Cinco de Mayo: A Completely Serious and Accurate Historical Account (Not Really)

Let me begin by saying that I love any holiday that justifies eating guacamole before noon and drinking margaritas the size of birdbaths. Naturally, Cinco de Mayo is high on my list of favorite holidays—right up there with National Pancake Day and whatever Wednesday my local pub decides to call “Trivia Night.”
Like most Americans, I used to think Cinco de Mayo was Mexico’s Independence Day. I believed this confidently and loudly, usually while wearing a sombrero I got from Party City and holding a beer imported no farther than St. Louis. As it turns out, Mexico’s actual Independence Day is September 16th. Oops. Cinco de Mayo commemorates the Mexican victory over the French at the Battle of Puebla in 1862.
Now, you may ask, “Why would the French invade Mexico?” Good question. Apparently, Napoleon III was bored, couldn’t get a Netflix subscription, and decided that Mexico would look fabulous with a little European flair. But the Mexicans weren’t having it. Despite being outnumbered and outgunned, they beat back the French like a mom slapping a spatula out of your hand before the cake cools. It was a wildly impressive underdog moment—Rocky Balboa but with bayonets and mustaches.
And yet, despite this dramatic military victory, Cinco de Mayo isn’t even a big holiday in most of Mexico. In fact, most Mexicans are like, “You guys are still doing that?” while watching gringos attempt salsa dancing like caffeinated giraffes.
In the United States, however, Cinco de Mayo has become a glorious, guac-fueled celebration of Mexican culture, music, and tortilla-based architecture. It is a day when we collectively remember that tequila has consequences and that wearing a poncho to the office might raise HR questions.
Now, let’s be clear—Cinco de Mayo is not just an excuse to drink margaritas at 11 a.m. on a weekday. It’s also an excuse to eat nachos the size of a futon while pretending you know what a mariachi band is. If you’re lucky, you’ll attend a street festival where toddlers in tiny sombreros throw confetti at your feet like you’re some kind of queso-coated monarch.
And yet, despite all the fun, Cinco de Mayo offers something deeper: the opportunity to celebrate resilience, culture, and the triumph of the underdog. Also, tacos. Lots of tacos.
So this Cinco de Mayo, raise a glass (or three), learn a little history, and try not to refer to your neighbor as “amigo” just because he’s wearing sandals. And remember: the real battle is not against the French—it’s trying to eat a burrito the size of your forearm without it disintegrating into your lap.
¡Viva el guacamole! ¡Viva Cinco de Mayo! And most importantly—viva nap time afterward.

Happy Beltane 2025

“Beltane Morning”
Mist drapes the hills like a forgotten veil,
and the first birds speak in soft, urgent syllables.
The air tastes of green things returning—
not just grass, but the memory of growth,
the promise of ripening.
At the forest’s edge, a fire waits to be born.
It remembers the hands that struck the flint,
the breath that urged it into being.
Women braid flowers into their hair,
not for beauty,
but for invocation—
as if petals could persuade the gods
to linger a little longer.
The men gather wood
not with silence,
but with laughter sharp as flint,
as if joy itself is kindling.
Somewhere, a drum begins—
steady, low,
older than language.
It calls to something beneath the skin,
something that once walked barefoot through dew
and knew the name of every bird
by the rhythm of its wings.
Beltane is not a date.
It is the body’s remembering—
of light before harvest,
of fire before shadow,
of touch before reason.
And in the darkening grass,
two figures step through the smoke
as if walking into a story
that has waited
a thousand years to be told again.

