conspicuouscandor

So, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what we’re missing.  You know…in the hectic hustle of today’s routine, what aren’t we seeing?

For example…have you looked around at a traffic light lately?  Probably not, based on what I’ve observed recently.  Check it out.  The next time you’re pulling up at a stoplight, make a conscious effort to look around at the people in the cars next to you and across from you.  I think you’ll see a lot of what I’ve noticed of late – more often than not, we seem to almost robotically bow to our “smart phones” as soon as the light is red and we’ve come to a stop (mostly).

No eye contact or a random smile to a passer-by.

No moment to check out the surroundings.

NO.

Check email.  Do we have a text message?

Something important may have just happened; we must live in the history that this moment will soon represent.  You wouldn’t want to miss someone’s Facebook check-in at Divas-n-Dudes, right?

A good friend and someone I respect a great deal recently shared his strategy for reclaiming the peace and value of his daily drive.  He puts his cell phone in the trunk for the rides to and from the office.  Seriously.  No calls, no texts – just sunshine, radio, and the absolute inability to bow in such technologic affliction when stopped in traffic…never mind the greater focus on driving the car.

So what else do we miss?

While sitting in the airport today, I made a conscious effort to pay attention to my surroundings.  Initially inclined to get out the ol’ iPad and “check in”, I decided to instead spend some time observing and listening.

I was initially struck by the realization that I was somehow in the middle of what appeared to be a spot favored by seniors.  I was certain that I was well below the median age of this gathering of about a dozen or so senior citizens – perhaps even as much as 20 years junior to the youngest of them all.  They didn’t appear to all be together, rather, they seemed to simply congregate there as if this was a pre-determined meeting point for patrons of advanced years.  I felt like I had parked illegally in the “Oil of Olay Zone”, yet I stayed.

As I sat there, I came to notice an older couple sitting directly across from me.  They were sweet.  Obviously together for many years, they were sitting very close, sharing a sandwich and making light conversation with each other and with others nearby.  They were on their way to see some of their grandchildren and they commented that travel was a big undertaking for them.  I hope they’ve reached their destination safely and are in the process of making memories with loved ones.

Once on the plane, I was seated in a row with two others – a gentleman about 10 years older and a young lady about 15 years younger than me.  I started to settle in and planned for a quiet flight – time to get on the ol’ iPad, of course.  But then the gentleman struck up a conversation with each of us.

As the young lady responded to his questions about “what brings you to our city?” and the like, she shared her story.  She’s 27, grew up in a once little town that neighbors my own, is married, has a four year-old son, and a great extended family.  Her reason for traveling?  She has Cystic Fibrosis and is participating in an advanced drug trial at a medical center far from home.  Once a week for three to six months, she will board a plane as she did today and go to the medical center for additional testing and treatment.  She shared that, ultimately, her hope is that the research will keep her alive so she can be what she enjoys most – being “Mommy.”

Once again, I was reminded that life is precious.  I was drawn to thoughts of loved ones Elissa and Marc – and the young lady on the plane…all people who know too well the value of the moment.  They aren’t beholden to pocket-sized gadgets that obscure our view, yet they make today count with clarity that tomorrow is not to be counted upon.

Suddenly, the purpose of my own travel was back in perspective.  As my former boss Luke used to say…”It’s just work.”  No doubt.

To accurately reflect the real value in the day, I’ll submit this:  One year from today…or even three or five…at best, I’ll be unable to recall today’s occupational accomplishments without some reliance on my calendar archives or perhaps some meeting notes, though I will surely recall those I encountered in the airport and on the plane with ease.

In fact, I won’t have to recall them because I will actively remember them.

Meanwhile, those grandparents and their extended family will surely remember today’s meaning and experiences with remarkable and exacting detail.

And as for that young mother…how could today’s importance not be known and recalled under such circumstances?

I’m thankful and blessed that they shared a slice of their day and their stories with a random passer-by…me.

So, try to consider the “stop” light the “watch” light.  Don’t miss the ride.

There’s no “app” for human experience.

Peace, Y’all.  Keep it Lit.

T.

A family friend too familiar with the casualties of war shared some history on the Vietnam Memorial Wall recently.  I thought it too important not to share.  But first…

Hers is a story too typical of our history – a young wife and mother who once awaited the return of one of our nation’s finest.  Most called him “Captain” or “Sir.”  To her family, he was “Jack” and “Daddy.”

