WAVES OF OUR TIME

Forword One’s life is a series of heavy curtains, each one lifted sometimes ponderously slowly, with a crack of emerging light seeking you with its tentacles. Lifted at other times, so fast that if you blinked, you could miss the unveiling. One could ponder an outside force pulling the levers at unexpected times, controlling whether these events constrain or set free forward movement. Each curtain lifted reveals new challenges, like fortress walls that must be scaled before advancing. Events and times that surround you, measure you, and endocrine thinking in your struggle to grow and survive—a continuing challenge to define beginnings and endings. One could claim that for many years you are but a prisoner, held with other prisoners and other guard keepers you know and see each day, cellmates waiting for parole from the overseers that shape and mould your early years. Your guards, influencers on your journey, their demons masking as shadows, are always present, even in the absence of light, whispering to them of prejudices, beliefs, and their moral compass. For years, chastised or punished for not following or questioning the path they set for themselves, they now choose for you. When we are young, we cannot lightly challenge the words of wisdom of those who are our caretakers, as they should not be wrong…they cannot be wrong! Recently, I went to see the movie Song Sung Blue starring Kate Hudson and Hugh Jackman. I was not born with a quiet mind. It is too often flooded with incoming flaming arrows of ideas, thoughts, and what-ifs. This movie tells the story of two people, Lightning and Thunder, who struggle as bandmates while singing Neil Diamond songs. On the screen, so many challenges, in vivid detail, the highs and lows of life in full colour on a wide screen, laid bare without Band-Aids. During this movie, an idea occurred to me. Write my story. Who would want to read my story? I have written for years, mainly sales and marketing items for businesses, including one sales manual on sales techniques. Things changed for me in a big way in 1986 and 2021. Those tales of uncertainty and choices told later in this book, as I say to the story from the bottom of the hourglass, peering upwards towards the neck. For me, the need to rush to some job is no longer front and centre; this master, this ball and chain, one carries for decades, its weight heavy on your path. My three children are grown, prospering, and in stable relationships, with four grandchildren. Yet there is an ingrained restlessness not to waste the time one still has. Our lives are an hourglass, with only so much pre-measured sand scheduled to slip through the narrow opening, to fall wasted or fulfilled, resting at the bottom of the glass as the present buries the past. Not that I did not enjoy my working life. Like most, I expect some days were a real drag and too stressful. Other days, it was so good that I was sorry the day had to end. What was different for me was that for over three decades, I was in complete command, as much as one could be, of my work situation, as I owned the business. There was a long and winding road to get to this place, with many rickety, hazardous bridges. I am a Gemini. That means there are two of me…twins. Not that I am into astrology, but there are two of me. Not quite a Jekyll and Hyde relationship, at least not that I am admitting to. A husband, a father, a grandfather, a citizen, a sports fan, a writer of poetry, lyrics, and fiction. Not really religious, yet questions and voices keep whispering to me. The story of my first, yet unfinished, book, called Raquel, has some exciting religious elements and a background story. My present published book, The Lighthouse, is not without religious overtones. I have a mind that never lies still, filled with a restlessness of thoughts and ideas. I have learned patience, a quietness in listening to others, and not to judge so much. Others, too, have had their struggles and mastered them. In this, I am not alone. In this, I am not unique. For some time, I have used the phrase “challenges are opportunities… seek the opportunity and work towards it.” Positivity triumphs over negativity in my world. My life has been a series of challenges. Some of these challenges were vast chasms to be crossed. There are challenges I chose for myself…Others I did not. Some mountain tops proudly display my flag…others wait with a smirky grin hidden by thick clouds. Would I change some choices I made in the past? The honest answer would be yes, but if those choices had been made differently, what would have been the result? Chapter One A life of challenges awaits. Rise or not…the choice is yours. The wounds of time are like tattoos on my sometimes-thick shell, some very clear, well-defined, while others are kept deep hidden in my dungeons, lurking as my shadow. My life on this earth has not ended yet; my journey continues. I was told in 2019 I would be dead by 2023, gasping for every breath, taken by a disease with no known cure, so little understood about this demon that lives inside me, slowly morphing tissue into concrete I cannot see. There is a weight in this that one must deal with or not. This demon inside, I have yet to name it, is with me with every breath, walks with me with each of my steps, and most likely knows every thought. This silent contract killer, measuring its time marked with its overbearing silence, meant to haunt ghost-like as one vision at one’s end. Each doctor visit, or endless tests, CAT scans, and doctors who know too much but tell you so little in a few moments of their time. If one were to ask me what I would say about my life to date, I would respond. “I have lived a life of challenges…Some I brought forward…some cast upon me. My flag of triumph flies proudly on some high mountain ridges; on others, the peak lies unconquered and sometimes untested. I have achieved much…yet a restlessness is inside me.” These words echo forever in my chakra. A chakra forged with fire, with a young man facing dragons with no shield or sword. No scribe or king offering their wisdom. With time, one hopes that wisdom may come in reflection. The ripples, colours, and reflections in one’s pond hold stories and memories. One can choose to relive or reconsider those events at a time of your choosing or theirs, or attempt to let them sink slowly to the bottom of the pond to find solace with the sticky mud of time that one tries to shake off, tightly bound to one’s foot, carried with each step forward or backwards. I hint at a past with obstacles, but mine are the ones that many others face. In that aspect, my life is not unique, but perhaps one can find something here worth remembering or considering on their journey. These days, I continue to walk along the pathway to a door. Possibly the last door to be opened, or not. Maybe the same grey door I came upon in 2022 in Maine at that lighthouse. Today I woke to a morning not much different from so many other days. At some point, I heard the phrase… The challenges of aging begin in the morning as my eyes slowly open to streaming light. As I rise to contemplate which parts of me are functioning today, I note I am still breathing, but, as always, my left shoulder is a haunting, smirking