapes, still life and even a black & white candid photograph. Since you never really know what will resonate with the jury, I figured I would take a shotgun approach. Something in this flock of images was sure to fall from the sky.

After patiently waiting several weeks for the selection process to be completed, my heart began to race when the confirmation email finally arrived on the specified notification day. It was that same feeling I had when a college job interview letter arrived. The good news is that I would be put out of my misery quickly and never had to read beyond the opening line. You know the letter will either begin “thank you however” or “congratulations”. This was one of those rare times that I actually had the chance to read the whole email.

I was ecstatic to learn that two of my images had been selected for the exhibition. This was certainly an indication I was poised for big things. I had visions of having my best selling calendar grace the shelves of every Barnes & Noble and Borders during the holiday season. A man is allowed to dream.

After having the images professionally printed, matted and framed, I delivered the prints to the gallery, just as the media began reporting that this corona virus thing wasn’t just going to go away. A few days later, I received notice that the exhibition opening would have to be cancelled to accommodate social distancing. Shortly thereafter, the announcement was made that the show would have to be cancelled due to the governors stay at home order. Halt the presses. My fame may be put on hold.

This week I received a notice to return to the gallery to retrieve my images. The owners made the hard decision not to renew their lease as the future of social venues remains very much uncertain. This is the same difficult decision so many owners in the food, entertainment and arts industries are contemplating. Unfortunately, the new normal may not be nearly as enriching as the previous one.

I would like to give Henry and Nancy at the Pennsylvania Center for Photography a sincere thank you for giving photographers like myself the opportunity to dream and to validate that their artwork is worthy of being seen by more than just family and friends. It is my hope that they will be able to continue their mission of supporting and educating the local photography community. I remain convinced that the work of the next Ansel Adams will one day grace your walls.

Images of Hope

I apologize for this blog being late. The good news is that based on the number of visits, not too many people missed this one. I’m glad that I am not offending my audience.

I had intended for this blog to be posted last Sunday, Mother’s Day. The good news was that for the first weekend in several months, we were actually busy. My son and his girlfriend spent part of the weekend with us to celebrate the holiday. It was good to have them both back in the house.

Due to the virus-imposed travel restrictions, this was the first Mother’s Day in twenty years that we have not spent in Cape May, New Jersey. With my Mom and my mother-in-law living a day’s drive away, my son and I have shown our appreciation for all my wife’s efforts by treating her to a day at the Cape (insiders know it as Exit 0).

The day’s agenda has changed very little from its inception. Although our son no longer braves the 55 degree Atlantic waters for the first swim of the season, and there is no longer space in the bandstand park to throw a baseball, I can predict the itinerary. My son and I will try to wait patiently on a bench as my wife checks out every store on the Washington Street mall. Our reward for behaving ourselves will be a frozen custard from Kohr’s. If we allowed ourselves sufficient time before dinner, there will be Skee-ball at the boardwalk arcade. Our son introduced the practice of handing over all of our reward tickets to some unsuspecting child. The expression of surprise on their face is worth every token. If there is time after dinner, we will close the day with a quick stop at Sunset Beach. We are always amazed that someone had the genius idea to make a ship out of concrete.

We have grown to savor this annual trip. My son claims it is his favorite day of the year. All in all, not a bad choice. We have buoyant boat loads of fond memories from this annual tradition. Even though we were able to include a few little pieces of Cape May into this year’s celebration, and my wife was very appreciative of our efforts, we still couldn’t hide that some of the “special sauce” was missing.

I think that traditions are much like the markings on the face of a clock. Although the hands continuously cycle through that 360° arc, we really only notice when they pass one of the numerals. We pay no attention to let’s say 5:57. However the mass of neurons in our heads alerts us that something significant must be taking place at 6:00. The numerals, like traditions, keep us in sync.

These days it is easy to forget the day of the week. It is even harder to remember if anything significant, other than the suffering caused by this insidious invader, has actually occurred in the almost three months since we sought shelter. This is a reminder of the importance of our traditions. These are not simply days to be casually torn from our calendars in anticipation of a resumption to our “normal lives”. We must not abandon our traditions as there are still moments to celebrate and opportunities to create new, cherished memories.

