As I grew older, I learned that people outside my dream world were not as kind or as caring as they had first seemed. In fact the worst attributes of some of the worst people started to take a toll on what I thought was an impenetrable world. When I snapped out of my dream state and painted the world in a color not as rosy as the original color chosen, I found the ideal slowly drifting away. To date, all attempts to fix it completely have been in vain.

Today, age 42 I look back and think fondly of the dream. So much life has happened since the dream began in the open expanse of rural Wyoming but still my mind returns to the kinder and more care free days. I am an idealist to a fault or so I characterize myself. I love ‘love’ and all aspects of it. I can get teary eyed when I think of how John Lennon was killed. I can become deeply saddened by the injustices of the world. I long for days when we, all of us can look at one another without judgment, fear, resentment or jealousy. We are all we have but we are more than who we think we are.

I wish to give you back a dream, THE dream that so many have held dear since the dawn of civilized man. In these days when we seem to be moving forward in reverse I ask that perhaps strides can be made in genuine forward motions. As Aesop once said, no act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.

As I also subscribe to the author's Facebook page, I became aware of the annual Tudor Ghost Story contest. I entered a story and though it did not win, I am posting my entry here for you all to enjoy. Thank you for reading and for further reading please click on the Tudor Ghost Story link to enjoy the winning entries -- they are both very well written.

"The Abbey and the Yews"
an original shorty story by Benny Hill

My name is Charles Michael and I am a freelance writer for a more than mediocre but less than exceptional occult magazine The Spirit Within. I am often given assignments to follow up on claims of ghost sightings or anything that may pertain to the supernatural. The work can be tedious and the rewards often slim for I have yet to encounter a genuine spirit or be amazed by anything that cannot be explained by common logic. That aside, it is a decent job when it comes to pay and hours so I stick with it.

One very convenient benefit is I work in a home office. This old desk built from solid oak has been with me since I was a child and over the years has absorbed my eclectic personality. Antique leather books are stacked neatly in the small cubbies and I find myself taking them out now and again just to engage my sense of smell with the musty odor these treasures provide. I reach for a framed newspaper article and grin at the younger version of myself staring back at me. I was twenty in this photo and ready to take on the world. The headline Sedalia’s Own Charles Michael Wins National Writing Award has faded a bit over time along with the youth of the young man in the photo. Still, it brings back wonderful memories and since I am not one to live in the past I am content to leave that young dreamer there in his moment in a frame on a shelf.

Beyond all of my writing paraphernalia lives an old fashioned answering machine with a red light that has been blinking incessantly for hours. I stretch my finger to the play button and attempt to mentally prepare for the inevitable trip to small town USA to stay in a haunted room or something similar. Beep “First message, left today at 5:45 a.m.” (You were up early) “Hi Charles, this is Kristen…. How are you this morning?!” (You are way too cheery to be an editor of an occult magazine.) “Anyway, you are probably still in bed.” (Yep, I was) “So, yeah, I got a call from a good friend who lives in England and it got me thinking.” (England? This could actually turn out to be interesting) “We have not done any pieces on English ghosts for a while now. I would like it if you could head to a place called York. Apparently, Queen Catherine Howard’s ghost – you know one of Henry VIII’s wives – can be seen in a place called King’s Manor! Isn’t that so cool?” (Cool?) “Anyway, go check it out will ya? You do have a passport right?” (Yes) “When you arrive in York and get settled in, give Ian Heworth a call. His number is 01904-542 – 034. Did you get that?” (Yes, but I know you will repeat it again) “I will repeat it again. 01904-542 – 034. Thank you Charles and let me know how it goes! Have fun; take in some sites while you are there. Talk soon! Bye!”