Jack never came home.  Lost while patrolling the Ho Chi Minh Trail in a T-28D, Jack’s 93rd sortie would be his last.

My hope is that you’ve visited The Wall and Arlington – every American should.  Each of those names has a story, a legacy, and those who mourn their loss.  Whether you’ve already been at least once or have yet to make your first visit, consider this, as shared by Jack’s widow:

“THE WALL 

A little history most people will never know.  Interesting Veterans Statistics off the Vietnam Memorial Wall.

There are 58,267 names now listed on that polished black wall, including those added in 2010. The names are arranged in the order in which they were taken from us by date and within each date the names are alphabetized. It is hard to believe it is 36 years since the last casualties.

 The first known casualty was Richard B. Fitzgibbon, of North Weymouth, Mass.  Listed by the U.S. Department of Defense as having been killed on June 8, 1956. His name is listed on the Wall with that of his son, Marine Corps Lance Cpl. Richard B. Fitzgibbon III, who was killed on Sept. 7, 1965. There are three sets of fathers and sons on the Wall.

 39,996 on the Wall were just 22 or younger.

 8,283 were just 19 years old.

The largest age group, 33,103 were 18 years old.

12 soldiers on the Wall were 17 years old.

5 soldiers on the Wall were 16 years old.

One soldier, PFC Dan Bullock was 15 years old.

997 soldiers were killed on their first day in Vietnam.

1,448 soldiers were killed on their last day in Vietnam. 

31 sets of brothers are on the Wall. 

Thirty one sets of parents lost two of their sons.

 54 soldiers attended Thomas Edison High School in Philadelphia . I wonder why so many from one school.

8 Women are on the Wall. Nursing the wounded.

244 soldiers were awarded the Medal of Honor during the Vietnam War; 153 of them are on the Wall.

Beallsville, Ohio with a population of 475 lost 6 of her sons.

West Virginia had the highest casualty rate per capita in the nation.  There are 711 West Virginians on the Wall.

The Marines of Morenci – They led some of the scrappiest high school football and basketball teams that the little Arizona copper town of Morenci (pop. 5,058) had ever known and cheered. They enjoyed roaring beer busts. In quieter moments, they rode horses along the Coronado Trail, stalked deer in the Apache National Forest . And in the patriotic camaraderie typical of Morenci’s mining families, the nine graduates of Morenci High enlisted as a group in the Marine Corps.  Their service began on Independence Day, 1966.

Only 3 returned home.

The Buddies of Midvale – LeRoy Tafoya, Jimmy Martinez, Tom Gonzales were all boyhood friends and lived on three consecutive streets in Midvale, Utah on Fifth, Sixth and Seventh avenues. They lived only a few yards apart. They played ball at the adjacent sandlot ball field. And they all went to Vietnam. In a span of 16 dark days in late 1967, all three would be killed. LeRoy was killed on Wednesday, Nov. 22, the fourth anniversary of John F.Kennedy’s assassination. Jimmy died less than 24 hours later on Thanksgiving Day. Tom was shot dead assaulting the enemy on Dec. 7, Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day.

The most casualty deaths for a single day was on January 31, 1968 ~ 245 deaths.

The most casualty deaths for a single month was May 1968 – 2,415 casualties were incurred.

For most Americans who read this they will only see the numbers that the Vietnam War created. To those who survived the war, and to the families of those who did not, we see the faces, we feel the pain that these numbers created. We are, until we too pass away, haunted with these numbers, because they were our friends, fathers, husbands, wives, sons and daughters.

There are no noble wars, just noble warriors.”

And so, I submit that it is our duty to remember and honor their service, loss, and legacy.  And it is our duty to ensure that we always regard battle as the last and most costly option.

As for me, I am thankful that Jack’s family shared the lessons of his story.  And I will choose to remember him this way…always:

Captain Jack

Twenty-six years old
A wife, daughter, and son
A “Night Owl” patrolling
Who knew this was the one?

Counting sorties
Serving for us all
Paying that ultimate price
While answering the call

Some made 100
Rotated home
He made 93
Outcome long unknown

“MIA”…then “KIA” – seven years later
Remains returned 32 years more
Loss revisited, a wound unhealed
The ultimate price paid for war

A Patriot remembered
Panel 23E
Hardly suffices
For a man great as he.