demon, twisting a serrated knife into that joint with a smug smile. As I struggle awake… no coffee for me…never been one of my things…one of my different paths. The day’s curtain rises… There is a beginning: one new pair of eyes sees the world and what it is. Here is my beginning… my ending not yet written… a life unfinished! The Setting Like angry gods of war…the sky flashed endlessly in blood-red, throbbing veins of intense colour. The rolling thunder of heavy artillery pounded one’s ears into submission. Conceived most likely on some night in September 1952, thousands of miles away from this carnage. The world was at war once more, a more localized conflict than the massive killing fields of World War II. Chinese and North Koreans were aggressively attacking the US 3rd Army, and thunderous naval gunfire crashed on those poor souls within its deadly reach. The Battle of Bunker Hill was underway… not the same battle as the one in the US War of Independence, which took place just outside Boston in 1775. The Canadian contingent was engaged in intense combat along the Imjingang River and Hill 355. That was the news in September 1952. In Europe, they were still burying or re-interring the dead of the Second World War. On November 1, 1952, the United States blew Enewetak Atoll to essentially radioactive dust with the first hydrogen bomb. The generals and admirals smiled. The button that the demon wields has more power. In late 1952, Sarnia, Ontario, was a thriving place with the nickname the Imperial City. The petrochemical industry had latched onto the north shoreline of the St. Clair River just south of where Lake Huron empties its waters. This river was spanned by the Blue Water Bridge, completed in 1935, which connects the cities of Sarnia and Port Huron, Michigan. The Canadian cities of Sarnia and Port Huron, Michigan, are a few hundred yards apart. One could see the other on the shore that was so close, yet so far distant. One’s Walk Of 100,000 Steps One is born screaming in protest into this world. You had no choice. That choice was made for you. Steps of others by their choice to plan or roll the dice. Fresh eyes’ vision blurred shapes only a few inches away in black, white, and grey. The rest of the world is yet to emerge. One’s complete vision of the world is foggy, thick mists holding discovery back, perhaps to allow time to bear the burden of what lies ahead. By the time one is six months old, one is no longer shielded from what lies ahead; however, context remains a mystery to be solved in the steps that follow. Complete vision takes years to mature. Young eyes lifted to giants as they spoke their truths. “Why am I here?” Is my purpose to provide a measure for your life, or a simple biological calling, or a plan to develop someone who can benefit this world? Always present, this question never leaves, lurking in the shadows, under the bed, in the closet, its breath an icy breeze or warm thoughts touching you. Then there is the question… “Will you guide me on the pathway of 100,000 steps to find my grail?” A wise person sitting atop a mountain once proclaimed, “Written in the Book of Time at the day of your birth, your journey unravels to find each step in a winding staircase to Heaven’s awaiting room…choose each step with thought. Actions have consequences and words have meaning!” Perhaps with good reason, one cannot remember much from before the age of four. My first remembrance is of colouring the same picture of a pumpkin and a tree a dozen times while the teacher asked, “Why don’t you do something different?” I chose the same picture…I did not bend on my path. Then, during that same time, this serpent, black and white, some eighteen inches long, slithered out to look at me from under a cement staircase directly in front of me. I showed no fear, yet others ran away. I still question whether there was a special meaning in that moment, as my picture of that serpent remains clear and has not been found in any book on Ontario reptiles. We emerge slowly, taking our first tiny steps, then longer strides with all our decisions made by others. This must be so. Early life is regimented. We grow stronger and push boundaries as we stare at a series of unknown steps stretching infinitely into the sky. Learning to read, write, and speak in sentences forms the bones that carry our load—the times of school, bullies, and social pressure building, the measurement of our progress versus others’. Others determined that my journey to Heaven’s Waiting Room was to be fraught without a father figure. A heavy burden to carry on one’s back as the staircase of 100,000 steps takes form in front of me. At around age nine… the young brain leaps into adolescence. Before you…endless sets of stairs, some taller than others, some steeper than others… so many appear unsecured. Tilting in various directions, while the voices of the tall foreheads and blue-rinse crowd spoke in riddles of when they stepped away. I remember age nine well. I almost died of a kidney infection, probably tied to second-hand smoke. Living in a dense fog of adults hooked on a weed that spoke of the joys of nicotine was not good for me. Their choice of a thick coat wraps me every day, all day, everywhere. That fact came into play once more in later years. That same year, the sting of leather brought down with force wrapped around my hands for something the teacher’s pet had done, and she knew it. So unjust and never forgotten. A young boy stood alone, shy, undersized, and unsure, but sure not to be dominated by the view of so many stairs…so many steps to a place unknown. A risk, but would there be growth and reward? Does one so young recognize the problems faced by those tasked to guide us, or are we blind to their faults that will shape our steps? Do they realize that their faults and beliefs can become bonded to our souls? We have reached the first platform after our initial steps. An empty bench waits there… an off-ramp for those who choose this. Some previous friends have drifted away. New ones come forward…fresh voices…new opinions…some right, some terribly wrong. On this platform, we experience our first ultimate loss of someone known. Now, so many decisions about what steps — those critical next steps—we take are ours…ours alone. We think we know so much, but really, it is so little. To live with the consequences of our actions while the actions of others weigh on us. Here, there are howling winds, voices of those who disagree or only speak for their own benefit. Note that not all of us move on… take the next step to climb and carry the weight of our past with each additional step. The teenage years…so hard…so demanding…so many steps to decide. A driver’s licence, a boyfriend or girlfriend, a part-time job…money enters all thoughts. Our legs are strong; we have spring in our steps as those around us grow older and frailer. The eighteenth year after so many steps…adulthood is upon us and all of its duties and responsibilities. There is no shelter anymore from childish things, as the law now says you know better. You can be called to fight and die for your country. Here, the staircase has two forks. One is to join the workforce for good. The other is more education… a choice about which step is