Well this certainly is different than the Middle America trip I usually take. I have not been to England in years nor have I ever managed to make it to York or anywhere in the north. Yorkshire is meant to be quite wonderful. A mental checklist of all I would like to do during this trip begins to form as I wait on hold with British Airways. If a writer ever needed quality inspiration, England should definitely provide it. I must make the most of this trip and considering the flight is ten hours, I can load up my Kindle with everything regarding the history of York and particularly the lovely Tudor Queen Catherine Howard.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have started our descent and will soon be landing in London Heathrow.” (Oh, how I do love the British accent) “The captain has turned the fasten seat belt sign on and we ask at this time you stow away any portable electronics you may have been using during the flight.” (Off goes the Kindle and I am disappointed at how little I ended up reading. Too much excitement to concentrate I suppose) “We thank you for flying British Airways.” The vast expanse of green comes into view along with the clusters of houses. It sure does beat the dull brown I left behind. The landing is smooth and before I know it I am standing in the queue (best get used to saying things as the Brits do) to get my passport stamped. Now outside I am delighted that Kristen booked a car for me. She may have too much energy for my taste but she does look after me. With a slam of the car door, I am now on my way to York.

The trip is nearly five hours and I am thankful to finally arrive at my little bed and breakfast. Kristen insisted I should stay at the Royal York Hotel but I had to respectfully decline. After reading in the online brochure that the hotel was originally built to accommodate the aristocracy of the North, I knew it would not be for me. A simple bed and breakfast was more down to earth and more my style. As I was checking in I grabbed a few of the pamphlets of places to visit while in York. A photo of one destination captured my attention – Fountains Abbey. With the keys to my room, I scooped up the brochure along with a couple of others and settled in for the evening.

After a very lively conversation with Kristen and a more formal one with Ian Heworth, I was able to finally relax and think about the days ahead. Ian wanted to meet in the town center in the morning and go over the game plan for the story but I put it off. I love to immerse myself into a story completely and what better way to do that than to discover the area and get to know some history first. After all, if the story is to be of Catherine Howard, a trip to Fountains Abbey would certainly be a great tie in considering this is one of many abbeys destroyed during King Henry’s Dissolution of the Monasteries. Of course I did not know that until now as I read through Wiki pages and fan pages devoted to this period of time. Perhaps it is the jet lag, lack of sleep or over excitement but I felt something odd and peculiar come over me as I drifted off to sleep. The room was no longer warm and inviting and the décor faded in and out from modern to something from a period drama. In the end I put it down to drifting in and out of consciousness for the next thing I knew I was indeed in the comfort of the B&B with a clock radio announcing it is 7:00 a.m. and time to get up.

I often heard about how quaint and proper English bed and breakfasts were but now I can fully appreciate the concept. My breakfast was already being cooked and as I inhaled the tantalizing aroma of bacon and eggs, my stomach harshly reminded me that I have not eaten since the small meal on the plane. The plate of food was so welcome I greedily devoured it. As my plate is taken away, Chris, the owner informs me that my cab to take me to the bus terminal is waiting for me. With a last swig of juice, I am out the door and looking forward to my bus trip to Ripon and then a second bus to Fountains Abbey.

With the rolling hills and so much green, Yorkshire is a nature and history lover’s dream. When I finally arrive at Fountains Abbey I am taken aback by the sacredness of where I am standing. This abbey has been around since the twelfth century – 1132 to be exact as prominently printed on the guidebook. I had no idea there were different types of monks. I was familiar with the Benedictine monks but until now never heard of Cistercian monks.

Each step I made within the grounds and among the ruins felt like a step back in time. As I attempted to take it all in, it occurred to me why I took the job of writing for an occult magazine. I have always been in tune with the spiritual realm. It is my belief that there are worlds beyond our current time far reaching into the depths of the universe. Despite this I have recently found myself closed off to these worlds in favor of the commercial aspect of “ghost hunting”. Being here now has renewed my faith and respect for all that cannot be explained in our modern times.

There are not many people here today which suits me fine. There is a majesty to the ruin that not only captivates but humbles and it amazes me how anyone could possibly destroy such a place as this. As I approach the outer walls an eerie stillness envelopes me. My hand reaches toward the ancient stone and the cold air from last night returns. I am not that tired so what could be happening? My hand has not moved from the stone and the sun that had once blanketed the world around me disappeared. I was no longer standing in the grass gazing upon a ruin but in the middle of a room. Judging by the shape of the room and considering where I was standing before, I believe I was standing in the middle of the warming house. I have passed out during a tour of Fountains Abbey I thought to myself. I really need to wake up before I make a spectacle of myself.

