Lunch Surprise!

I rarely know what I'm having for lunch on any given day. I pull my lunch bag from the refrigerator in the lunch room at work and open it to find what my lunchtime surprise is for that day.

Allow me to explain in order to quickly put to rest any notion that my mental faculties have deteriorated to the point that I no longer remember what I made for lunch each day. Diane has gotten up with me well before dawn and lovingly made my lunch virtually every day for many years. On occasion she will ask what I want that day, but most of the time I have no idea what I'm having for lunch until I sit at the table and open my lunch bag.

Diane normally puts some special treat at the top of the bag that I take out to have for morning break. It's often some homemade muffin, coffee cake or other special treat. The rest of my lunch waits in the refrigerator for the Noon bell.

My lunch isn't anything fancy. In fact most days my lunch simply consists of a sandwich, some chips or cottage cheese, a piece of fruit and a carton of yogurt. Either the fruit or the yogurt stays in the bag for a snack during my afternoon break, but I dig into the rest for lunch.

I always enjoy my lunch - no matter how simple it may seem - because I am reminded of Diane's loving hands preparing it for me each and every day.

I Can Do It Myself!

It has been said that you can determine who is really your best friend by locking your dog and your wife in the trunk for an hour and then seeing which one is happy to see you when you let them out. I'm quite sure I already know the answer to that question, and I'm glad that is not the true test of determining which one loves me more. That said, it's a wonderful feeling to have a dog that loves me.

I don't doubt that Sadie loves me. She is always thrilled to see me when I get home. (Of course, she's always happy to see anyone when they arrive.) There is also no doubt that I love my dog very much.

For all of her wonderful qualities, Sadie also has a rather annoying habit. She apparently thinks that we are unable to perform routine tasks without her. For example, Sadie will push into the bathroom and lie down on the bath mat while one of us is in the shower if we do not make sure the door is completely latched behind us.

Really, Sadie, I can do it myself!

Sadie is not allowed in the basement. The cats' litter boxes are down there. Anyone with both cats and dogs needs no further explanation. Anyone else can simply use their imagination. We have a baby gate installed in the doorway leading to the basement to keep her from heading downstairs. My newly re-configured workshop also happens to be in the basement. Sadie apparently thinks I am unable to function in the workshop without her so she fidgets at the gate while staring downstairs to make sure I don't get out of her sight. She will slowly sneak down the stairs if I neglect to close the gate behind me. She sits there until I either come back upstairs or fire up any of my power tools. She doesn't like the noise they make so she reluctantly abandons her post when I use them.

Really, Sadie, I can do it myself!

Perhaps most annoying, though, is that Sadie apparently thinks that we are unable to function in the bathroom without her help. She often lies just outside of the bathroom door awaiting our return - her whimpers building as the time passes.

Really, Sadie, I can do it myself!

UNCLE!!!!!

There Ought To Be A Law...

Living ten time zones away from Sochi, Russia has both good and bad points. It's good, because I would rather live in the Upper Midwest than anywhere closer to Sochi. It's bad, though, because it means the Olympic hockey games are on at very strange times.

So, while Team USA is in the midst of pounding the Czech Republic; I am stuck at work - limited to following the game vicariously through periodic text updates from Diane.

There ought to be a law prohibiting companies from expecting their employees to work during an Olympic hockey game.

The Gift Of Languages

I am severely lacking when it comes to linguistics. I failed French, Spanish and German in school. I ran out of languages to fail at that point since the schools had not yet added the variety of languages available to today's students.

I don't really know what it was about foreign languages that stumped me. I simply couldn't get them no matter how much I studied. I suppose I just am not gifted when it comes to foreign languages.

I excelled in English, though. I also flew through Koine Greek, but that's another story entirely.

I didn't even realize how much of a passion I had for English until my college advisor told me I had taken enough English/Writing courses to complete my Minor in English. I hadn't taken them for any particular reason; just because I enjoyed them and used my electives to take English courses. I immediately declared an English Minor and my advisor turned in the appropriate paperwork to mark my minor complete.

My boys did not inherit my language deficiencies. Both of them easily cruised through advanced levels of both high school and college Spanish. Joseph developed such a fluency that he was designated as a Spanish-speaking teller, and then teller supervisor, at the bank where he worked after graduating from college. Many of the bank's Spanish-speaking customers commented that he spoke Spanish as if it was his native tongue.

Matthew, while not as comfortable as his brother in foreign languages, also developed a level of fluency that put me to shame.