right. There is remembrance here. A father in a vehicle at night, drunk with others, lost to the violent impact of a train, and a family and its only son left to fend for themselves with little to no support. A girl in my grade eight class lost her life when she fell off a bike—another life taken not much later by a drunk driver—the cesspool of high school. The voices of those who offer drugs, who stand outside in a fog of nicotine, a life on a street corner or the mall, or perhaps something even more sinister, have surrounded you. Parties and youthful wildness are on full display everywhere. Mounting social pressure can take its toll. There is growing pressure as your time without financial responsibility grows shorter. Decisions that can bind you to a life of addiction forever. Some never take the next step and end up here in a heap. At eighteen, I left town, took an alternative path; a unique set of stairs…the first to try university. More steps upward, a flight of stairs to a new platform, while fighting to shed the burdens of perhaps a sketchy upbringing or times where your friends may leave deep scars. A set of stairs is complete now; no time to rest on the waiting, empty bench. I must forge my path in the world of work dominated by aging men. I have changed the names of people in my life in this story to protect them and not cause shame or regret. The events are actual, as one can remember them. Chapter Two Why would anyone want to start one’s life in this mess? The year is 1953. A child, a male child, is born without a father. Nothing more than a sperm donor. A young life constricted deep in chains of cavernous secrets. Unspeakable secrets that can see no light…forever held in a dark place, never to be shared. This ghost haunts lives. A mother who carries the burden of a partner who broke his vows, apparently more than once. This father, who risked his relationship with his wife and two children by bringing them to my mother’s best friend’s home. Deep multiple betrayals. There was a sister five years older than me. She has memories of her father…I do not. My mother was pregnant with me, and a marriage was consummated that night. There was a time in Waterloo before my time. My sister started a fire there one day with a lamp and a blanket. One day or night, my mother returned to find my father, her husband, in bed with her best friend. There bed! Mere pieces of a puzzle are discovered over time through fragments: a separation and a return to Sarnia for my mother to give birth to me in May 1953. A mere ten days before my entrance into this world…the skies changed dramatically over Sarnia. Then a storm…much more than a simple thunderstorm, leaping, an unbridled force of nature, howling demon-like across Lake Huron — exploded upon an unsuspecting town. A tornado…a tornado of significant force! Winds of 261 to 318 MPH ripped into Sarnia. Seven people lost their lives, and downtown Sarnia was a pile of twisted steel, shattered wood, crumbled block walls, with the wails of torment and broken dreams rising. Seven lives were taken too soon on that day in shocking violence, with the damage totalling over 17.6 million on that day, or 212 million today. A mere ten days later, I was born, swaddled in blankets made of the piled wreckage of a wrecked marriage and a city left in shambles. Too young to know this, but the scars my mother carried from her husband’s betrayal would carry forward for decades, imprinted on a young soul. There are moments in one’s life that resonate, echo in eternity, and sometimes carry ponderous weight forward for decades, leaving a permanent tattoo that never changes its image or colour. That tattoo can lie dormant for periods before exploding in a burning sensation to remind oneself of what it means. I remember so little before the age of three, by choice or sheer luck. Memories of an undersized young boy with whitish hair, quiet and wondering why I differed from the others at school, why my situation was different, or with whom I could play. I clearly remember the two-car garage, with only one side converted into a one-bathroom, one-bedroom rental unit. A tiny, cramped bedroom with two single beds and a crib. One chair and a black-and-white television in the living room. A kitchen that I have a memory of having a small table, along with a small stove and fridge, with no window. Before the age of three, another event shaped me. The story is that somehow boiling water spilled over both of my ankles, leaving deep scars. This event was never spoken of; only hinted at, yet I carried those visible scars forward for decades for all to see and question. An answer coming back from me with no substance, as I questioned my words, only causing more strange looks. That tiny garage was my home for the first seven years of my life—a small box constraining me…a prison of thick walls. A start, perhaps, of a book. The beginning of my life is measured in 3564 words. Time will tell if I add more; so many pages yet to be scribed and edited in months of work. One can leave a comment on socials. I have used the title “An Unfinished Life” because it says it all. Perhaps this would be some therapy. One cannot hide from the past; it will always find you. Most of what is scribed here, my secrets remain untold, only exposed in short fragments in passing, short answers that stifled conversations.  Copyright 2026 by Tom D. Welsh/Grayson Wolfe. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form, or scanned and/or used in any AI format, without the express written permission of the author, Tom D. Welsh, and/or Grayson Wolfe, except as permitted by US law or Canadian copyright law.

Each day, two worlds collide. On distant horizons, unknown spirituous soldiers march forward, their lives consumed by the rising flames. Hardened steel swords strike flesh or shields. The sparks of battle shower the sky in light as the dragon’s cannons roar their flames of conquest. In the morning hours, light is victorious—those who have fallen, reincarnated. In the evening hours, darkness counterattacks. Endless battle since the beginning of time—there is no truce, no victor, only infinite war. The flags of their victories waved before fading in the breaking dawn and approaching darkness. Victory is transitory, only a few grains of time in the Book of Time. Each day in this millennium, there is light, and there is darkness. Sunrise brings welcome light, and sunset speaks of the coming darkness. In some regions and through oral history, stories are told of those who are no longer with us, who rise at sunset to celebrate the freedom found in their reflections dancing on water. The Picks believed that their brethren, slain by the Romans—who had usurped their lands—rose in vengeance. Their faces painted blue for war, blue ghosts walked the night from sunset to sunrise, punishing Roman spirits throughout the valleys and hills. Romans who never returned home, abandoned in shallow, unmarked graves, desecrated the soil. They would find no rest, no peace—a fitting justice for their sins. Ghost stories, vampires in the night, zombies, creatures under your bed... sounds in the darkness that haunt our thoughts. One shivers through the night waiting for the breaking of dawn. Throughout history, humanity