THE ZIPPER THAT ZAPPED ME

I once had a zipper, a zip-zappy zapper,
It zipped with a ZZZ like a zip-happy clapper.
It lived on my jacket, all shiny and snappy,
But boy, when it’s moody, it’s not very happy.
It zipped up with glee on a Tuesday at two,
Then stopped with a GLUNK! and refused to go through!
It wiggled, it jiggled, it jammed in a loop,
It gobbled my hoodie into a tight swoop!
I tugged it, I begged it, I gave it a pep—
It burped and it squeaked and it nibbled my step.
It sucked in my scarf and it nipped at my chin,
Then laughed a small laugh from its zippery grin.
It zipped itself backward, it zipped in a curl,
It zipped in a circle and tried to unfurl!
Then WHAM! in a moment, it zipped up my cat—
Poor Mr. McWhiskers got zipped in a hat!
“Now listen here, Zipper!” I gave it a glare,
“You’ve zipped half the hallway, the rugs, and my chair!
You zip without manners, you zip without care!
I’d send you to jail if I just had a spare!”
But Zippers, you see, are a strange little crew—
They’ll zip what they want and they’ll zip what they do.
You think that you wear them, but oh, it’s a trick—
The zipper’s the boss! And it zips you up quick.
So now I wear buttons. They’re slower, it’s true.
They don’t zip my cat or my sandwich or shoe.
They’re calm, they’re polite, and they won’t cause a scene…
Except when they pop off and bounce off my screen.
NATIONAL ZIPPER DAY – 4/29

A Farewell to Francis: by an Ex-Roman Catholic, Still Listening for Grace

I left the Church years ago—quietly, without ceremony. Not out of hatred, but weariness. The weight of doctrine, the fractures of scandal, the silence where I needed words. Still, when I heard that Pope Francis had passed, something stirred in me. Not guilt, not obligation. Something else. A sort of reverent grief.

Francis was not perfect—no pope is. But in a world roaring with division, he dared to whisper mercy. He reached for the hands others recoiled from. He spoke not just to the faithful, but to the wounded, the doubting, the wandering. People like me.

He washed the feet of prisoners. He kissed the faces of the disfigured. He reminded us—daily, stubbornly—that love does not ask for permission before it embraces. That compassion, real compassion, has no border.

I never went back to the Church, not in the formal sense. But I listened. I watched. And when he spoke—about climate, about poverty, about the sacredness of every single soul—I found myself leaning in.

Now he’s gone, and somehow, I feel it. Like the dimming of a soft but steady lamp in a long corridor. He may not have lit my path home, but he lit something in me that still burns.

Maybe sainthood is measured not in miracles, but in how much gentler the world becomes in your presence.

Pope Francis made the world gentler.

And for that, even from afar, I say: thank you. Go in peace, Holy Father. You were light.

Easter 2025

In this season of renewal and remembrance, we are reminded of two timeless stories—stories that stretch across centuries and traditions, but speak to one truth: that liberation is born of courage, faith, and relentless hope.

Passover tells of a people rising from bondage, defying a brutal empire with nothing but faith and determination. Easter proclaims that even in the face of betrayal, injustice, and death, life and truth cannot be buried for long. In both, we find the fierce reminder that darkness does not have the final word.

Today, we stand in a moment that tests our endurance. The weight of this administration’s policies and rhetoric may feel heavy. It may tempt us to retreat, to grow numb, to give in. But we are not alone—and we are not without power.

This season calls us not only to reflect, but to rise. To be the voices in the wilderness. The hands that reach for justice. The stubborn hearts that refuse to accept cruelty as normal. Like those before us, we persist not because it is easy—but because it is right.

So stand. Speak. Refuse to be silenced. Whether you light candles or lift hallelujahs, let your courage burn bright enough to show others the way. We are descendants of exodus and resurrection. Resistance is in our bones.

Freedom is not a distant promise—it is a daily choice. And we will choose it. Again and again.

April 18: The Ride of Paul Revere and Reflections on Today’s America

On the night of April 18, 1775, Paul Revere set out on his legendary midnight ride to warn the American colonies of the approaching British soldiers. His mission was a critical moment in the lead-up to the American Revolution, an act of defiance that galvanized colonial resistance and ultimately led to the birth of a new nation. As we reflect on Revere’s ride, it is worth considering not just the historical significance of that night, but also the broader context of today’s America—a country grappling with its own crises, divisions, and calls for change.

This moment, despite the many historical myths that have grown around it, embodies the spirit of resistance and a determination to defend one’s rights. The American Revolution was not merely a battle against an external enemy, but a fight for self-determination, liberty, and the right to govern oneself. It was a rejection of oppression, a demand for representation, and the belief that individual freedoms should be protected at all costs.

In some ways, this same spirit of resistance can be seen in the United States today.