I could never even pass the most rudimentary level of a foreign language and here my sons were flying through advanced courses in conversation and literature.

They excelled where I failed.

For some reason, my brain simply couldn't grasp the sounds and inflections of any of the three languages I so spectacularly failed. They just sounded like gibberish. I couldn't even understand people who spoke heavily-accented English. It's as if they were just making up sounds that had no structure or cohesion.

My language failures have become even worse as my hearing suffers from the effects of age and abuse. I am often forced to turn on the closed-captions on television when someone with an accent is being featured. The church we used to attend had a large Spanish ministry. I often found myself standing there feeling foolish as I habitually misunderstood our Spanish-speaking members as they spoke to me (in English, no less)! I did better with our Deaf members because I had managed to learn at least a modicum of American Sign Language, and the Deaf could figure out what I meant even when I botched it up.

But when it comes to spoken langues - I am lost.

I have resigned myself to the fact that my foreign language struggles dating back to seventh grade French class are destined to only get worse in the future.

I'm just not gifted when it comes to languages...

One More Chance

I have often wondered what I would say to Dad if I had one more chance to speak with him. What is the most important thing I would tell him, or what would I ask?

Would I apologize for something in my past?

Would I seek his advice on a matter in my present?

Would I introduce him to my family?

After all, he was gone before I graduated from high school or college; before I got married and before I had kids. He never got to meet Diane or the two young men who now carry on the Brader name.

What if I was told that I could speak with him one more time, but I could only say one thing or ask one question. It could never happen, of course, but what if...

What would I say if I had one more chance.

I have come up with many options through the years, but every time I have thought through it I find my ideas lacking.

I'm pretty sure that, if given one more chance, I would simply say, "I love you, Dad."

If I had one more chance...

Built To Last

I have been accused of over-engineering many of my projects through the years. I strongly disagree. Merely because something is designed and built to withstand virtually anything short of a direct hit from a tactical nuclear weapon does not automatically mean it is over-engineered.

It simply means that it was built to last.

I am reminded of the value of that design philosophy every time I look at the playset in our back yard. I set out to design and build a playset for the boys after we were unable to find a pre-built play system that had the features we wanted at a price we could afford. I (correctly) surmised that I could build a much more robust playset for far less money than the ones commercially available.

So that is exactly what I did.

That playset consists of a massive deck that sits about six feet off the ground. A slide at one end provides a means of rapid egress when needed. The deck is accessed by set of stairs leading to a bridge that leads to another, smaller set of stairs back down to the deck itself. The underside of the bridge serves as the mounting points for a couple of swings and a set of rings. The playset also has a single monkey bar connected to one side.

That playset was a magnet for the neighborhood kids when the boys were young. As the boys grew, it became the "high ground" to be captured and defended as the boys and I acted out massive AirSoft campaigns in the yard.

The playset still stands tall and proud in the yard today; and I'm sure it will stand strong in the yard long after I'm dead and gone. For now, though, it sits idle; ready for any grandchildren that may one day revive the glory of the playset in our back yard.

I'm Getting A Daughter!!!

I was delighted to hear the doctor proclaim not once, but twice, "It's a boy" upon delivering our children. Being the only son of an only son made it very important to me to carry on the Brader name. It's not that I wouldn't have loved to have a daughter, but I'm pretty sure I would have been a terrible dad to a little girl. Diane and the boys even go so far as to accuse me of that based only on how I treat my cat and dog.

I disagree. While I'm pretty sure that I would have struggled as a father of a little girl; I don't think it's because I would have spoiled her. No, I'm pretty sure I would have been viewed as a tyrant father. I don't think she have been allowed to date until she turned thirty and, even then, I would have insisted on being the chauffeur. Any young man casting a glance at her would have been invited to accompany me on a little visit to the shooting range where I would proceed to show him how effectively I am able to handle many types of weapons - all the while chatting with him about the precious treasure that he had expressed an interest in. 

That is, I'm sure, why God gave me two sons and no daughters. 

Until now, that is.

I had been sworn to secrecy regarding Matthew's plans to propose to Shelley. On Friday, though, the secret became public knowledge so I am free to proclaim it to the world.

I'm Getting A Daughter!!!

I don't know the "due date," yet, but I know she's on the way!

Congratulations Matthew and Shelley!!!!! 

Happy Faux Holiday!!!!