An ember from the fireplace escaped and landed on my foot. This should do it I thought. Not only was I not jolted awake but I was now in pain from my foot being burned from the hot ember. I brushed it away and all at once was frightened and confused. My hand was touching a wall and now I have… gone… back…… in…. time? “I brought you here.” The deep rich voice from behind me broke my spell and though I knew I should turn around I was frozen. Sensing this, the man walked in front of me. “Do not be afraid. My name is Brother Francis Hill and I am one of the monks here at the abbey.” “Sure you are. Come on, what is happening here?” “There is not much time. Hurry!” Dream or no, I did not want to remain in this room so I promptly followed Francis.

Where once there was no sound and stillness, there was now tension and the loudness that accompanies a scene of panic. Men were running everywhere, orders were being shouted. “Gather this! Don’t let them get that!” Francis was disappearing into the mix and I had to hurry to catch up. Through a small door we exited the abbey and soon were near a river. “Sit here quietly and I will explain.” I could not wait to hear this. If this was part of the dime tour, I was very impressed.

I gazed at Francis in the hope I could memorize every feature. I was still convinced this was a dream despite it all and I felt it integral to catalog every detail. It was rather disarming to see the mortal fear in his eyes and his inability to gain composure. Try as he might to pull himself together, he soon collapsed to the ground, brought his knees to his face and wept. I felt if I stared I would take away from what dignity he had left so I canvassed the area surrounding the abbey. My eyes rested on the outer wall where only moments ago my hand was resting on a ruin. Tourists were replaced by robed men and then it happened.

I can recall a scene from the movie Braveheart where Mel Gibson was explaining the threat of ‘heavy horse’. Though the film did a good job of depicting the intensity of a heavy horse attack, I realize now that it is one hundred times more impressive in real life. These were King Henry VIII’s men. Well, actually, they were Cromwell’s men carrying out the order of King Henry. They surrounded the building and made several announcements that struck terror into the hearts of these poor monks. “King Henry is dissolving this monastery and anyone that opposes shall be put to death.” This they believed with fervor for they had heard what happened to the deposed abbot William Thirsk who joined the Pilgrimage of Grace. “Now leave!”

Francis’ face grew pale, the tears streamed slowly down his cheeks and his eyes carried sadness like I have never seen. He rose and walked slowly away until we came to a group of yews and he sat again. “I brought you here as I said before. I do not know or even why but I was able to see you. I knew what was coming and the vision of you standing outside this great abbey and the intensity of your touch called out to me. I did not know what I was gazing upon. I thought perhaps you were the answer to a prayer and perhaps one who could save us and this monastery but you are not, are you? They came and seized the abbey just as they have done elsewhere. Why then? Why were you there? Who are you?”

This was becoming far too real for me now and I could not very well speak the truth. I knew there would be no acceptable way of explaining it. Francis’ eyes were pleading. I do not know how the ghost of this man was able to reach into a time 472 years into the future. Ghost? I had no answers. “I… ummm.. I… perhaps I… You said you brought me here? How did you bring me here?” This question took Francis by surprise and fear again struck his face. “I was praying. I was praying for a miracle. For something, anything, anyone to save us. I prayed like I had never prayed before. I closed my eyes and for a moment it seemed I was asleep. I could see the abbey broken apart and in ruin. Ghostly figures walked on this sacred ground where my brothers were studying, worshipping, gardening.” Francis’ voice became more frantic and tears again formed in his eyes. I tried to comfort him but it was in vain. Forcing each syllable he continued. “We… we… we heard of the dissolution but could not believe it. We are…. We were a devout order but we…. “ His voice began to taper off and through sobs he managed to say “We lost our way.”

Francis started having difficulty catching his breath. “I …………. Thought…………. I thought if I prayed hard enough we could be saved.” Again he pressed, “WHO ARE YOU?” If I reveal the truth I may shake his faith further. I tried my best to appease this poor, broken man. “Perhaps I am just a messenger. In the realms of dream and reality there is sometimes a convergence. I may be existing in this convergence and represent one who can set your mind at ease brother. You have done a great service to your fellow man and to God. There is no blame and this is not a punishment. Your prayers reached far beyond your time and fell upon this man who stands before you now. I did not come to stop the evil but to comfort the man affected by it. You will find a new home and rejoin those who have survived this senseless atrocity.”