Just as Revere’s ride marked the beginning of a fight for justice and self-governance, today’s movements signal an ongoing struggle for fairness and equity. The fight is no longer just against a foreign power or an external monarchy; it’s an internal struggle—one that seeks to address systemic injustices within the fabric of American society. However, much like the days leading up to the American Revolution, there are forces that seek to maintain the status quo. Whether it is political leaders who resist meaningful change, or institutions that perpetuate inequality, there is a tension between those calling for progress and those who fear the implications of such change.

This tension is evident in the national debates over everything from healthcare and climate change to voting rights and immigration reform. In these debates, one can hear echoes of the past—of Revere’s urgent call to arms, of the revolutionary impulse that drives people to take action when they believe their way of life is threatened. It’s important to recognize that the struggles for freedom, justice, and representation are ongoing. While our world is vastly different from the one Revere lived in, the core issues—inequality, division, and the fight for self-determination—remain deeply relevant today.

As we remember Revere’s ride, we should also ask ourselves: what is our responsibility in continuing the fight for justice in America? What are the causes that we must stand for, and how do we, like Revere, contribute to the preservation of liberty? The challenges may have changed, but the call to action is as loud as ever, and the need for courage, resilience, and determination remains paramount.

In many ways, Revere’s ride was not just a historical event—it was a symbol of what is possible when individuals rise to defend what they believe is right. Today, we must continue to heed that call, recognizing that the ride is far from over.

The Quiet Slide: Losing Democracy to Fascism

It doesn’t happen all at once.

We imagine the end of democracy as a great rupture—boots stomping, books burning, a single broadcast replacing the cacophony of free voices. But in truth, the decline is quieter. It is a slow erosion of norms and a steady dulling of public outrage. It is a normalization of cruelty, a reshaping of language, a rerouting of empathy. And perhaps most dangerously, it is a weary public turning its face away—tired, overworked, and convinced that nothing can really change.

Democracy, for all its flaws, is a radical idea: that the many can govern themselves with fairness, with shared power, with the rights of even the smallest voices protected. Fascism, in contrast, offers a dark kind of simplicity—one leader, one story, one enemy. It promises certainty, belonging, and safety in exchange for submission, exclusion, and obedience. And when a people are frightened, when they feel unseen or forgotten or betrayed, that bargain begins to look appealing.

We are living in such a moment. The warning signs are not subtle anymore. We see them in the demonization of the press, in the dehumanization of immigrants, in the rewriting of history, in the celebration of violence, and in the quiet compromises made by those who should know better. We see it in the way truth becomes negotiable, institutions are undermined, and compassion is reframed as weakness.

But still—many people do not feel alarmed. That, too, is part of the danger.

Authoritarianism rarely begins with a coup. It begins with fatigue. With confusion. With people laughing off what they should fear. It begins when civic engagement feels like an act of futility, and when politics becomes another form of entertainment, not a shared responsibility. It begins when neighbors stop talking, when trust fades, and when cynicism becomes easier than hope.

History offers too many examples. Germany. Italy. Chile. Hungary. The patterns are hauntingly familiar. And yet, what we often forget is that resistance, too, is possible. Democracy, even in its fragility, can endure. But only if we choose to see each other—not as enemies, but as fellow citizens, fallible and frightened and full of potential.

What might save us is not another policy or politician, though those matter. It is a reawakening of empathy. A radical recommitment to community. A refusal to abandon the idea that truth exists and that it matters. We must remember what it means to belong to each other.

Fascism feeds on isolation. Democracy breathes through connection.

So we must listen harder. Speak with more care. Call out cruelty. Defend the vulnerable. Vote like our lives depend on it—because for many, they do. And we must do it not just for ourselves, but for the ones who come after us, for whom history is not yet written.

We are not helpless. Not yet. But we must not wait any longer to act as if we are responsible.

Fading Away

When I was first diagnosed with cancer and was told that my time to live may be limited, I expected to feel despair or perhaps a kind of numbness, but instead, a deep sense of urgency flooded over me.

I wasn’t afraid of dying, but of what I had left to do, what I wanted to leave behind, and disheartened by the thought of being forgotten.

To me, being forgotten is dying twice.

Recently, an acquaintance of mine and an integral member of our local theater community suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. Tony was renowned throughout Southern New England as a teacher, theatrical director, actor and reviewer to hundreds of artists, theaters and supporters of the arts.