I'm pretty sure a prominent greeting card company invented the whole fiasco that Valentine's Day has become in order to separate otherwise prudent men from their money. Virtually every commercial break includes a collection of "special" Valentine's Day ads imploring men to buy their special woman flowers, strawberries, chocolates, jewelry or gigantic stuffed Teddy Bears. Although I must admit that I have not paid a ton of attention, I cannot recall seeing a single commercial encouraging women to head to Cabela's, Bass Pro Shop, Menard's, Farm and Fleet or Rockler to buy their man hunting and fishing gear, tools, lawn and garden toys or woodworking goodies.

No; Valentine's Day is all about coercing men into buying expensive things for their woman.

I'm convinced that it's all part of a diabolical plot conceived by some woman who was looking for something to hold over her husband's head. After all; she wins if the man buys her gifts, and she wins if the man forgets so she can hold it over his head for the next year. It's a win-win for the women and a lose-lose for the men.

All that being said, I am blessed to be married to a woman whose desire for frugality far exceeds her desire for Valentine's Day gifts - or the ability to hold it over my head.

Many other women have also recognized the evil intentions behind Valentine's Day advertisers' intentions and spare their loved ones from the agony of either spending ridiculous amounts of money or enduring their wrath.

I don't need a special day to let Diane know how much I love her. I try to do that every single day - without expensive trinkets. So we're celebrating Valentine's Day this year by going to the Home Improvement show at the Wisconsin Exposition Center this afternoon and then stopping for dinner at Fuddrucker's on the way home. We're hoping to get some great ideas for the next list of projects that will fill my task list.

In the meantime, Happy Faux Holiday to you all!

Southeast Snowmageddon II

Air travel and severe weather never play nicely together. Somehow, it always seems that the weather often infringes on our travel plans.

This phenomenon goes back many years; starting, perhaps, with the mad scramble my secretary had to deal with to get me to Miami for a job when virtually all air travel in Wisconsin was shut down. This was before the days of the Internet, so she had to work with the travel agents and airlines to come up with an alternate plan that forced me to race to O'Hare in order to get to my project in Florida on time.

Our family dealt with weather issues again more recently when Joseph was coming home for Christmas Break during his sophomore year of college. He and his roommate Andrew had made it as far as Cincinnati when they were told that all flights to Milwaukee were shut down and they would be stuck in Cincinnati for at least three days. I began working one plan of attack that would have me driving to Cincinnati - only about six hours away - while Andrew's mother started working the phones with the airlines to look for another option. We figured that I could always stop somewhere along the way if she managed to work something out. Again; through an arduous process of working the phones, she got them onto a flight to Chicago. Diane and I headed to O'Hare to collect the boys and get them home.

There have been other incidents through the years that have sometimes dramatically increased my travel times as I waited out storms or manipulated my itinerary in order to reach my destination. It's rarely that big of a deal for me because I don't often have issues that are so emergent that a delay will cause great strife. That's not always true for everyone else in the family, though.

The severe weather beast raised its ugly head again on Tuesday when the approaching storm in the Southeast caused Delta to cancel all Thursday flights from Milwaukee to Atlanta. As luck would have it, of course, Matthew was scheduled on one of those cancelled flights on one leg of his flight to spend Valentine's Day weekend with Shelley in Greenville.

Fortunately, through the wonder of the Internet this time, Matthew was able to find a flight out of O'Hare Tuesday afternoon that would allow him to beat the storm to Greenville. This required him, of course, to get to O'Hare on relatively short notice.

Have no fear; Dad will take care of it, right?

I (fortunately) didn't have anything too pressing at work so I was able to head home to drive him to O'Hare. Diane offered to drive him, but Diane driving to O'Hare and back would have been a pretty stressful event in her day. Not that I like driving around Chicago, mind you, but it's much less stressful for me than it would be for Diane.

We dropped Matthew off at O'Hare's Terminal 1 in plenty of time for him to make his flight. He did not tell Shelley that he was coming early, so he was able to surprise her by arriving Tuesday instead of Thursday. The bonus time down in Greenville was made even more exciting when the university announced they were cancelling all Wednesday classes and activities because of the impending storm.

Even Southeast Snowmageddon II couldn't put a damper on Matthew's plans to spend Valentine's Day weekend with Shelley - and what a story this will be for the ages!

Life's Seasons

There's an old saying along the lines of, "Youth is wasted on the young."

I suppose that is somewhat true. When we think about the seasons of our lives we often don't even realize that we are living in the spring and summer of life until we have passed on to autumn. Likewise, we often miss out on much of the beauty of autumn because we are reflecting back on the spring and summer, or dreading the coming winter.