Francis began to breathe easier and soon even stopped crying. I continued. “King Henry has been ill advised and history may reflect that one day. The ghost of this abbey and even the ghosts of those men who so willingly gave their lives to God may very well continue to reside here for eternity. My being here at your beaconing is a representation of something beyond both of our comprehension. Know this though. When I return to where I belong and you remain here I will carry with me the story of this day as will you. You can share your story and perhaps rekindle a faith that had once died in favor of complacency and greed. Coincidentally, I could do the same.”

Francis rose and put his hand upon my shoulder. “I shall make my leave now but as you say I shall carry with me the events of this day. The abbey is but a mass of timber and stone and does not represent what or who we are or were. Our energy shall remain long after our bodies return to the earth and souls to heaven. There is great comfort in that. I thank you.” As Francis walked away I began to walk toward the river and lay down to gaze at the sky. The rain began to fall and I opened my eyes. The abbey was once again a ruin and now I am left wondering. I could not have dreamed all this. As my mind raced I turned around just in time to catch a glimpse of a man looking very much like Francis disappearing in the distance. I turned the other direction to see a once proud abbey transform into the ruin we all see today.

These events have been captured as I remember them and long may they be a message to all through the ages. In closing, I leave you with these words from Fountains Abbey : the Story of a Mediaeval Monastery by George Hodges:

Only the yews look down from their gentle hill upon the broken walls. There they were when the monks came, a little adventurous company, to begin their life of seclusion and prayer. Their leaves were green when the Abbey rose in splendour, and mitred abbots walked in their shadow. They saw the expulsion of the convent and the ruin of the monastery. They are a symbol of the persistence of the quiet, elemental forces amidst our human chance and change.

I am generally a very optimistic person. Life is an amazing gift and I have a perfect appreciation for the innocuous simplicity overlooked by many. So, the question I have is why 'the things I cannot change' overwhelm me? Being human, this is a normal reaction of sorts and for the most part can be expected. Beyond this and diving deeper, I attribute my sensitivity to my fear of becoming apathetic. Just as I think the whirlwind of negative emotion has spun out of control, something wonderful happens that puts me back on track.

Today at 05:55, I was pumping gas on my way to work. I never look forward to my commute which is -- on a good day -- ninety minutes. Because of the hour and the shop attached to the gas station was closed, I expected to see no one. Parked away from the gas pumps was a man and wife perhaps in their late 60's organizing items in their car. Perhaps they were preparing for a trip of sorts but all I know is they had a small dog and they were letting it run around freely and I immediately became annoyed because I had to inch up to my pump in fear of hitting it. When I got out -- still annoyed -- I was greeted to a loud GOOD MORNING! I extended a good morning myself though with no emotion or sincerity behind the words. "Life is great and flawless!" he exclaimed. I responded with well for some I suppose. With that he smiled, opened his car door to get in and said "Well, better than being miserable!"

Yes, indeed. I cannot recall how many times I have actually wanted an encounter such as this. You know, someone greets you with enthusiasm and you return the greeting in return and maybe exchange a bit of small talk. After all, it helps cement the human connection we all need. Today -- due to my indifference -- I dismissed this man. As I drove away and made my way to work, I realize that this encounter was a gift. I believe in God and therefore attribute this gift from him/it/her. It is a great reminder of the words I should find myself muttering day after day.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.

Getting back to Sam. As I walk down the 16th Street Mall of Denver, she approaches me, thrusts out her hand and says in a very confident, spirited voice, “Hi, I’m Sam.” I reply with telling her my name. Sam then proceeds to tell me that our names are a lot alike. “They are?” I ask. “Yes, they are each one syllable and a vowel in the middle.” This amuses me and admittedly I like her sales technique. She asks where I am headed and I indicate a book store. “Do you think everyone should be able to read?” “Of course.” “That’s great.” My curiosity which has been piqued throughout this perfunctory dialogue was finally satisfied when she told me about how I could sponsor a child in a third world country.