For 47 years, he was a beloved fixture in our lives with a quick wit, an ever-present ear to listen and a distinctive, spontaneous laugh familiar to those who knew him.

Between the local TV news reports, countless social media posts and conversations with friends about Tony, it’s clear to me that our friend and colleague will sustain a long and much-loved legacy.

Tony’s passing alerted me of how being born inevitably launches our life clock. Time’s never on our side. That feeling caught me off guard, once again. The thought of slipping away from the memory of those I hold dear filled me with sorrow.

I’m not writing about a life void of achievement or accolades, travel and enrichment. I’ve been blessed to have experienced these. But I often contemplate if I’ve had a quiet impact on others.

Did I show kindness or love? How did I make people feel? The legacy we leave is in the small moments: the shared laughter, the comforting words, the strength we offer in times of need—all are more important to me than any award, plaque or trip to an exotic place.

I love my only child, Lauren, my six sisters, their kids and one very special niece, Trish. I hope they’ll remember the small, intimate moments that made up our lives—the ones often overlooked, but never forgotten by those who experience them.

I hope my daughter will remember the way I made chocolate chip pancakes in the morning for her and her friends. How I used to sing or play the piano when I thought no one was listening, just to fill the house with something beautiful. And how I always tried to be present, even when life was hectic.

In order to remember, I’m focused on creating my blog—not of goodbyes, but of memories. I pen stories of my youth, the moments that shaped me, and the quiet wisdom I’ve gathered from others. I write about love, about loss, and about the beauty of fleeting moments.

I’m not writing for an audience, but for the people who will remain—my family, friends, loved ones. I want to ensure the lessons learned and the love given to me and the love I gave to others isn’t forgotten.

What I leave behind is not simply a memory—it’s the essence of who I am woven into the fabric of those I love and those who love me.

There is a kind of immortality, quiet and humble yet infinitely powerful, in writing it down.

I believe the true measure of a life is in the ripples we create, in the change we inspire, and in the love we leave behind.

The good we do lives on, long after we’re gone, passed from one person to the next like a flame that never fades.

Even in death, there’s a profound beauty in knowing that our light, however small, will continue to shine in the hearts of others.

Poetry is not my forte. However, in the wake of Tony’s death, this one wrote itself. Flowing out of my pen without effort. Thank you, Tony, for the inspiration.

Fading Away

In the quiet hush of evening’s glow,
I feel the softest winds below—
A breath, a sigh, as shadows creep,
Whispering secrets that the heart must keep.
The world will turn, as it must do,
While I dissolve like morning dew,
A fading echo, a fleeting sound,
A thread of light no longer bound.
I’ll leave no mark, nor trace, nor scar,
But in the sky, I’ll be a star—
A shimmer soft, too far to hold,
Yet burning bright as I grow cold.
No tears will fall, no voice will rise,
Just quiet skies and silken sighs.
And when the earth forgets my name,
I’ll be the wind, untamed, untame.
In every leaf, in every breeze,
In every moment that you seize,
I’ll linger still, though far away,
In echoes of a distant day.
For life, like love, is meant to flow—
And fading is the way we grow.
So, I’ll vanish, soft, serene,
A fleeting shadow, yet unseen.

Before Video Games

I often wonder if passing on these stories from one generation to the next may warp the illusion our younger generation has of my six sisters and me. Ah, well, truth be told, you can’t change the past; and I wouldn’t want to. As you read further, a heads up: don’t try any of this at home. We were poor kids with nothing to lose while also trying to have some fun.

Most of the cousins on my mother’s side and the neighborhood from which we grew was mostly made up of first or second generation Western Europeans who had the same economic status as we did – poor. Meaning that parents were primarily mill workers, laborers or worked for the State. Kids did not have lots of toys. If you had a bike that was a big deal – and that bike was often shared among family members and neighborhood kids taking turns. First dibs was the only form of reservations.

We went to our neighborhood playground in Crompton where we played baseball, Knock-Hockey, jacks, marbles, constructed stuff out of popsicle sticks, made potholders from little, square metal looms, braided gimp ropes, smoked “punk-sticks” (you’ll have to research that), bought penny candy if we had a coin or two, set off rolls of exploding caps with any rock we could find or just hung around with friends sitting on top of the monkey-bars.