has dealt with the fear of darkness - its unknown, unseen presence, often only revealed as a whisper or the breath of creeping coldness. Children hide under their beds as monsters rule their nights, and parents shoulder comfort. Those walking the streets at night shudder as they pass dark alleys with shadows where unknowns huddle and stare. We leave the perceived safety of lighted spaces to venture into the night...to bathe ourselves, free of light’s restrictions, carrying a weighted mask to be who we really are or not. The contrast between Jekyll and Hyde played out... in the waiting mysteries of a bottle or something else. The constant battle of all time... the goodness of light and the fear of darkness. Risks taken... Fools shout defiantly into the darkness... I was young once, as the shadows of night stir. I wrote a poem about the night and our relationship with it some time ago. It was called the Streets of the Night. Below is an excerpt... The mirror of our night Reflect on all the words of our time Our sunglasses shield us As the stars fight to peer inside Few gather at their watering holes Telling stories that should not be told We wander aimlessly The streets of the night Needing shelter from the coming storm Yet the night or darkness has its beauty. The night sky twinkles and winks ... a shadowy moon emerges from behind a fast-moving cloud, illuminating a path. Before us... the stillness of the night reflected on the waters before us... a mirror to your soul. There are predators in the night... that is their time... their life ... their purpose. There are predators in the light as well... some hidden, some not. One could claim that one’s life is a journey on an endless winding spiral staircase. Step one is birth, followed by the steps that transform your future and lock your past. You begin with your steps controlled by others. These are days when events beyond your control determine each step, yet you must deal with the consequences. Later, each step hesitant or made with haste, with some confidence... winds calling out, influencing your choices. Life is but a series of choices followed by thoughts of joy, peace, regret, or happiness. Some steps lead to darkness; others lead to times of light. Impossible to get each step right. A staircase has steps that go up and down, not unlike the game Snakes and Ladders, and sometimes someone turns the light switch on and off. Then the next steps are in light or darkness. One’s Steps Eyes so young strain to realize What lies before in the steps to come A staircase rises to the heavens Or falls to the depths of hell Each step is a pressure point In a life of many choices What is done... cannot be untied Happiness and opportunity may shine Or regret that holds one in chains At the end of my steps One may envision going back in time All my steps lay bare before me. Judgement, they say... comes to all. I have said many times that my life is a swirling sea of challenges... Many I chose, and some chose me. Others were a burden placed on me. Some I conquered with my flag marking my rise to that peak.... some lie dormant still lurking.... waiting... others will never see my flag... I have moved on. In my book, *The Lighthouse* (available now), I address themes of significant loss, atonement for past wrongs, life challenges, and deliverance from dark times. There can be growth and redemption from the chaos and mistakes of one’s past. Those who face difficulties in life may find their spirits blended with the colours of the next sunrise, conquering the roaring dragons of their time to find life and fulfilment once more. The waters of life are not always turbulent... a stillness comes when you are ready. Below is the introduction to The Lighthouse. The Seas Before Tonight, it continued unabated. A dark, daunting ritual of the past few months, lying alone in a bed tethered to a hidden room. The steady, hypnotic spin of my companion — this ceiling fan — marks the endless passage of my time. Its gentle breeze washes over, its buzz a metronome marking the music of its time. The fan’s long, thin, silver chain dangles, its links catching in the moonlight. Before me, its hypnotic sway meant to adjust the speed or, perhaps, to mesmerize me with its rhythmic tinkling. I’m wondering aloud, as I need to speak to someone, as my friends are a dry desert right now. “If I pull it three times, each tug would be an attempt to erase my past errors. Two quick pulls and, hopefully, the memories of the past few months would leave like smoke, leaving behind only a hazy trace. Is that possible?” My second book, scheduled for release in spring 2026, examines the interplay between light and darkness in this world. It tells the story of two witches who battle through centuries to maintain a balance between light and darkness, good and evil. Here... subject to endless editing is the first paragraph... As the sunset brushed the sky with its vibrant hues, a man of a thousand years posed a profound riddle for humanity. How does one escape the relentless cycle of mundane days? This morning, as the day’s light finds me, I hid behind cheap sunglasses with bullseye bloodshot eyes, staring at the riddle taped haphazardly with yellowing plastic tape to my noisy refrigerator. Seeking some relief and less stale air, I ventured to sit on the worn, stained concrete steps that mark the entrance to this place. Their coolness and bleakness reflect my morning. I am a victim today ... of my grave decisions. Bored out of my skull yesterday, dazed and confused like always, I accepted an invitation. This weakness rose once more from the shallow depths inside me. Now I pay the price on the front steps of my apartment building, alone with my pain as my head spins. I need water or perhaps more hair of the dog. To all, each new day brings the light of day and the darkness of night, showcasing both humanity’s cruelty and goodness. It is said that some things never change—history often feels like a continuous cycle, like a movie filled with flames and rippling peaceful ponds. The Sun Always Shines As I strolled on the beach one day Caressed by a sunrise My soul reached out In welcome that day Off to my right, There was a great commotion A dumpster fire of smoke and fire Trying to usurp the sunrise Hmmm... I spoke Looks like just another day More shit is coming down To contend with each day Life is too short Sometimes, friends are too few. Each day is a blessing If I only approach it that way Each sunrise is a start Of a new day The possibilities are endless If I think the right way One can consider the world a mess Let it mess with my head No, that is not a path I choose A challenge to thrive in the lighted way There is goodness all around To open my eyes each morning As the light’s magic flows inside The peace of sunrise is my shadow I walk in its footsteps, always beside A hand holding tight to mine Life is too short Sometimes, friends are too few. Each day is a blessing If I only approach it that way Each sunrise is a start Of a new day The possibilities are endless If I think the right way If I feel the right way When my last sunset comes I walk to find joy in its bright light My spirit is free To walk forever in the light Tom D. Welsh Copyright 2025. All rights reserved.