As I said, I liked her technique and if I am being completely honest I have thought of the whole child sponsorship thing before. Saying that, I am not one to make a hasty decision and I was not about to fill out all my personal details on a clipboard in the middle of downtown. I told her I will look it up online and make my decision that way. Not one to back down – which I did really find admirable – she indicated we could look at the site right now on her phone. I declined and said “I can bring it up on my own phone and I am honestly not blowing you or this off. I will have a deeper look when I have the opportunity.”

Once I got home I kept to my word. I looked up Children International on the web and of course the site is as you would expect. There is an opportunity to sponsor children from Chile, Columbia, Dominican Republic, Ecuador, Guatemala, Honduras, India, Mexico, Philippines or Zambia. This is a representation of some of the poorer nations in the world. Now I am faced with a dilemma. Should I or should I not? I really do try not to be cynical but it is becoming more and more difficult in this day and age. There are reports all the time of misappropriated funds or perhaps even more deplorable, funds and aid that is meant to get to “XYZ” country ends up in the hands morally bankrupt individuals. Case and point – aid for the Haiti earthquake victims. The starving then remain starving and possibly die thus the cycle continues.

Here is another part of the dilemma. I love to help others and I think deep down, the vast majority of our population does too. Some people have taken advantage of this and pray upon our giving nature to line their own pockets. That aside, I could not find any real evidence that Children International belongs to this group of nasty organizations. They appear quite legitimate actually. This adds more favor to the “should I” category.

Perhaps I am over-analyzing this but here is another aspect that plays on my mind. Granted these countries are filled with very impoverished people and my heart goes out to them. All of the things we take for granted every day such as clean water, healthy food and an education could very well be considered luxuries to children of these countries and that of course plays upon the empathy of not only me but so many others. So, what’s the problem? Well, when downtown today, if I would have walked 20 blocks one direction and a few more in another, I would have found myself at the Denver Rescue Mission. While it is true, the seemingly majority of those you will find in this part of town are drunks, there are also families. They lack access to most of the things Juan lacks access to in Chile. Should I not help those in my own community before I reach out to someone a few thousand miles away? Perhaps I could do both?

When I started this post I was hoping the cynical side of me could be set aside a little by the time I ended the post. It seems to have worked. I will help a child in Chile but I am also going to help families locally. I will keep you updated on the progress.

I examine all the buttons to find what must be a hidden lower level of operation which would result in less noise without success. Was this some sort of conspiracy by the manufacturer or perhaps a cruel joke? My mind played out a scenario of greasy haired engineers sitting in a room examining the plans for their creation. Then a German voice – not sure why the voice ended up being German really as this was an American made fan – exclaimed “But you know Hans, many people will utilize zis fan at night when trying to sleep.” “Ya” agreed Hans. “Soooo, would it not be a hoot if we tweaked it just so resulting in black noise as opposed to white noise?” “Oh, ya, ya” agreed Hans while trying very hard to control his laughter. This of course probably was not true but I need something to substantiate why this thing is so damned loud.

Click! There, the fan is off. Even without power, the blades continue to rotate and after a few minutes come to a complete stop. Immediately the oppression of the relentless trapped heat returns. I could open a window but the air outside is still so there would be no benefit of a draft. I plopped myself on the bed and just stared at the ceiling. The sweat from my forehead converged and began trickling down my face. I did not wipe it away though the sensation was irritating. Eventually my hand eradicated the sweat and I got up and opened the window and stuck my head outside. The noise of the city below screamed out and I was reminded of the other reason I kept the windows shut. I really do loathe noise.

This is not for me. It is not the fan nor the heat that is keeping me up. It is the constant reminder that I am in a place where I do not belong. I am cool evenings in quiet country air. My soul cries out for the simple and I have landed into the foreign complex. I thought I could embrace the city life. The exchange of simplicity over money and success was not at all a fair deal. I have given up too much. With a thud of a closed window, I have blocked it all out again. I then turned to my trusted new friend I rescued from a neighborhood yard sale. Click. With the air being chopped, the sound no longer grated but transformed into the roar of an airplane engine. I am going home.