We played games like Simon Says, Red Rover, Kick the Can, Hide and Seek. The teenage kids played with the younger kids. No one was bullied. Everyone just had fun. There were some negotiable situations when the older kids would up the stakes for the losers in a game. They would bargain comic books, or baseball bats, favorite gloves, etc. Not to keep, just to use for a couple of games or a specific duration of time – conditions were agreed upon by both parties.

Roller skating was a common, neighborhood past-time. Certainly not the elegant roller blades or shoe skates that we have today. Skates were metal, usually stainless steel foot/base plates with two wheeled axles front and back. When those wheels metal wheels hit the concrete and you were cruising through the neighborhood – WOW! They made some noise!

Each skate had a raised heel support that housed the foot and secured the ankle to the skate by leather straps and brass buckles. You would slip your foot onto the skate and press your foot against the heel stop and use your skate key to adjust the length of the skate (found underneath). Then, with the buckled straps you would secure your ankles in place. Once the length was right, you would have to use your skate key to adjust the metal toe grips on both sides of the skate until they were tight enough around your shoe to stay on.

If that rubber strip on your sneaker or the leather rim on your shoe was flimsy, that clamp would dig into the sides of your foot while skating. Skate blisters hurt.

Roller skates were useless if you didn’t have a skate key on hand to adjust them. The hexagonal loop on top was used to turn the bolt that adjusted the length of the skate and the tubular end fit on the pin that tightened the toe grips.

We all wore those keys around our necks on a string. If you were a “cool” roller skater, you had a braided, four-strand, rounded gimp rope that you made yourself at the local playground in place of a plain string.

If you lost the key, you would have to get new skates. Fatsky-chansky! Our parents would never buy a new pair if we lost the skate key. Almost all of our roller skates were passed down through two or three older siblings. Which led to the inconvenience of having to borrow a key from another skater.

Wearing those metal keys around your neck was also a risk — they were big and they were heavy. If you fell or were whizzing down a concrete or tarred surface and found yourself air bound and on your landing you were hit in the face with that key – it was like being pistol whipped by Luca Brasi.

Neighborhood kids shared baseballs, mitts and bats; footballs; basketballs (there was ONE hoop in the neighborhood.) I never knew who owned it. It stood off the side of a neighborhood street under a cleared area, surrounded on three sides by maple trees. It wasn’t in or near anyone’s yard or driveway. We all played there and everyone was respectful of each others’ space. Kids waited their turn to play.

Someone had a soccer ball (that no one used for soccer); we used it for Dodge Ball or Freeze.

We were the only family with a croquet set. How we got one, I will never know. It may be because we had the only flat, 1-acre yard in the neighborhood. Which, if playing croquet, is a good thing. I do remember there being many “bending of rules” depending on who was playing and who was winning. Thankfully, no one lost their heads.

We were comic book kids back then. Superheroes. There was always a heated debate over Marvel vs. DC comics and who were the greatest superheroes. We shared comic books until the pages fell out.

We had a crazy game of Kick the Can one day and my sister Susan, in her enthusiasm kicked the can good and hard. Against the power of her foot the can flew straight up, flipped backwards and slit her lip which required stitches. She still has the scar. In those days, you didn’t need video streaming to become a game warrior.

My sister Annie was tiny and very thin. Teams loved calling her over during Red Rover. She would literally run, leap and land on the hands or arms of the opposite team. But to no avail. She would just hang there in mid-air like a ragdoll. She was an easy opponent.

However, Annie was a great hider. Because of her size, she could squeeze almost anywhere and into the most unlikely spots. When playing Hide and Seek, the older kids would be frustrated after a long search for her; especially if it was getting dark and the time to return home was close at hand.

Annie did have a downfall in that game. Those who knew it usually used it to its full extent when necessary. You see, Annie loved bananas. So when the time of desperation arrived, the “It” person would yell, “Hey! Annie! Do you want a banana?” And inevitably my sister, in her little squeaky voice would yell back from her hiding place, “Yes!” Game over.

My sister Marie became an archer at CYO summer day camp (free camp if you belonged to a Roman Catholic Church). I don’t know who gave her the bow and arrow set.

As I mentioned, we had an acre of land and an apple tree stood in the far, northeast section of the yard.