Continuing with a barrage of announcements, our world is filled with too many gaps, too many holes. Things leak when there are holes in them. The nagging drip, drip, drip or a raging waterfall in containers. If these gaps and these holes connect, we could find ourselves lost in a bottomless abyss. This is indisputable and should raise concerns on so many levels. Alternative facts will not suffice, nor will tinfoil hats shield us from their powerful influence. Say what… Why has this not been covered on mainstream news services? They seem to think they have more important things to do these days. The proliferating holes in our environment will soon catch up to us. They are multiplying like rabbits or rats. I bet you don’t understand this… I expected that. Maybe you think I have a hole in my head! There it starts just like that. Holes can disguise themselves. Sneaky things… they can choose other situations to blend in more and attract less attention. Here are some examples - sneaky little things and sometimes quite large ones. breach, burrow, cave, cavity, depression, gash, gorge, hollow, peephole, shaft, vent, notch Definition: A hole is a hollow place in a solid body, thing, or surface. What is not said here is that a hole is nothingness…it is an empty void. Since a spirit, ghost, or apparition is not solid…it cannot have a hole? So, what exactly makes up a hole? Holes are defined as openings or voids in solid structures. However, that definition may not be illuminating. Holes can form through various processes, both natural and artificial. In nature, holes might arise from geological actions, erosion, or the activities of living organisms, such as burrowing animals. Artificial means can include drilling, mining, or even the wear and tear of materials. My first question is: Does the toilet swirling after flushing create a hole? Just asking. Despite the prevalence of holes in our environment, there seems to be no definitive information on our ability to control their formation. This raises intriguing questions: How many holes can manifest in an area? What determines their size and depth? Each factor likely varies depending on the context of the hole, but precise answers remain elusive. The phenomenon of holes invites further exploration and understanding as it intertwines with the natural world and human influence. Wow…we are doomed! Scientific definition of a hole. Hole, cavity, and excavation refer to a hollow place in anything. Hole is the common word for this emptiness…a hole in one’s head. A cavity is the formal or scientific term for a void within a body or substance, through which things can pass in or out. So, this would be a rabbit hole. This cannot be a hole in a cup, as it does not come back; it only ends up on you and is not coming back. So many holes…too many Humans have so many names for holes. Foxholes… a place to hide Black holes…sucking us in…not good Assholes…insert your own words here Hole In The Wall…a dump Hole in the head…which one Potholes…nasty, everyday things in our paths Today, our world is littered with voids—persistent issues and unresolved matters that we create daily. It seems they never truly disappear. They continue to simmer and boil over, too hot to the touch. When we plunge too deeply and too quickly into these metaphorical rabbit holes, we may find ourselves lost, unable to see the light of day. Instead of clarity, we are engulfed in darkness and surrounded by shadows. In darkness and shadows, fear breeds and waits impatiently… a Viper’s venom. The once-clear trail we thought we could follow, much like a trail of popcorn, became invisible, leaving us wandering in a realm of confusion and uncertainty. The Seven Holes One has seven holes Which way do we each face Each hour of each day Our mixture of holes Ones that see, ones that speak Those who hear, others breathe, Watching us in the mirror Each morning, each day To determine who we are Seven portals to absorb The light and darkness of each day Then, to release our spirits To soar or fall To those around us Each day A man entered a bar, sat down, and looked around. He appeared perplexed and increasingly agitated. Finally, the bartender approached him, keeping some distance. “Are you okay? What can I get you?” Still glancing around nervously, the newcomer replied in hushed tones, “What do you recommend will fill my gaping void? Don’t you see it…the void…the hole?” Now, you complete the story. 

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Sunrise triumphs over darkness Sunset marks the waning light A display of color that fades away too soon Sunrise wakes with its colorful bluster The artist paints the promise of the day A balance, one could say, one could hope The power of daylight and night’s darkness Light brings forward hope Darkness may breed fear in its shadows One fears less…what one can see I raise my hands wide open to the sky To the gifts of light and rain Each fall, to wash the handcuffed dust From my pathway, my time, my being To lie quiet now, mere dust at my feet Defanged, to trample upon and smile New miles, a horizon stretching before Each day is a joy to cherish As twilight nears, a vision sets me free I rest and renew at sunset Content in the paintings in my day The Fear of Darkness… Which is Ourselves Monsters under the bed, monsters in our heads. We can either immerse ourselves in the chaos of our times or pull the blankets up tight, hoping it will all go away. This remains true today, just as it was in the past, and I expect it will continue to be the same in the future. I have said many times, “I do not understand why we have not blown ourselves up yet!” We keep getting closer and have had the means to do it in mere minutes for decades. The Doomsday Clock represents our collective perception of the impending threat of destruction. As of January 28, 2025, the Doomsday Clock reset at 89 seconds to midnight, the closest it has ever been since 1947. That year, some scientists involved in the Manhattan Project set the clock at 7 minutes to midnight. We have made significant progress toward midnight over the last 78 years. Midnight represents total darkness for all of us, where we no longer must worry about the stock market or the latest clothing trends. To keep pace with modern concerns, the Doomsday Clock now considers factors related to artificial intelligence and climate change in our slow march toward destruction. The good news is that it hasn’t been moving quickly lately, but we are running out of time. In 2020, the hands sat at 100 seconds; in 2023, the hands showed 90 seconds. Now we enter the zone of endless banter about artificial intelligence and climate change. Is there a question of whether we are smart enough to create machines that are more intelligent than ourselves, but cannot solve the endless strife between nations and religions? Almost everyone is out of their mind watching television, foaming at the mouth, and angry about something. Maybe we are on our way to being so out of control and furious that we all have a collective aneurysm, and our heads explode, making all these nuclear weapons a waste of money. Each of us possesses an hourglass filled with the sands of our time. Every grain represents a second that slips away, and no matter how much humanity tries, we cannot turn the hourglass to restart the flow of those grains. Beside our hourglass is our metronome, whose rhythmic pendulum marks the beat of our hearts. Its methodical swing echoes time itself—tick, tick, tick. Our cadence encompasses activities as varied as walking, breathing, blinking, and many more. Time moves only in one direction: forward. Its rhythm cannot be altered. Unfortunately, the weight of our past burdens us as we navigate our days, and it is our responsibility to lighten this load. No amount of wishing or magical solutions can ease it. I am a glass-half-full person. My clock has been close to midnight for years and moves in that direction daily. I am still here and still fighting my demons and dragons. My sword is the light. The Chains of Time The past is the past Distrust and grudges Too often carried forward Blocking paths forward Time only moves one way Forward…always forward The Keeper of Time Does not carry our baggage A burden sometimes we share No guard’s key to unlock The handcuffs that bind Past regrets, past mistakes Each sunrise holds a promise A new day yet to be written Unlock your chains Locks cement us to doomscrolling Their time is past And bathe in the new light  Note: In the spring of 2026, I will release my second book, titled The Mailbox. Humanities concepts of light, typically considered good, and darkness, which many consider evil, are structures of this work. The never-ending conflict of good versus evil, angels and demons, with a past that had difficulty separating the two. A tale of two witches’ journey recorded in The Book of Time.