Somehow we always seem to be looking back or looking ahead without taking the time to look around.

I don't deny that I'm in the autumn of my life. The carefree days of my youth are well behind me; the days I have left certainly fewer than the days already spent.

I'm okay with that.

My hope is that I will be able to look around and enjoy the beauty that is the changing of the seasons - this period of transition between the sunny, energetic days of the past and the approaching subdued tones of the winter.

Things tend to move at a slower pace in the winter. Our lives are no exception. I watch the actions and antics of young people and catch myself wondering how long I would spend in bed - or the hospital - after attempting to copy them. Of course, with the coming of winter there also (hopefully) comes wisdom to know better than to even try.

There are some who fight the approaching winter with a vengeance; hoping somehow to hold off, or at least hide, the effects of the seasons. I'm sure we all know at least one person like that; the person who whether through medical interventions or clothing selections or hair manipulation or whatever seeks to give the outward appearance that they are still living out the carefree days of summer.

I don't want to hold off the changing seasons. I have earned each and every one of the gray hairs I see in the mirror each morning. Each gray hair brings with it a reminder to enjoy the day and all it brings. I want to embrace the life God has given me here and now no matter how many days I may have left.

Sometimes the little things are big things.

Overall, I really don't think I'm that hard of a person to please.

Now I freely admit that I tend to be a rather picky eater (Diane would argue my modification of picky with rather, but it's my blog so I'm keeping it as a rather picky eater.)

Okay, I also tend to be slightly OCD about my shirts being starched a certain way and always wearing shoes when I am awake and maybe just a touch of OCD tendencies appear in my insistence to have structure in EVERYTHING in my life.

Other than that, though, I'm really not a hard person to please.

Really.

One of my pet peeves (I only have about 3,000 of them) has to do with my tools being where they belong so I can find them the next time I need to use them. Through the couple of decades that we have lived in our home, the basement and garage became a catch all - causing virtually every attempt to find a particular tool to be an exercise in futility and frustration.

Maybe that's just a little thing to most people; but, to me, it was a very big thing.

I got the bug last fall to tackle the garage and basement so I could (once and for all) get things organized so we could find needed items without having to set a GPS waypoint to find our way back from the jungle the storage areas had become. Thus started a carefully choreographed process of organizing and cleaning. I started on the garage one Saturday morning; moving everything from the garage onto the driveway. I assembled some shelves and started the process of bringing things in and putting them away.

This could only go so far, of course, because there were some items in the garage that had to go to the basement; which wasn't ready to receive anything, yet. We got the garage to a semi-finished state so I could turn my attention to the basement. This created another conundrum because I could only get so far with the cleaning and organization down there before coming up with a way to get rid of some stuff.

After much hemming and hawing about how to handle some stuff, we finally got the basement cleaned and installed more shelving down there to allow me to shift my focus to my ultimate goal of getting my workbench cleaned off and organized once and for all. This finally became possible because Joseph, Matthew and Shelley got together and gave me thirty-two beautiful square feet of pegboard, a whole collection of hooks and tool holders in various sizes and a Menard's gift card that I can use to add more goodies to the collection! It's much easier to know what I need when I can see what I have.

I spent a couple of evenings last week running wires and moving light fixtures around to better light up the basement.

Then came Saturday...

Matthew and I hung the furring strips on the concrete wall and fastened the pegboard.

Then I got started on figuring out just where I want to hang all of my tools. I'm sure the configuration will change at least a couple of times before I settle on a final layout, but at least it's a start! I have printed out labels for all of my tools that I will affix to the pegboard where each tool is to hang once I settle on a final configuration. That will make it very easy to determine what is missing when a tool is "borrowed" and not returned to its proper place. It will also make it very easy for whomever "borrowed" the tool to make sure it gets back into the correct place when they finish using it and are diligent about returning it to its proper place.

The next step is moving my table saw down there to complete the workshop.

It may seem like a little thing to you that my tools are now organized, but to me, it is a very, very big thing.

You see; sometimes the little things are big things...

Mulligan!!!

I suppose everyone has a collection of moments in their life for which that they wish they could just call a mulligan and start over.

I'm sure there are a lot of Denver Broncos fans who would make that call on this year's Super Bowl.

I'm sure Blues goalie Jon Casey would have loved to have "done over" that one shot from Steve Yzerman in the second overtime of a game seven playoff game against the Wings in 1996.