Marie, in her teens, decided that she should test her archery skills. She asked my sister Frieda (two years younger), if she would stand up against that tree with an apple on her head – in order for her to shoot it off. Don’t get me wrong, my sisters are really bright; A-students they were. But they were as daring as they are bright.

The distance my sisters had between them, I cannot recall. I don’t believe it was the same 120 paces required for William Tell, however, it did appear to be a wide gap.

Just as my sister Marie was pulling back the string on her bow, ready to let the arrow fly my mother happened to notice both of them from the window. “Marie!” She cried. And my sister let that arrow fly and a second later, that apple was stuck to the tree with my sister Frieda narrowly escaping from beneath it.

Perhaps this is why we have a greater appreciation for Gioachino Rossini. Sure, he’s Italian, but our admiration appears to go even deeper than that.

If you faced our backyard with your back towards our house, the acre of yard stretched out in front of you. At the far end of the yard was a steep hill, maybe 40 feet at its highest point. At the top of the hill was a steel-link fence that surrounded the Emanuel Lutheran Church cemetery.

We climbed that hill all the time, to peer at the “scary cemetery” as the hill was easy to ascend and a cemetery was always a place of mythical curiosity to us.

The hill nested some large, old trees and was littered with thick, sprawling roots, some of which protruded 2 – inches out of the ground. Getting a foothold on those roots made the climb easy.

My four oldest sisters would roll a  55-gallon lidded, metal drum or barrel up the hill. Once, at the top of the hill, they would put my sister Susan, who was about 6 or 7, into the barrel, provide her with a pillow, then close the lid shut. This had to be done by actually kicking the lid closed until it was securely in place.

They would then ask my sister Susan if she was, “Ready,” and my sister would respond, “Ready” from inside the drum. My sisters would then push the drum down the 40 foot hill.

Because the hill was so steep with those protruding roots, which made for a fast, bumpy, air-born ride for Susan until the barrel finally came to a stop in the middle of the yard. My sisters would quickly pry open the barrel, retrieve my sister and the game would continue until Susan had had enough or a responsible adult immediately stopped them.

How could kids be allowed to play such dangerous games? How could parents or neighbors be so irresponsible? Someone could get killed! Yes. But no one did, thankfully, and having to find innovative ways to play was part of our growing up.

We believed in Robin Hood, William Tell, Peter Pan, Capt. James Hook, The Lone Ranger and Tonto, Superman, Captain America and Wonder Woman. And although our heroes’ actions were daring, their deeds for a good cause. We wanted to be like them. We believed we could emulate them and there was never malice in our games.

I often wonder, “My God!, how did we live to tell it!” And although it was, in fact, dangerous to play some of our games, was it any worse than the violence children are allowed to stream into their bedrooms for hours, today? When those video games become their hero-realities and kids search out guns in their own homes to inflict harm on others? When they can no longer discern dying on screen from dying in reality?

Unlike in a video game, people don’t come back when they die. There is no reset button. Today’s protagonists are malevolent and malevolence is the norm; even cool.

I must admit that summers were the best. Looking back, I wouldn’t change anything. Except maybe the day when I realized I wasn’t a boy, and my mother told me that I could no longer ride my bike or spend time outside bare-chested. I had to wear a t-shirt “because you’re a big girl, now.” Devastating.

We rarely played inside our house or anyone’s house. Even in winter weather outside play was expected. Only in the worst rain or snow storm were we hunkered down in our houses.

Of all of our neighborhood friends, I can barely recall the interior of two houses and even then, only one room in each house.

We did not need to tell our parents where we were or where we were going. We were safe in our neighborhoods. At least, safer than kids are today.

We rode our bikes all morning, returned for lunch, then rode again. Returned for dinner and if the sun was still high, we road out again taking advantage of the summer light. We were gone all day.

When the street lights came on or the Main Street West Warwick Fire Station alarm blared out at 8:00 p.m., every kid knew what time it was. Suddenly, as if an invisible stage director were blocking the end of a scene, each actors leaving the stage and on queue, we were homeward bound.

The Journey

A book was sent to me by old-fashioned snail mail. To my work address. Unusual. The package wasn’t from Amazon (or any other online source). It was from the author.