I guarantee that if it is safe next Mother’s Day, you will find my son and I on a bench, eating an orange/vanilla twist cone, as my wife asks to pull just about every piece out of the Whales Tale jewelry case. That will be okay with us.

Images of Hope

Just like all of my other buddies growing up in the wonders of Northeast Ohio, my world revolved around two times of year, Christmas and summer vacation. Anyone who has ever watched “A Christmas Story”, mostly filmed in Cleveland, understands this perfectly. Ralphie’s dreams were of fighting Black Bart with his Red Raider BB gun during wanderlust days of the summer. The items you placed on your Sears and JC Penny Christmas catalog wish lists were usually items that were essential to the fun you were going to have during the summer. How could you ever survive the summer without a BB gun, Estes rockets, or a new fishing pole?

If I were to give you 3 seconds to think of the most beautiful scenery in Ohio, I guarantee that as your time expired, you would still be drawing blanks. Being devoid of mountains or beaches where the water quality was safe enough for swimming, Ohioans fled the state in a mass migration to more exotic locations every summer. To this day, Ohioans are prolific travelers. The next time that you are at Yosemite, Disney World or Cape Cod, look in the parking lot. You are bound to see an unusually high concentration of Ohio license plates. These are not rental cars mind you. These are real buckeye state residents fleeing the boredom they would face at home.

Prior to the advent of the minivan in the 80’s, the transportation method of choice was the station wagon. These 5000 pound land schooners, birthed in the local factories of Cleveland, were proudly parked in every suburban driveway. Proudly named “Town & Country”, “Country Squire” and “Vista Cruiser”, they set sail upon America’s ribbons of highways as soon as school let out.

My family was no different. No sooner had the Lionel train been packed away from Christmas, my father had the Rand McNally road atlas open on the kitchen table. After what seemed like an eternity of flipping through pastel colored maps, an announcement would be made after dinner as to the destination of our next adventure. One year, a strong easterly wind carried our Chevy “Kingswood Estate” across the continent to San Francisco, with ports of call in Colorado and Arizona. Other years we found ourselves summering on islands named Sanibel and Cedar. Every destination was new and opened my eyes to the unending natural beauty of this expansive country.

I remember the year that it was revealed that we were headed to some place called Cape Hatteras for our annual vacation. I was pretty familiar with the contents of the encyclopedias on the family room shelf and I was quite confident there was no such place. My brother, sister and I knew what to expect from Disney World and the Grand Canyon. What was there to do in Cape Hatteras? Well if I can remember correctly, the answer came across something like, “well there is a beach, a very uncrowded beach”. Yahoo, I can’t wait.

The reality could not have been further from my initial, naive expectations. Yes, the Cape Hatteras of the mid-seventies did not have much to offer other than a beach. That is what made it so endearing. It meant that there was time to play cards with my family, chase ghost crabs on the beach at night and fish from the Frisco pier. The smell of the ever present salt air, the sound of the sea oats rustling in the wind and the sight of both the Hatteras and Ocracoke lighthouses, with their slow, rhythmic flashes in the distance, are all cherished memories firmly engrained in my soul.

That initial trip to Hatteras became a recurring one well into the eighties. The agenda of activities never changed. I spent many hours fishing with my father and brother from the Frisco pier. For a bunch of land-locked, freshwater newbies, we always seemed to have much better success than the other experienced fishermen on the pier. It never took long for the other fishermen to crowd around us, thinking that we had an advantageous hole. Quite honestly, we were just lucky.

The Frisco pier was badly damaged by Hurricane Isabel in 2003 and delivered a knock-out blow by Earl in 2010. It remained standing on its weakened legs for another eight years until it was determined to be too costly to be rebuilt, and was demolished. This photo was taken 37 years after the first time my father, brother and I first optimistically cast our lines into the warm Atlantic waters. It is a reminder that although we may be battered, the sun will rise again. The arrival of a new day will once again give us the opportunity to take the salt air into our lungs or in the least, be thankful for the memory.

Images of Hope

This is one of my favorite images, taken at Sheffield Lake, Ohio, not far from my birthplace of Cleveland.