Grief is a universal experience, quiet, lingering, and deeply personal. It shapes us in invisible ways, altering the paths we walk and the stories we tell ourselves. In The Lighthouse, Tom D. Welsh's writing gives readers an unforgettable character in Henry Strong. His journey through profound loss, isolation, and quiet searching mirrors what many of us feel but rarely articulate. Set in the brooding shores of Maine, the book is an impactful novel. It's a meditation on memory, the past, and the things we carry. It's a story about a man haunted by the sea that stole his parents. The night that changed everything, and the mysterious blue light that shines from the Marshall Point Lighthouse, both a warning and a symbol of hope. But what makes Henry's journey so interesting isn't just the mystery or the supernatural undertones. It's the emotional truth at its core: the ache of unresolved grief and the slow, fragile climb toward redemption. Fiction as a Mirror for Grief and Healing In real life, healing rarely comes in a straight line. Like Henry, we stumble. We build walls to protect ourselves. We search for meaning in cryptic signs, in poetry, in the way waves crash against the shore at midnight. Fiction allows us to see this process from a safe distance, and sometimes, that's exactly what we need to start healing. Through Henry's eyes, readers are invited to sit with discomfort. To understand that grief doesn't always look like sobbing in the rain. It can be silence, or obsession, or a wall covered in red yarn and unanswered questions. The Lighthouse doesn't give easy answers. Instead, it reminds us that the past, no matter how painful, can become a source of strength if we choose to face it. Symbols of the Soul Throughout the novel, the lighthouse becomes a character of its own. A haunting light that calls to Henry across the years. Lighthouses, in literature and life, are guardians of those lost at sea. They are symbols of isolation, yes, but also of clarity, illumination, and resilience. For Henry, the lighthouse represents both the trauma of his past and the possibility of finding his way through it. And then there's the sea. Wild, dangerous, beautiful. The sea in the book is memory. It is fate. It is the unknowable part of our own stories, where we bury our regrets and retrieve our deepest truths. Your Story Matters Too What makes The Lighthouse so powerful is that while it's Henry's story, it reflects a truth we all know: we are all carrying something. Maybe it's a loss, a regret, or a longing for clarity. Welsh doesn't just tell a story. He invites us into our own. His prose, combined with poetry by Grayson Wolfe and quiet reflection, encourages us to look inward, to confront our pain, and to find meaning in the wreckage. Fiction, at its best, doesn't just entertain, it heals. It reminds us that we are not alone. That someone, somewhere, understands what it's like to stand at the edge of your life, staring into the storm, and wonder if you can make it through. Takeaway The Lighthouse is a novel that lingers in your soul long after the last page. It's a story for anyone who has ever lost something and fought to find themselves again. Are you ready to begin your own journey of healing and finding the lost answers? Get your copy of The Lighthouse by Tom D. Welsh and let the waves carry you home. Available Now! 

Humanity invented the wheel…it goes round and round. It is said that life is circular… same shit, another day. The more things change… the more they stay the same. The feeling of déjà vu… times have circled back. Today’s games revolve around a circle, often marked by brightly coloured squares, lines, or advertising logos. Our lives are caught in an endless cycle of overwhelming advertising and influencers, and constant information from our phones that never stay at home surrounds us. Disinformation swirls around us like a never-ending toilet bowl, regardless of how we label it. We repeatedly watch and listen to the same news and online influencers, which leads to a lack of balance in our lives. A day in your life, perhaps? Every day, I embark on my routine, often waking up too early, sometimes filled with regret, other times with joy. It feels like a daily pilgrimage to work along winding roads, where a taskmaster oversees the same duties every eight hours, making the experience either tedious or challenging. However, the genuine joy lies in the relationships I build at work. The repetitive nature of this assembly line creates a cycle I complete each day when I travel home, marking yet another one of the five Monday-to-Friday circles of my life. How does one escape the relentless cycle of mundane days? The weight of countless Wednesdays bears down on you. How does one find a Friday? I need to get past Friday to break the work cycle because it is now Saturday, and Saturdays are different. Is Saturday or Sunday different? A question to ask yourself. Saturday often begins with a weekly golf game with friends. This routine typically leads to weekend chores, grocery shopping, taking the kids to their sports activities, and visiting family, creating a familiarity in a cycle that repeats every week. Before the rise of streaming services, my TV schedule dictated my viewing habits, with specific programs airing on certain days and times. For example, I’d watch hockey or basketball on Saturday and enjoy Sunday afternoon football. Advertisers and influencers closely monitor this consistent pattern of viewership to maximize the effectiveness of their marketing efforts. Every Saturday or Sunday, I see people attending the same church. Our food chain is circular. Our favourite meals…our go-to meals…pizza or burgers once a week or more, perhaps fish on Fridays. The same glass of wine or spirits each day after work. Travel to the same grocery store, shopping in the same pattern each week for a menu that never changes much. We have favourite restaurants to have the same meal each time. We eat our meals simultaneously, perched in front of a screen, each day in a circular aspect of our day on a series of circular plates and cups.  The Earth is round, and our moon is a circle that rotates around us in a circular pattern: our home, planet, and the sun. Our galaxy circles something. Our eyes are too round to view a circular world. History is Circular There is the wise saying about history… Those who cannot study history and learn from our past will repeat its mistakes, a circle of centuries of humanity. Then there is the one about crazy… Doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting a different result…is crazy. Some things we must do, and others we choose to do. If there is no thought, there is no progress. If nothing changes, it must be a Wednesday. Wednesday is the hump day of the working week or the apex of a circle. A Wave of One Crashes into Another… There is Spray and Foam (The Play) Act One: (It is a warm sunny day, not a cloud in the sky with the sun reigning above us. An older man, trudging with his head somewhat down, appearing deep in thought. He is carefully gripping a whitish ball about 3” in diameter… tossing it from one hand to another rhythmically appearing hypnotized by the repetition. There is a distinct tense appearance around him. Well, dressed in a blue button-down shirt, no tie, and dust now building on his black highly polished shoes. A perplexed look radiated in his eyes. He walks on this gravel pathway, each step resonating towards a food stand and a purpose not disclosed yet. He stops for a moment…looking forward, as if rethinking his plan, then with a heavy sigh moves forward once more. Appearing deep in his thoughts, chin slightly downward, he walks straight into a young man about 20 years old, of average build, about the same height as him, wearing blue jeans and a holed pullover silk screened with the words “Why Now”. On his feet, well-traveled white sneakers were impatiently waiting to order his drink at a refreshment stand. The young man was unprepared for the coming bump buried in his phone. The man speaks first after the collision.) Older Man: Looking surprised and rehearsed by the impact, he staggers back and regains his balance, looking around and then directly at the young man. “I’m sorry about that. Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?" It seems I was too lost in my thoughts. That was not smart, and I wasn’t getting anywhere with my problem. (At that point, the older man bent down to pick up the ball he had been carrying, which had dropped, now resting at his feet. Then, appearing not to think about it, he wiped that ball in a bit of a ritual show with his hands to remove the grit and sand.) Young Man: (Not wanting to admit that the impact hurt him…a macho thing…as an older man could never hurt him…but that right elbow struck a rib hard, and he was not about to show it as one of his friends was nearby snickering, phone out taking a video he expected.) “I’m okay… no problem…you should watch what you’re doing!” (said with a bit of an edge). Did you hurt your ball? (He said with a sneer as he peered at this close-by friend.) Older Man: “I’m sorry about that. Can I buy you a drink to make up for it?” (He looked embarrassed and anxious, as he was uncomfortable with young men, and this guy looked like he had spent time in the gym. He wanted to leave… second thoughts swirling.) Young Man: “Yes…make it a large Pepsi with lots of ice…I am hungry as well.” (Now pushing his advantage, standing tall and looking directly into the older man’s eyes, almost as if in a test of will.) Older Man: “Are you looking for a hot dog or a slice of pizza?” (The older man wrinkled his forehead and pursed his lips, thinking that this guy was pushing it.) Young Man: “Pizza… pepperoni! What’s with the ball…you carry this everywhere…some kind of shadow like companion…got no friends? What is all that writing on that thing? Some religious things or notes, as you did not have paper for the grocery list.” (Snickering a bit again and smiles over at his watching friend.) The line moved forward, and it was time to order, which the older man did and paid for. He got a small Pepsi and a hot dog for himself. The order came with a period of awkward silence now passed while they waited, with the older man rotating the white ball in his right hand the whole time and staring at it. Others watching in the line…some pointing at him. The young man looked back at his phone in his right hand, engrossed in what was on the screen. His left hand reached to massage his hurt rib. Older Man: “You want to go to that empty table over there?” (Said quickly, regretting it. He was not looking at him but pointing with the right hand and holding the ball. He was unsure if this whole thing was a good idea now, thinking it was time to end this, but his thoughts still lingered, and his plan was in motion.) Act Two… the Table. Two worlds collide Young Man: “Ya…sure…I guess.” (That came out without conviction… he also thought it was time to move on. He was uncomfortable with older men and this one seemed off.…) Off they went, sitting on opposite sides, ensuring they were not directly across from each other. In a rehearsed, dance-like fashion, the older man carefully placed his ball on the tabletop close to his reach, using a couple of napkins to stop it from rolling away, staring at it for a moment, showing its importance. He was also attempting to get the younger man to notice it more. The young man dropped his phone on the tabletop nonchalantly, and the crack against the wood top echoed. The young man’s eyes finally fixed on the ball, noticing it covered in handwriting. Some words were in fading or blurred pen, others in different colors of permanent markers. Perplexing, interesting, but strange. Older Man: “I see you find my ball interesting. I noticed you were somewhat rough with your phone.” (He paused, unsure if he should have said the last sentence. Both returned to their food and drinks for a few moments. Then, out of the silence, curiosity got the better of the young man.) Young Man: “What is all that writing on that ball…why does it appear so important to you? Do you always have that with you?” Older Man: “Yes, it is vital to me… it always has been—and yes; it travels with me always. It is my rock from which I am studying to rebalance my life.” (Looking directly at the younger man and making eye contact became a staring contest. The older man had lots of practice with his grandchildren on staring contests and would not blink.) (Young dropped his head as he lost the staring contest and then said somewhat intrigued…) Young Man: “Interesting…but I don’t get it. What part of your life are you rebalancing with a ball that is a rock? Is this some riddle or puzzle?” Older Man: “Well, I don’t expect you would understand yet…we have seven decades separating us…that is a vast chasm of time. Do you want to know or are you just blowing smoke up my ass to see if it will come out of my mouth at some point? No, it won’t. No videos, please.” (The young man raised his eyebrows, surprised, almost shocked, at that response, and said to himself, “This guy has some issues.” He is not like my grandfather, who mostly sits and drools and talks about some shit of the old days. Act Three…. The Conversation Young Man: “Well then…you seem to have some balls that have not receded completely.” Older Man: “I am not dead yet and have not seen my last sunset, if that is what you mean. I have been ill-natured lately as I have not yet unlocked the secret I seek. So, you want to know about my balls?” You want to have that conversation? You got the itch or the drip down there? (He is snickering now, breaking into a genuine belly laugh. This dude’s strength takes the young man back and looks around to see who is watching.) “Well, hear you go…My life is too circular. You probably don’t get that. Those scribbled words on this ball are a series of life events. I have words on there such as church, work, birthdays, golf, anniversaries that represent my circle of life.” (The older man picked up his ball, smiled, and stuck it right before the younger man’s nose so he could read it. He could not miss it.) Young Man: “I see…I do not know what you’re talking about…this shit is weird to me right now…you okay? You need some help? What is this circular stuff about life…I don’t get that either. You got me…Am I being pranked? Is that asshole Bill involved.” (Looking around, concerned to see if he was on camera or someone is videoing him with a cell phone right now.) Older Man: “I swear some days you young bucks cannot see past your noses. You are too wrapped up in your phones and not what happens daily. Blind as a rock!” Young Man: “Hey look…I got a 4.0 grade average…not a dumb piece of shit here, old man.” (He felt the sting of that last comment and was fighting back now.) Older Man: “Well…you don’t know who I am, do you?” Young Man: “Nope…never seen you before…you are just an old man with walking issues carrying a white ball with letters on it…crazy shit!” (Conversation is getting testy.) Older Man: “Well…I am the dean at that university, where you have a 4.0 