The heartfelt inscription inside informed me he’d read my blog. (Did he read my narrative as a cancer survivor?) He hoped his book would bring me both humor and lift my spirits.

The book’s slightly over 100 pages. Its subject is commuting – commuting etiquette to be exact. Sound mundane? It’s not.

Working for a large global company or self-employed, a significant amount of the working day is spent commuting. For me, that totaled four decades traveling around the world in planes, trains, boats, taxis and cars.

The author of the book draws from “…41 years of observations, mistakes and recollections I’ve made while taking that daily sojourn we call commuting. Whether it was on trains, buses, planes, cabs or cars. (There’s a chapter on those brave souls who ride a bike to work. And are still alive to talk about it.) Read it. Use it. Share it. Talk about it with your fellow commuters.”

So. Here I am. Writing about it.

Before I delve into my impression of the book, I’m compelled to articulate why receiving this book was so remarkable to me.

1. The author, in New Jersey, actually read my blog which I wrote from my laptop in Rhode Island.
That in itself elicits in me both joy and shock.
2. He signed the book, inscribed a personal note, packaged it, wrote the obligatory address and
return address on the package, paid for postage and mailed it.
3. I’ve never met him. And until yesterday, I wasn’t aware of him, his life, or his book (more on
that later).

As most of you know, this blog is about my life journey. My hope is that what I write will help or inspire others. And, to my amazement, this man “got” that. Which is encouraging.

OK, so now the book.

The title is PLEASE LOWER THAT: A Guide to Proper Commuter Etiquette. When I first saw the cover, I thought, “What an odd, yet intriguing title.” And, after reading the inscription and then the Forward, I was all in – hook, line and sinker.

The book’s 22 Chapters document the author’s many personal experiences of commuting. He offers an informative guide to maneuvering those people-to-people situations that could, and have, culminated into an emotional boiling-point.

The reading is easy and fun with enlightenment, humor, and comical illustrations. I found myself laughing out loud, vividly remembering incidents in which I’d been directly involved.

The author is completely transparent by apprising the reader of his own deviant role in some of these situations. So, I consider him an expert on this subject. And by this transparency, I discovered my own commuter lawlessness which made me feel as if we were immediate comrades.

Ah, but there’s more!

More than an instructional guide for commuters the book is a reminder of our own life journey and how our actions and decision-making impact those around us.

There’s no doubt we’ve become a society of abhorrence.

We’re all broken. The divisiveness is palpable in our everyday lives. We don’t always get it right. However, stepping back, breathing, counting to ten, reading this book – whatever it takes – and exerting more effort into being kind to each other lessens the contribution to this sphere of malice.

When we’re being imposed upon, do we decide to “give it back” to those who provoke us, or do we provide some consideration, exhibit some benevolence, knowing their brokenness is also our own?

There’s so much in this world for which we’re powerless. It’s no wonder we become overwhelmed and lose the perspective that peace comes with one person at a time. We do have the power to control our behavior towards others. The others who are on their own journey, their own commute.

Kindness is far-reaching. We never know how one act of kindness may alter a person, a moment, a year, a lifetime for the better.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, my middle-finger salute to the driver who just cut me off or my deliberate bump to the back of the fully reclined airplane seat in front of me – that’s still there. Perhaps it’ll always be. However, as this author reminds me, I do have a choice. And I would do well to implement kindness in an effort to transform the world around me.

I was truly blessed this week with this gift from author/creative director/copywriter, Ron Wachino. His book was a grace, and a much-needed confirmation of what life’s commute or journey is all about. Ron has many gifts, and I give him my sincere gratitude for sharing his writing, his thoughtfulness, and his generosity. I’m including his website in order for you to see for yourself. https://www.ronwachino.com

PLEASE LOWER THAT: A Guide to Proper Commuter Etiquette. Read it. Use it. Share it. Talk about it with your fellow commuters.

Epilogue: I must also give a heap of gratitude to my friend and “the luckiest man in advertising,” David Wojdyla. I almost removed my blog from my website thinking it was silly and a little self-indulgent. It was David who cheered me on to continue to write and add to it. Thank you for that, David. Without you, I may never have known about Ron or his book. I’d say I’m the “luckiest person in blogdom!”

Kindness is far-reaching – this week all the way from New Jersey.

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