All is calm, all is bright

This is the second year our little family has spent the holidays in Colorado away from our usual traditions and visits with family and friends. For this reason alone, I believe they lack the luster and sentiment of those spent in previous years. Still, I believe the narrator in How the Grinch Stole Christmas said it best with Christmas time will always be, just as long as we have we. Though it was just us three, we were still blessed.

It seems a bit strange to talk about holidays now that they are over. All the decorations are gone, lights extinguished and there are parking spaces available once again at the shops. Despite this, the feelings still linger – well at least for me they do. I did not accomplish what I had hoped for this holiday season. I wanted to reach out beyond myself and help others. Now that I think about it and put the thoughts to the screen, I realize how cliché this is. It is primarily at certain times of year that we wish to help others the most. Once the ‘season’ passes, so do most of our intentions. Perhaps my lack of time during the holiday season to do anything has presented an opportunity.

For those who subscribe to the Christian/Pagan aspects of the season, Christmas should symbolize a time to practice compassion and promote peace toward one another. For the most part, many of us are successful in this endeavor. We perform our good deeds and once the tree is packed away so are our good deeds for the year – for most of us. I have opted to apply for a Christmas extension. Christmas is just the name I will give it for sake of marketing and promotional value. I just need to commit myself to doing something and this may require some thought. My previous manager who is also a pastor at a church suggested donating my IT services to those in need. That to me sounds like a good idea.

I realize a lot of people read this blog and for that I thank you. I would like to take this moment to give a personal thank you to Marita who has recently brought about a great discussion on my previous post. To Jared, Jared, Reagan and Jacqui, thank you for your patience in between posts. To Jo, please send an e-mail with baby pictures.

To all these people and everyone else, I would like to give back during this extended Christmas season by offering a free website to a nonprofit group. If anyone knows of anyone who is in need, please have them contact me via this post. I am standing by, waiting to help.

Until next time – which I promise will not be three months – I wish you all a blessed and joyous new year.

Ben

The train had not gone very far and I noticed tears streaming down your face. Was it the music you were listening to? Did something happen at school? Perhaps you recently broke up with someone and the song that you were listening to brought back memories of the two of you together and it became too much to bear at that moment. What if it was something else? What if you found out you were failing a class and perhaps were in danger of losing scholarship money or worse failing out of school completely?

As tear after tear fell on your black pullover, I wanted to ask you if you were okay. I wanted to provide even the smallest amount of comfort just to let you know that one person in a sea of strangers noticed you were upset and cared. I did nothing though. I just sat there, perplexed why I did not reach out to you. I would like to think it is because if I would have reached out to you, I would have brought attention to the fact you were crying and did not want to embarrass you. I really would like to think that. That may be a large part of why I did nothing but if I am honest, another reason is because there seems to be a sociological barrier preventing the reaching out to your fellow human being sometimes.

If I am even more honest, I should say I did not want to bring attention to myself. In my mind, I rationalized my silence by playing out what would have happened if I would have leaned forward, placed a hand on your shoulder and asked if you were okay. You would have looked up, embarrassed, removed one ear bud, wiped away a tear, said you were fine and then lowered your head again. Not knowing what else I could do, I would have sat back and the rest of the trip may have been awkward.

I have named you Lucy after a song that plays often in an iTunes mix I created. Though you will most likely never read this article, I wanted to put out there in the world that I have created an alternate ending to that day. I ended up reaching out to you and there was no awkwardness or embarrassment. Instead, you looked at me with tear filled eyes very grateful. I asked if you needed anything and you smiled and said you would be okay. I would have been willing to exit the train and take you for a coffee if you were in need of someone to talk to. You would have seen my motives were sincere and honorable. There may have been no need for a coffee but you did smile and were very appreciative of the concern from a total stranger.

Lucy, I hope that when you exited the train, your evening was better than your day. I also hope that whatever was upsetting you came to pass. I may see you again one day and when I do I hope you are smiling, laughing and enjoying life. Be rest assured If I do, I will reach out – if anything just to say hello and offer a smile.

