THE HILARIOUS COVID-19 PANDEMIC-Connecticut
NOTE: THE PAST TWO PLUS WEEKS OF POSTINGS, FOR THOSE OF YOU JUST GETTING CAUGHT UP NOW, DEAL WITH THE YEAR THE WIFE, THE DOGS, AND YOURS TRULY SPENT ON THE ROAD FROM APRIL OF 2020 THROUGH MARCH OF 2021. AND NOW ONTO TODAY'S ENTRY FROM THAT, AHEM, MAGICAL TIME.
God's Generous Gifts Are Indeed Yours
Am I grateful for what has transpired in my life? You bet, but good God that word is overused, and I'd like to find something else to express my thanks to those who have enriched my 62 years on the planet.
This headline should freak out the LinkedIn hypocrites. You know, the ones I cudgeled beginning two years ago about their allowance of the business social media site to degenerate into Facebook . . . without the charm.
They ignored my entreaties and LinkedIn is now flooded with Trump-bashing, First Woman on the Moon revisionist history, and the nobility of martial law. The last item brings us to present day.
While I refuse to invoke the overused word, grateful, you must know I am. How could I not be? My parents were wonderful people. My siblings the same. My brother and sister have led happy productive lives and are still married to spouse #1. The Youngs should be given a wing in the Smithsonian.
Mom and Dad were married for 62 years. My grandparents were married for 62 years. My sister, Kathi, and her husband Marty Flynn 42 years. My brother, Bob, and his wife, Deborah Nelson, 30. Lee and I have been hitched for 33. Zero divorces. More importantly, zero homicides.
I attended a blue collar integrated high school, where more than a few riots broke out in the early 70s; struggled to pick a major in college; enjoyed a life-changing career as a dancer in NYC; and generated an extremely successful 35 year run in the competitive film production industry; and now am attempting to breach the publishing barrier.
All this with a fab life partner, great friends, and international adventures. How could I not be, again the overused, grateful?
To the title of today's entry for Day 13.
I joined a church (gasp! horrors! change the page!) in 2005 in San Francisco, an actual Christian one (gasp! horrors! change the page!). The pastor, a fine gentleman named David Stecholz came to my house one evening.
We lived in a 3400 square foot, art deco treasure designed and built by a protege of Frank Lloyd Wright named Adam Tarrossian.
David stopped after climbing the 52 steps that led to the front door; spun around to a spectacular view of downtown San Francisco; and turned back to me as a I stood at the door of the house.
"God's generous gifts are indeed yours."
Yes, but I knew he did not mean the house.