There are a lot of things I, too, wish I could just "do over."

I suppose my biggest mulligan wish would be that I had just enjoyed my boys more when they were young. I'm not a "kid person." Don't get me wrong - I loved my boys dearly from the moment they were born - even before they were born - but I didn't really "enjoy" them when they were small.

Diane has always been a baby/little kid person. She continues to work with the infants and toddlers at church to get her weekly fix of little ones while she patiently waits for a grandchild to dote over at some point in the future.

Me, though, not so much. I couldn't wait for the boys to get old enough to carry on "normal" conversations and do other "normal" things.

As a result, I missed out on a lot.

I didn't "enjoy" the moments as they played out.

I lived through them and, in some cases, endured them, but I didn't really "enjoy" them.

There are times when I look back on those days and wish I could just call a mulligan and try it all over again.

That chance is gone forever and now I look back from my middle aged years with regret.

Thanks for the job, Mr. Dierdorf!

While many of my high school friends went to work at various fast food restaurants, I was lucky enough to be hired at the Sears store in Chesterfield Mall. I was hired as seasonal help leading into the Christmas season in 1977. I remember asking the HR person who interviewed me if there was any chance that I could stay on after Christmas; only to be told that the store was already above the corporate quota for part time workers and I would be let go after Christmas. I figured that working for three months was better than not working at all, so I jumped at the job offer she made.

I went through a couple of weeks of training before learning that I was being assigned to the sporting goods department. It was a dream come true! Sears' sporting goods department at that time featured the standard baseball, football and basketball equipment, but it also had guns, hunting supplies, fishing supplies, pool tables and the recently introduced video game systems. The store added a display of ping pong tables and pool tables for the Christmas season.

It was there that I met Dan Dierdorf.

We had a small storeroom and locked gun room in the back of the department where we stored our jackets and personal belongings while we worked. I was cutting through the department to put my jacket away when I passed what had to be the largest human being I had ever encountered. He politely stopped me as I walked past and asked if I worked in the department. I immediately recognized him as Dan Dierdorf, an offensive lineman for the St. Louis Cardinals Football Team. I told him I would put my jacket in back and be right back with him.

Upon my return, Mr. Dierdorf told me he was interested in getting a pool table for his family for Christmas. I was able to answer all of his questions about the various models we offered (good thing I listened during my training sessions in the department), and he ultimately selected one of our slate-topped models. We took care of all of the necessary paperwork for the sale and delivery and he went on his way.

That transaction, though, contributed to me being allowed to keep my job.

Christmas came, and went, and all of the other seasonal help was gradually dropped from the schedule over the next several weeks, but my name continued to appear. I wasn't going to complain, of course, because it meant I still had a job. I kept quiet about it; hoping that my manager simply forgot that I, too, had been hired as seasonal help and was supposed to be let go once the seasonal rush was over. I finally worked up the courage to ask after several more weeks passed, only to be told that the store manager had given her permission to keep me on as a permanent part time employee.

Why?

Well probably not because of my dashing good looks or charming personality; although I'm sure that was a contributing factor.

No, I was kept on partly because I had the highest per-hour sales of any part timer in the entire store each month since I had been hired. My manager had apparently determined that I could sell pretty much anything to anyone. It didn't hurt, of course that I was passionate about the products in the sporting goods department. It also didn't hurt that I would go in to work pretty much any time the HR department called to see if I would be willing to cover a shift in another department for someone who had called in sick or just if a department found themselves short staffed.

I kept that job until I quit to head off to college, and I kept up my sales numbers and my willingness to cover shifts in any department at a moment's notice. Through the years I worked in hardware, paint, men's clothing, televisions, catalog fulfillment, the bike shop, deliveries and candy counter, among other things.

While Dan Dierdorf never gave another thought, I'm sure, to the sixteen year old kid who had helped him purchase a pool table; I always remembered him fondly as the guy whose big ticket purchase contributed to me keeping a seasonal job for several years.

Thanks for the job, Mr. Dierdorf!

Maiden Names

I freely admit that, as a guy, I have it easy in so many ways. The tiniest things earn us big points - like remembering to put the toilet seat down - why women don't just check if the seat is up or down before sitting down is beyond me, but that's a topic for another time - or remembering to take off my wet shoes in the mudroom before I plod through the kitchen.

The fact is, though, that we have a pretty good gig.