Standing calmly at the crossroads with no desire to run. There is no hurry any more when all is said and done.

It is easy to lose our way and when all is said and done, all that matters is finding the path that brings hope, kindness and love to all. The scenes I see unfold on the television can easily bring about a loss of hope to the point where tuning it out seems to be the only option resulting in a plague of apathy. I strive daily to find examples of compassion and kindness and I find myself disappointed more often than not. Despite wading through all that is wrong with mankind, it only takes one moment of unsolicited goodness to restore my faith.

I am not alone in my over appreciation of discovering kindness. Would you like to perform an interesting experiment in human behavior? Perform random acts of kindness and study the reactions of those you help. The other day, when at the doctor's office, a mother was balancing her sick child and paperwork she was filling out. Two hands proved ineffective for baby and papers and the papers fell to the floor. Attempting to position her child in a way that would allow picking up the papers, I approached her, picked up the papers, gave her a smile, said hi to the child and went back to my seat. When thanking me, it was the type of 'thank you' that said, not many people would care enough to do that. In fact, others sitting around the woman simply stared as she struggled.

I do not want to live my life disconnected from those around me. I confess I do not always hold this same disposition and if I were in a hurry and were to walk by this woman, it is possible I would not have stopped. Not stopping would have upset me for the rest of the day however. When standing at the crossroads, there should not be any hurry to chase an itinerary and be consumed by self. Imagine how the world would be if instead when standing there we did so calmly with no desire ahead of us apart from immersing ourselves in the moment no matter what that may be. Perhaps we could offer another directions, a shoulder or an ear. What of the beauty around us? How often do we carry on not appreciating the beauty of the world -- trees, a breeze, flowers, animals, birds, fragrances?

May the scenes of the world unfold a bit differently for you today. Let us cherish and hold onto one another and embrace all that is good in the world. We can perpetuate this and perhaps lessen some suffering and celebrate the good that has begun. It is something we an all take pride in . . . . when all is said and done.

Imagine if THIS was a headline:

This is a framed photo hanging in the restaurant. I looked up the name Pizzicheria De Miccoli in Google and it is a real shop in Siena. Here is the information Google gives: Richly scented, de Miccoli has windows festooned with sausages, piled-up cheeses and porcini mushrooms by the sackful. Sounds wonderful! I would like to thank Jason for letting me use his photo for this blog post. Please visit his site to view this and several other wonderful photos by this gifted photographer.

To fully enjoy this article, I recommend listening to this track by Santo & Johnny while you read:
Sleepwalk

Eleven o'clock roles around and it is time to start thinking of lunch. Like most office employees, the need to exit the office and take in some outdoor air is compelling. The sounds of clicking keys, the drone of the air conditioner and the phone ringing are replaced by the healing sounds of birds singing and leaves rustling in the wind. The harsh fluorescent lighting is left behind for sunshine and blue skies.

Most days, I enjoy taking a walk to my favorite bench, closing my eyes and immersing myself in the natural sounds around me. I bring my Nook and for the next hour I enjoy peace and quiet. Other days, I take off with some friends for a bite to eat. Fast food restaurants were the norm until we discovered a charming pizzeria near the local mall.

The name is Street Legal Pizza and the reputation of the delectable slices of pie preceded the best part of eating at this restaurant. When you walk in, you are greeted by what I would consider Italian music standards. Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin or perhaps a bit of opera sets the mood almost instantly. The pizzas are being prepared fresh and as the dough is thrown into the air, the aroma of fresh cooked cheese and pepperoni entices the senses. I tend to order the two slices of pepperoni lunch special. These are huge slices with ample pepperoni and every bite is euphoria to the taste buds. To drink, I enjoy the Italian Ice Tea which is made of ginger ale and fresh mint leaves. This provides the perfect tonic to wash down the pizza.