Many people are surprised to learn the location of this image. Let’s face it, few people expect to see such beauty come from anywhere near “the mistake by the lake”. Even as a native, I too was surprised how this underdog of the Great Lakes could reveal such subtle beauty. Just as most people’s impressions of Scranton, PA were forged by the TV series, “The Office”, Cleveland can thank “The Drew Carey Show” for introducing many to the peculiarities of this rust belt town. The show’s unforgettable character, Mimi Bobeck, complete with her garish makeup and flamboyant wardrobe, became the model of Cleveland beauty.

Although I have seen the full palette of Mimi’s cosmetics reflected in the Lake’s waters at sunrise, the reality is that the Lake reveals its beauty much more subtly. You need to watch very closely as her moods change quickly. My family was fortunate to spend an extended Labor Day weekend at a cottage just yards from the water’s edge. The visit gave me the opportunity to experience, as Sting once sang, her “all four seasons in a day”.

One evening, my wife and I watched a solitary sailboat approach on the horizon just as the energy of a stifling August afternoon was feeding an intensifying thunderstorm. It was clear that the craft was trying to secure refuge before the fury of the storm was unleashed upon it. It also appeared inevitable that the storm, now spitting bolts of lightning, was going to collide with the vulnerable boat. However, as the undaunted sailboat proceeded into the path of the storm, a break appeared in the clouds. It was almost as though the maelstrom was purposely instructed to part and grant the craft passage to safety. As the sun set, we watched as the sailboat disappeared below the horizon, unharmed.

It certainly feels right now as if we are the terrified occupants of that sailboat. We know that the storm is approaching and that it is a threat to our existence. We can’t avoid it. All we can do is hope that we and our loved ones are spared.

Having been an eyewitness to this improbable outcome on Lake Erie, I realize that we are not in control of our fate. We all need to keep faith and proceed with life. At some point, this storm will pass.

Images of Hope

This image of a perfect “double rainbow” was taken on the last day of a visit to Porto, Portugal.

There may be no more iconic symbol of hope than a rainbow. There is no guarantee that just because we have endured a rainstorm, we are entitled to this spectacle in the sky. The proper mix of atmospheric conditions must be precisely aligned for its creation. It is one of those rarities that can stop us in our tracks and have us stare up to the heavens in amazement.

We may be reminded from our bible school days of the story of Noah’s Ark. Noah and his family, along with a sample of all God’s creations, took shelter on a very large, home-built boat. After 40 straight days of rains so intense that they flooded the entire earth, a rainbow finally appeared to the remnants of humanity on the earth.

Most of us have been sheltering in place with our families for about the same amount of time as Noah and his crew. By this time it is probably feeling a bit cramped in your house. Having been pent-up with your spouse, the kids, and pet labradoodle, it might feel a little chaotic.

Now put yourself in Noah’s sandals. Not only did he have to take refuge with his wife and kids, he did so with 70,000 animals on a boat the length of Paul Allen’s mega yacht. There was no Netflix to keep everyone entertained. The groceries were not delivered to the door. Someone had to cook, and more importantly, clean up after all of those critters. You think you are experiencing bedlam? Imagine what it was like trying to keep all of those animals from eating each other. Not to mention, after 40 days, you were now dealing with 10,213 additional bunnies and hamsters. No, we have it pretty good.

Yes, these are difficult days. I do not want to minimize the pain and uncertainty that so many are experiencing right now. However, every now and again we need to be reminded that there will be days ahead. No one can guarantee that these will be better days. However, we will once again have the opportunity to laugh, enjoy the company of the ones we love, and even gaze to the sky and be awed by the beauty of a rainbow.

Images of Hope

It’s not like we didn’t receive enough bad news this week. Unfortunately we learned yesterday of the passing of Bill Withers.

I was late in becoming a fan of his music. Being a product of Cleveland, Ohio, it would come as no surprise that I had rock-n-roll coursing through my veins. I remember purchasing my first album, Styx “The Grand Illusion”, at Montgomery Ward. That was followed in quick succession by “Pieces of Eight”, “Cornerstone” and “Paradise Theater”. I probably would have purchased Led Zeppelin’s “In Through the Out Door” had I not thought that my parents would take me to the parish priest for an exorcism.