26 years old
A wife, daughter, and son
One of thousands lost not forgotten
Remember each one

Never Forget.
                     – WTJ 29 Sep 2013

Peace, Friends –

T.

For many of us, September 11th is a day to pause and remember.  In all likelihood, it’s hard for most of us to imagine that 12 years have passed since that previously unfathomable day in our history.

Yet, for others, every single day is a day to remember September 11th.  Every day is “another day after” that life-altering day.

For many of us, the initial shock and pain of that horrific attack somehow numbs a bit over time.  Birthdays, holidays, and life events have come and gone.  And the evening news has moved on time and again to report the latest dribble of today’s “journalism” – whether the rise and fall of the economy, elections that have come and gone, the fighting of two wars, or the contemplation of yet another attempt at resolving conflict by combat.

For others, the shock and pain remains.  Those others are the husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, friends, and co-workers who lost loved ones that horrific September morning.  Their lives have been changed forever.

And, some have found renewed hope and happiness as they have started new chapters in their journey to rebuild their lives – yet never doubt that they are eternally conscious that what was before is lost forever.

So, today…as we pause and remember…my hope is that we really remember.

Remember the innocent lives lost in the towers, in the Pentagon, and on that hill in Pennsylvania.

Remember the 343 of the NYFD lost in service to others as they attempted the most complex rescue operation ever conducted on U.S. soil.

Remember the smoke billowing from the iconic headquarters of our military superpowers.

Remember the scorched site of the Flight 93 crash.

Remember “Let’s Roll.”

Remember people walking out of New York City in droves – covered in ash and with determination to get out of the mayhem of Ground Zero alive.

Remember wondering if you knew anyone on those planes.  And remember being unable to make your call go through.

Remember the last image of our society before we secured all airports and had a need for something called “Homeland Security” – the image of our President reading to small school children in Florida.

Remember when you couldn’t immediately recall the name “Osama bin Who?” and had little idea what “al-Qaeda” was all about.  After all, they were overseas in faraway places, right?

Remember when a generation knew no wartime effort.

Remember the Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen, and Marines who have stood guard around the world to protect our freedom.  And those who have fallen selflessly on our behalf.

On that beautiful, crystal-clear September morning, we as people and as a People were changed forever by what we saw, suffered, and lost as the clock struck 08:46, 09:03, 09:37, and 10:03.

And so, as you pause and remember, make it count.  Whether ceremoniously or privately, remember the fallen and those who mourn their loss.  For many, the bell tolls with the remembrance brought by the dawn of each new day.  And yet, their days have never again been quite as crisp and clear as the earliest hours of That Day.

This Day, we must join them and truly remember.  And each day, we must never forget.

Peace,

T.

“Someone is happy with less than half of what you have.” So true.

In Radical, Platt teaches us that any household with an income of at least $50k USD is ahead of 99% of all people on Earth. And so…

“Someone is happy with less than half of what you have.”

Half of that $4 latte will feed five people for the day at the local food bank.

Half of that night at the movies will clothe a human in need.

Half of the annual expense of iTunes, Netflix, and other forms of entertainment will sponsor a Compassion child.

Half of that car would satisfy the tuition of the student who intellectually can, but financially cannot.

Half of that logo apparel that one “must have” is someone’s rent.

And yet…

“Someone is HAPPY with less than half of what you have.”

And so…

Indeed, money cannot buy you happiness.

Two recent “news” stories continue to bother me. On the one hand, the story of the ultimate demise of The (Nashville) City Paper. And, on the other, the decision by Brentwood, Tennessee, officials (subsequently supported by the federal judiciary) to ban the sale of The Contributor at street corners throughout the well-healed suburb.

A bit of context…

The City Paper started as a free, daily publication about 13 years ago. It introduced competition to the Nashville press and brought a degree of accountability to the reporting of local news and stories of interest – simply by increasing the options available to local consumers. After a series of business transactions, an editorial desk apparently mounted squarely on a high-speed turnstile, and miscalculated changes to its publishing frequency, its final print edition was published earlier this month. And so it goes – a tradition that has employed some and engaged many has fallen to the times.