The restaurant is small but cozy and the decor consists of all things Italian and vintage Americana. I love the vintage bike that sits proudly above the oven and the collection of football (soccer) jerseys representing the greatest local teams of Italy. The jukebox that is immediately to your right when you walk in still works. Recently we asked about this beautiful machine and we enjoyed the story of how this sat in the owner's house as he grew up. When adding a few quarters for tracks such as Sleepwalk by Santo & Johnny or some Johnny Cash, the normal music is turned off so we can enjoy a custom soundtrack while we eat.

I am proud to say we escape to Street Legal Pizza an average of three days a week. For sixty minutes out of our day, we are no longer tech support reps but visitors to a New York Italian ristorante. The attention to detail provided by the owners really does make Street Legal more than a place for a slice of pizza.

A small photo gallery of this wonderful restaurant:

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I picked up this postcard at the truckstop where we had breakfast. I would love to find this location one day. Beautiful isn't it?

I am not sure how many people read this blog. I know my friend from Australia checks in along with Jared from New Zealand and a friend from Oklahoma. Does anyone else check in to see if I have updated? If so, I would love to hear from you. To my regular audience, hi there and I hope all is well. Before I had the chance to publish this article, a good friend of mine Jared from Arizona is also reading. Nice one!

I last spoke of my trepidation when it came to raising my son. I do have a follow-up for that entry but that continuation will come later. This entry actually relates to the topic and I hope you all enjoy it.

On Sunday, the 13th of June I decided to take my son on a bit of a road trip. Because my wife has to work on Sundays, it is just he and I together. I am very conscious of how much work I am doing these days and I thought it would be great if not absolutely necessary to hit the road with some one on one time with my son. I had rather ambitious plans to travel to the Comanche Grasslands. MapQuest said it was only 4 ½ hours away and I thought I could make the round trip, no problem. We set out at 9:00, so thought we would get home around 6:00 or 7:00.

Rolling Farm Land on a Rainy Day (Taken with Olympus E-3 and 50-200 lens). Post processing via Lightroom.

Leaving Highway 86 and entering I-70 I was hoping I would find somewhere to eat before getting on 287 South and as luck would have it, there was a Flying J near the exit for 287. I love these truck stops. The food in the café is always great and they have unique gifts in the shop. I enjoyed some heavenly maple cured bacon while Drew was in heaven with strawberry and banana pancakes topped with some whipped cream. After, we looked around the shop and I found a couple toys to help occupy the time needed for the trip ahead.

Highway 287 led us into the beautiful flat country of Southern Colorado. Every mile that was clocked meant we were further away from the business of the cities and becoming immersed in the rural communities. We drove through several towns not stopping but finally near Springfield, I had a decision to make. It was near 3:00 and we were still an hour away from the Grasslands. In the end, I thought it best to head towards I-25 and saw on the map that Highway 160 just south of Springfield would take me there.

I have to say that this road is one of the most beautiful I have ever travelled. Despite not actually making it to the grasslands, the vistas afforded me on this road more than compensated. Shortly after entering Highway 160, I noticed a dirt road that led into some farmland. In the distance dark rain clouds were interweaving with the sunlight and with this soft light touching the wheat, I thought this would be my best photo opportunity of the day. This time Drew came with me and he went running through the wheat fields while I tried to capture the beauty around me with my camera. At the end of this entry will be some of the photos from this wonderful diversion.

Ever conscious of the time, we set out again and headed straight into the storm that I saw brewing in the distance. I do wish I had got out and captured what was before me. The clouds were amazing and I was all alone on this road. I could have got out and stood in the middle of the highway and got some amazing shots. Maybe another time.

Highway 160 was a long but wonderful drive and as I drove I realized that the time I had right then and there could not have been more perfect. The whole trip was replaying in my head and I could not help but smile. Swallows coming within inches of my truck gobbling up all the moths that were out, the rain and most importantly the time with my son all replayed in a moment of present and recent past.

Just outside of Trinidad where I stopped for gas and prepared to get on I-25 to take me home, my son began his “can I touch this” questions. I love it when he asks me what he can and cannot touch. It is his way of determining what is safe and what is not. Ladybugs, ants, bees and dinosaurs are usually his favorite things to ask about. This time, he asked if he could touch Godzillas. I could not help but laugh and simply answered, if he is a nice Godzilla, then yes.

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