On one fateful Sunday morning, I heard “Just the Two of Us” on Casey Kasem’s “American Top Forty”. Much to the delight of my Mom & Dad, my musical tastes were forever changed. I was blown away by Grover Washington’s baritone voice. The saxophonist in the background wasn’t too bad either. Like so many of the ignorant, I was embarrassed to learn that I had it all backwards. It was the smoky smooth voice of Bill Withers that originally caught my attention. Needless to say, subsequent additions to my musical collection included music from Chuck Mangione, George Benson, Stevie Wonder and Michael Franks.

I am honored that my ringtone on my wife’s phone is still Bill Withers “Lovely Day”. After three weeks of our lockdown here at home, she could quite easily have changed the ringtone to “Love Stinks” by the J.Geils Band.

The reality is that we both can’t help but to sing along with “Lovely Day” whenever we hear it. It is almost a competition to see if we can hold the one extended note in “day”. It seldom ends well for either of us. The good news is that we always feel better. It is like a direct injection of endorphins into our system.

For those unfamiliar with the song, let me post the opening lyrics:

“When I wake up in the morning, love
And the sunlight hurts my eyes
And something without warning, love
Bears heavy on my mind

Then I look at you
And the world's alright with me
Just one look at you
And I know it's gonna be
A lovely day”

I oftentimes find it hard to get out of bed these days. I know that I will have to confront yet another uncertain one. However, when I greet my wife in the morning, the world is alright with me. I am once again reminded that I am a lucky man indeed.

This photo was taken at the bed and breakfast where we typically celebrate our anniversary. It is one of those special places where you can escape the complexity of life and just focus on what is important. This particular sunrise was the start to yet another Lovely Day, time spent together, enjoying friends and looking forward to many more to come.

Images of Hope

It has been quite a while since my first blog. Quite honestly, I don’t think that anyone has been anxiously awaiting my second. From the number of posts I have received in a year and a half, I’m quite certain this blog has yet to go viral. That’s OK. As I said before, this is really a cathartic process for me. This blog may well be my online journal where I can purge my brain of the stresses with which it is struggling.

Like most of us, I have dealing with the daily bombardment of horrific images and dire statistics coming through the TV and my computer. There seems to be nowhere to hide. We have been very successful in using technology to become connected. Although we have all seen the perils of becoming connected to the wrong news, I do believe that there are some benefits to all of this technology.

My wife and I have been using the “Artificial Intelligence” built into our smart device to stay connected with family and friends. We used to use paper and pen or a land-line phone. Now all we have to do is address our smart device, which is constantly at our service by listening into our every conversation, and say “call our son”. It is reassuring to both hear his voice and see his face. I found facial expressions are a far better indicator of emotional status anyway.

For the last couple of days we have been down streaming live concerts from some of our favorite musicians. It is reassuring to see Chris Martin, Dave Matthews and Jake Shimabukuro reach out from their homes and serenade us in our own. It seems that they understand that “social distancing” is an oxymoron. We humans are in fact social animals. Distancing ourselves from each other is inherently against our genetic programming. This is why we are not immune to the stresses caused by the COVID-19 quarantine.

This is a time when we need each other. Yes, I understand the need to remain physically separated, at least for the time being. However, we must reject the tendency to place blame on anyone due to their nationality or political affiliation. If I am not mistaken, this virus has shown no prejudice. This is a human issue. I guess this IS the lesson to be learned here. Whether we are battling a pandemic or global warming, we must put our biases aside and work as one global community.

Unfortunately, I am not a world class musician. Although I am convinced that I can tap a desk, my chest or any surface that possesses the proper resonance better than anyone, my wife is quick to put an end to my percussive aspirations. The good news is that I will not be sharing my unique talent online. What I can do is share with you my images of hope. For the next year I will be sharing both on this blog and on my Instagram account, the images that have most inspired me. At some point, each of these images motivated me to push the shutter and record the moment. Hopefully they will bring you some solace during these trying days.