Alternatively, The Contributor is a not-for-profit charitable organization that publishes a paper every other week. It serves to raise awareness of homelessness and poverty and is sold by human beings who have experienced or are experiencing homelessness. The humans buy the papers for 25 cents per copy and sell them for $1 each, though tips are most appreciated. It provides not only a source of income, but a source of interaction, fellowship, and an opportunity to exchange kindness and a smile with other humans who are demonstrating that they simply care.

So, what happens when a paper ceases to exist in a market like Nashville or a suburb like Brentwood?

Some may suggest that the hard-copy newspaper is “so 20th Century.” Yeah, well…so am I.

One could argue that the same information gained from newsprint can be obtained on our tablets, smart phones, and other electric leashes – instantly. Maybe so, but if we assume that speed costs money, what is the true cost of losing the hard-copy paper?

One of my first entrepreneurial experiences as a young kid was serving as a “paper boy” for The News Leader in Richmond, Virginia. Incidentally, The News Leader has gone by the wayside, as well – once the afternoon paper for the local market, it was “consolidated” into the Richmond Times-Dispatch, which had previously been the morning edition. And, while one may anticipate that “1+1” still equals “2”, I don’t particularly recall thinking that the Times Dispatch improved much beyond its perpetual mediocrity simply because we lost its sister edition. If anything, I suspect that our perception of quality was only enhanced by our modified perception over time, based on the change in options from two to just one.

My experience as a “paper boy” taught me things that continue to be part of a foundation that serves me well today. I had to take responsibility for my deliveries and ensure that my customers had their paper on time. I had to have pride in my work – taking care to wrap the papers in plastic on wet, rainy days, or putting them in the newspaper boxes that were hardly as convenient to fill as would be flinging the paper from my bike as I rode on by. I learned to have the courage to knock on doors to ask for new business or to collect subscription fees. I learned to swallow my thoughts and accept that, most often, the customer is simply right. And I made friends with people who taught me valuable lessons – like the kind, older couple who often greeted me at the end of their driveway for a bit of conversation – only much later did it occur to me that our near-daily interactions were an important part of their subscription experience.

You see, there are life lessons to be derived from human interactions. And, while e-commerce may be “faster”, I think that even ol’ Ralph Nader would concur with this more conservative fellow that the continued erosion of opportunities to pause and interact is truly “unsafe at any speed.”

I tried searching for “paper boy” and “paperboy” on-line today, yet I wasn’t particularly surprised by what I found. In our ever-“optimized” world of the web, the first page of search results contained nothing remotely associated with what used to be an honest, well-earned source of real world education and earnings in neighborhoods across America. Instead, today’s search results largely focus on a 2012 film of nominal critical significance. Somewhere in there is a metaphorical representation of our willingness to trade experience and knowledge for simple information.

And so, I wonder…how has the loss of The City Paper and the judicious extrication of The Contributor from the street corners of prosperity (for sake of traffic safety, of course) better us all? The simple answer is that there is no net gain.

I suspect that a statistical analysis to reveal the causal contributions of Contributor sales to overall traffic accident frequency in Brentwood may prove to be challenging, at best. I’ve asked around, though I have not yet found any locals who ever recall tragedy at the hands of a neighbor helping a neighbor by way of a road-side transaction in human kindness and generosity. I suspect such events may be lore, at best – perhaps concocted as some basis for only self-serving reassurances.

A bit like the memorable “drive-by fruiting” of Pierce Brosnan in Mrs. Doubtfire, it seems to me that the eradication of street-side sales of the Contributor in a certain zip code delivers a less than subtle message that some may not be as welcome as others.

Or, there is a subconscious desire to accommodate rather than confront the realities of our greed.

Consider that there appears to be no “movement” among other nearby neighborhoods and suburbs to join in the effort to protect us all from this great traffic impediment, the Contributor. Likewise, try sitting in the air-conditioned luxury of your vehicle on a hot summer day as you make eye contact with another in need by the roadside. Did you stop?

Cynical? Perhaps. But I suspect that many of those who persisted in achieving this great victory for public safety are the very same I pass daily and observe to be reading and/or texting on their smart phones while driving – after all, we must seek the news and seek it now.

If you truly want to protect me, please pull over and park that sled while you balance your cell phone and fru-fru-whatever-whatchamacallit-latte. And, while you’re sitting there, roll down your window and choose to be a Contributor.