One big bonus is that I kept my last name. I had practiced my signature thousands of times as a kid so I would be ready to scribble my name at a moments notice when adoring Blues fans pressed me for an autograph. No one's ever asked for my autograph, but my signature is largely unchanged from my youth - it wasn't legible then and it isn't legible now.

Most women of my generation took on their husband's last name when they got married; forcing them to develop an entirely new autograph.

Then along came Facebook.

If anyone from my past wanted to look me up, all they had to do was type Scott Brader into a search engine and it would bring up a number of people named Scott Brader. It isn't all that hard to figure out which one is me based on the information available. For women, though, friends from their youth who may want to track them down on Facebook have no way of doing that without knowing their married name.

The solution? Simply list yourself on Facebook with both your maiden name and your married name.

Sounds like an easy fix, right?

Well it might be easy, but I will admit that it is one that gives me pause.

One of the most important bits of information an identity thief wants to know is your mother's maiden name. After all, many accounts use a person's email address or their first initial and last name or their entire name as their user id. Knowing that, it's not too hard to click the Forgot My Password link and answer the most common security question which is, of course, What is your mother's maiden name.

This creates the potential for a bit of a quandary. After all, if a woman wants to be found by her childhood friends, then Facebook pretty much requires that you list your name as First Name Maiden Name Last Name. Now the unscrupulous person looks up some potential targets on Facebook and sees that their mother is among their friends; or the mom's posts make it obvious that she's the mom. If she listed her name by the standard format; that unscrupulous person has the mother's maiden name.

Seems like a gigantic security hole to me; and certainly one that opens up a whole world of privacy issues.

I think Facebook needs to modify their personal information to allow people to enter their name in a First Name Maiden Name Last Name fashion that searches on any combination of those names while only displaying First Name Last Name on the news feeds.

Okay, so I'm an anal retentive, geeky sort of person who finds such tidbits of information to be fascinating. Maybe no one cares. Maybe it's not a big deal to anyone else.

But it seems like a big deal to me.

That's my rant for the day.

Keeping America Safe...

Victoria is a young lady Diane and I had in our church youth group. She is also one of my Facebook friends. I enjoy how Facebook allows me to follow the lives of some of the young people we have had the privilege of leading through the years. Victoria's recent posts serve as a reminder to me of the sacrifices many of America's young people make every day to make our lives better.

Victoria's parents were both in the military and Victoria and several of her siblings followed in their parents' footsteps and entered the military, as well. While she never puts enough detail in her posts to give away where she is going or has been, I have been able to surmise she has been deployed several times to regions that I am happy to avoid.

Many of her posts include inside jokes or comments that are completely lost on someone like me who has never served in our military. Many of her posts over the past year, though, have been a profound reminder of our service men and women's commitment to keeping America safe. One such post last week really touched my heart and has gnawed at my mind to the point that I decided I had to write about it.

Last week was Victoria's second wedding anniversary. She married another soldier. I have never met Anthony. I have watched Victoria's posts over the last year as she counted down the months, weeks and days until she could be with Anthony again. You see, for half of their married life, Anthony has been deployed.

I have no idea where Anthony's deployment has taken him other than to know that he is far from his bride. Oh, sure, today's technology lets them talk to each other from time to time and they can send messages back and forth in near real time. But it's not the same as being able to look into your loved one's eyes; to hold their hand; to feel their breath on your cheek or the beating of their heart as you embrace. No, Victoria and Anthony have had to forego those things that most of us take for granted every day because they are keeping America safe.

Victoria's posts over the past year have reminded me that the millions who serve, or who have served, have sacrificed much - many having given the ultimate sacrifice - all in the name of keeping America safe. While we collectively remember their service each year when Memorial Day or Veteran's Day rolls around; they serve 365 days per year. Victoria's posts about her anniversary passing with her husband many miles away just served to remind me that we need to be mindful of those who serve not just on their "special days" but each and every day as they set aside their personal lives and are separated from their families all in the interest of keeping America safe.

One Task At A Time

Sometimes it's hard not to feel overwhelmed by the seemingly endless list of things I need to accomplish. Whether at home or at work, it seems like my list of things to do grows at a rate exponentially proportional to the number of items I actually check off said list. Perhaps it's due to the fact that every task I undertake seems to reveal a number of other tasks that either must be done in order for me to complete my initial task, or tasks that now should be done to keep up with what was already done.

Just once I wish I could start - and subsequently finish - a task without a myriad of other tasks suddenly being added to my list.