I was privileged to be part of a unique firewood ministry while in Virginia.  If you’re not familiar with what I’m referring to, dig back a bit in my blog archives and check out my previous post on “Embers.”  Anyway…

I’m working on starting the “west annex”of the firewood ministry in Middle Tennessee.  It’s just too good on too many levels to not carry the tradition forward.  It brings out guys and their families from behind desks and daily routines to split wood and serve those in need right there – right in their own back yard.  And, it’s an opportunity to play with my “big boy toys” – which makes it even better.  Seriously, though…it’s a means by which others can be introduced to mission and service to others, just moments away from home.  Hopefully, it’s a gateway to even greater service opportunities and a deeper change within.

So, as I’m working on starting the “west annex” firewood ministry, I decided to pick up some pallets for our wood storage site.  I started with a call this morning to our local Lowe’s Home Improvement Warehouse – you know, the big blue place.

I asked for a store manager and was quickly connected with one.  After briefly explaining my need for pallets and how they would be used, he advised that he can provide “as many pallets as you need.”  Then he went on to tell me that they would be $12 each.  He ended with explaining that he had to “cover the cost – as long as the store is ‘whole’, he can sell them to me for $12 each.”

After thanking the store manager, I exited the call.  I thought about our conversation and decided that, if necessary, I would certainly pay the $12 each, although, I wasn’t convinced that I had found the best option.  At the encouragement of a family member, I kept looking.

My next call was to the local Home Depot.  Again, I was quickly connected to a store manager.  As I described the firewood ministry and why I needed pallets, he responded with “Man, that’s AWESOME!  I wonder if some of the guys at my church would want to help you.  How many pallets do you need?”

I explained that I’d like to start with six or eight pallets, for now.  He responded, “If you can wait until 3:00 or so I can have someone pick them out and make sure you get good ones.  I’ll start you with 10.  Fill those up and I’ll have 10 more for you.”

And so, I had to ask – “How much?”

His reply?  “It’s on us.  It’s our privilege to help our community.  I think this is great.”

Ding!  We have a winner.

I went by Home Depot at 3:00 this afternoon and there they were – ready to go.  A great young guy wheeled them out to me on a pallet jack and we loaded them up.  As we were loading them, he asked me what I was up to.  As I told him, his enthusiasm grew – turns out, he’s a volunteer firefighter in a nearby community and wants to get some of his guys at the firehouse involved.  Another winner.

As I drove home, it occurred to me…our local Lowe’s is said to be the highest volume store in their chain.  I don’t know if that’s on the basis of sheer volume or on revenue – either way, it’s huge.  It sits across the street from the fifth highest volume Starbucks in the country, so let’s just say that business is good in the neighborhood.  Hmmmmm….

I’m reminded of the Parable of the Faithful Servant in Luke.  Recall that Peter was taught “From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked.”

It seems to me that our local Lowe’s has been entrusted with much, yet they can’t hear opportunity over the sound of their cash registers.  It’s a true shame, indeed – their loss.

I suspect that $72 represents the significance of a rounding error for our local “#1″ Lowe’s store.  And, while their management guards and protects their bottom line presumably because they think they’re being good stewards of their company’s resources, the reality is this:  True stewardship is the realization that none of it is ours, rather, it’s all His.  We are simply entrusted with it and expected to do with it as we may in service to Him and to others.

Much given?  Much expected.  So, I ask…”Number one in what, exactly?”

I’m thinking that Peter would shop at Home Depot.  I know I will.

Home Depot:  Unofficial Sponsor of the West Annex Firewood Ministry.

Keep it Lit, y’all –

T.

So, my family has been privileged to spend the week in a beautiful condo on the Emerald Coast of the Florida panhandle.  I say that we’ve spent the week in the condo because, well…we’ve probably spent more time here than on the beach.  Sure, we’ve had a couple of days of sun-n-fun on the pristine white sands of the beach gazing at the crystal-clear, sparkling water of the Gulf.  But we’ve also had about 16 inches of rain in the last 48 hours. 

Some might choose to complain about rainy days at the beach.  Not me.  The beach is the one place I truly relax and, frankly, the rain only reinforces the mandate on rest and relaxation that much more.

What does one do when it’s raining at a rate of an inch per hour with wind gusts up to 35 mph?  Well, so far, I’ve read two great books, had some fantastic naps, and enjoyed time with family.  We’ve ventured out in the elements – had an exquisite meal at a little bistro last night and saw our second movie of the week this afternoon.  (Here’s a hint, Movie-goers:  Much to my surprise, I’ll tell you to save your money on Man of Steel and go straight to The Lone Ranger.  Depp is fantastic.) 

As a great friend noted in an exchange of text messages yesterday, anytime you can check “two naps in one day” off of your bucket list, you’re livin’ right.  (No doubt, he’s a sage advisor…sort of a pastoral Yoda.)

Anyway…

Earlier today, we heard a lot of yelling and laughing coming from just outside of our condo.  Looking out, we saw a young Daddy with three young boys – the youngest appeared to be 2-3 years old and the oldest 7 or so – all jumping gleefully into the pool while a steady rain poured down around them.  There was no thunder or lightening at that time, but let’s be clear – it wasn’t sprinkling or drizzling…no, it was raining…fairly hard.

The littlest guy was having an absolute blast.  He didn’t even need to get into the pool, rather, he simply stood poolside gleefully holding up his arms toward the rain clouds while squealing with absolutely unfiltered glee.  He jumped, danced, and splashed in puddles.  I took it as behavioral confirmation that his mother doesn’t routinely send the boys out to play in a monsoon.

I paused and considered…perhaps the “tipping point” at which a Momma will send Daddy and her three young cherubs into the elements to swim in the rain has been determined.  It this part of the world, it appears that the tipping point is somewhere around the endurance of 48 hours and 12 inches of rain in a three-bedroom condo.  I like to believe that Momma was somewhere nearby enjoying a bit of quiet and perhaps a soothing beverage of choice.

They didn’t swim very long – just long enough for everyone to expend a bit of cabin fever.  After about 30 minutes, the water-logged foursome disappeared.  But I bet those kids will remember swimming in the rain for sometime to come.  Memories were made.

So, yeah…we usually come to the beach in great anticipation of sun and sand.  We still got to enjoy some time on a beautiful beach, even if it wasn’t the amount of time we originally planned.  The good thing about the beach, though, is that the daily schedule is entirely adaptable.  Rain-dampened beaches turn into naps and books.  It’s the one place where it’s almost impossible not to relax – and the rules of the daily grind just don’t apply.

Like swimming in the rain.

I’ve long said that a bad day at the beach is better than a great day in the office.  No doubt, the rainy daze of this vacation proves that theory true.  Although Mother Nature hasn’t cooperated entirely, we’ve had fun being together without the usual pressures of our all-consuming daily routines.  And that, friends, is what a vacation is all about.

Here’s to the little dude dancing and splashing in the rain.  I hope he hangs onto that uninhibited spirit and celebratory attitude as long as he possibly can.

Cheers, Y’all – it’s all good.

T.

Remembering the 19 fallen heroes of the Granite Mountain Hotshots lost Sunday in the Yarnell Hill wildfire in Prescott, Arizona.  At an average age of 22, their stories were short but no doubt will have a lasting and timeless legacy.

The Firefighter’s Cross stands for the courage, service, and sacrifice of those who put themselves in harm’s way for the sake and safety of strangers.  No doubt, those men added luster to the crosses all in the fire service wear today.

Beyond the 19, there are spouses, children, family, and friends left behind.  Their paths are forever changed by this horrific loss.

Remember the heroes.  Never forget.

For Chris, who is spending his vacation time with youth in service and mission to the good people of Appalachia.  

I’m fortunate to be part of a small group that meets after work on Mondays.  This comes from a discussion a couple of weeks ago that has been on my mind since…

“EMOTIONS generate THOUGHTS.

THOUGHTS turn into ACTIONS.

ACTIONS develop HABITs.

HABITS become STRONGHOLDS.”

And so, I submit…

We have an opportunity to improve each day and to touch the lives around us.

Give pause; give prayer; give thanks – invest first in those emotions, thoughts and actions.

Serve.

Find today’s opportunity.

Act thoughtfully to develop tomorrow’s habit.

Step into the stronghold.  Imagine the possibilities.

Keep it Lit, Y’all.

Peace…

T.

Indeed, sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words…