grade average.” (At that point, he straightened up from slouching and started paying proper attention.) Young Man: “Shit…Do you know me? Have I been to one of your classes?” (Concern is showing on his face; he is restless on the seat and shuffling his feet under the table.) Older Man: Now having some fun with the situation. “You don’t know, even with your 4.0 average. No, you have not been honored to hear one of my lectures. Too bad for you. Few individuals, including possibly yourself, comprehend that life moves in cycles, and that circularity is a predominant feature in our world. Some days it is a prison. You are all locked up…the weight holding you back…for some there will be no parole ever. Are you one of those?” Young Man: “One of those what? Really…not sure about what you’re selling here. This is out there stuff. I’m not sure where you are heading. I was not looking to get my head read or into a heavy conversation today. Are you a shrink to?” (The young man now looks uncomfortable with all this and is looking for an escape. He picks up his cell phone to check the time and notices three new text messages waiting.) Older Man: “That phone of yours, like the rest of us, you’re ensnared in a vicious cycle; the incessant notifications and pings are a circular siren song, pulling you in… gripping you tightly in a circle for mundane information, instant gratification, conversations that are not actual conversations. Your life cycle is not what is around you but what’s on that screen. I bet the first thing you do when you wake up is reach for your phone. Before lights out…look at your phone…can’t leave the house without your phone and on it goes…it is a circle of your life.” Young Man: “What is wrong with that?” (Looking and turning the phone around in his hands.) Older Man: “You…. We are all trapped in these endless circular patterns. That is why I have been carrying this ball around for some time. I write on it my circular patterns. I finally have those circular patterns figured out in my life. Some trap me like a ball and chain restricting me… holding me back. I seek new wisdom from the travels of fresh paths, new ways. Like a tree…I want new branches to collect new light. Now I must turn this ball into a ball of yarn.” Young Man: “Okay…I’ll play! If I understand this…a ball of yarn is circular.” (The Young man is thinking, rubbing his chin. He is not bored anymore. Something is clicking in his thoughts). Older Man: Smiling now… “Maybe you can now see it…. Think about your circular patterns…are they necessary? Good for you…add value to your life? Do you need to sprout new branches before time hardens you into a thick-skinned bowling ball, a cannon ball with no way to penetrate its surface?” Young Man: “Okay…I will think about that, but what about that ball of yarn thing? I don’t get that. A ball of yarn is still a circle.” Older Man: “Yes, it is…but it is different…you can unwind the ball of yarn…its circle…essentially break the circle…make it smaller, leaving a faint, almost imperceptible trail of disruption for others to follow. I must confess…I bumped into you on purpose…I recognized you from the university…every time I saw you…you were buried, mesmerized by…a virtual save to it…your phone. People walking by you…you could not see them…you were in a closed circle of life. Unfortunately, I must go now…but I will walk a different path back. Enjoy your day!” (The older man gets up and walks away, now holding that ball in his left hand. He is taking a quick peek at it and smiling.) Young Man: He glanced around to see if anyone was watching again. Feeling the urge to check his waiting texts, he reached for his phone. They seemed to call out to him. He hesitated, tapping his fingers on the table. After about 20 seconds, he finally gave in and checked his messages. He tapped on the first message. I did not think you would last long… circular… very circular. Then this… How does one escape the relentless cycle of mundane days? The weight of countless Wednesdays bears down on you…how does one find a Friday? I need to get past Friday to break the circle of work because it is now Saturday, and Saturday is different, right? Circles Will your life go round in circles? Unable to fly… unable to touch the sky My ball and chain, carried every day Closed minds… closed paths Break free, do not relive the past It’s ghosts only remain In the circling dust of the past, I have heard the wind’s music One fine morning I will wake up The circles no longer find home Under my eyes, the dark circles At last, have found a new home - Tom Welsh

Occasionally, me included, we need a good kick in the butt. Recently, I got mine. We can all be critical of others, laugh at their expense, and consider ourselves smarter, wiser, or what they were thinking in a silly moment. Quilty as charged! For some time, I have strived not to comment on or consider what people do or say that differs from my thinking. Not consistently successful, those demons sneak in occasionally. I strive for positivity in my life and avoid negative thoughts or actions, as they do not add to the quality of my existence. Well, I slipped! In the winter months, I live in warmer regions away from my home in Canada. My place is on a golf course, just 60 feet from the 15th green. Each day, I can witness the struggles of men and women playing a simple game and making it as difficult as possible most days. The Moment Begins One day, while watching the chaos on the golf course, a man briefly left his golf cart unattended to hit his ball out of a sand trap. His attempt to escape the sandy prison didn’t go well, which I can relate to, as my attempts often fail. The green, marked with a flag, sloped upward from the tee area about 90 yards away. Like me, this man used a wheeled golf cart to transport his trusty golf clubs and his swords around the course. Unfortunately, he left the cart on a slope without applying the brakes. Before he realized it, the cart began moving slowly, shifted gears, built momentum, and rolled down the hill toward its target, a nearby pond. When he noticed, it was too late—the cart laughing, you fool, rolled right over the edge at first floating, then smirking… “I got you” … now sinking into the dark water. There was no fluttering flag like a sinking ship to mark its ultimate moment above the dark waters, and now heading into an unknown abyss, lost forever, those swords were no longer in the sight of humanity. I couldn’t help but laugh at him—how silly, careless, and foolish. I shared the golf story with others and found it amusing each time I recounted it. However, as weeks passed, the story felt stale. Then there is the word, Karma. Recently, while playing golf on the 18th hole, my ball thought swimming would be a good idea. This golf course has lots of water to challenge your ball’s placement—part of the fun and challenge of it. Looking for my ball, hoping it was just on the long grass edge, hiding as it did not want to be hit again…it had had enough…I left my cart with some $2500 worth of gear close to the cart path and did not look at the slope, and no, I did not put the brake on. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the bag moving slowly over the edge and, with a significant splash, going swimming. Calling out to no one in particular… oh no… oh no! The bag and cart sank quickly, and it laughed at me… “I got you” … “I got you” … powering fast away from shore. Off came my shoes and socks, and I entered the blackish water, trying to reach my bag and cart before they were utterly gone to Neptune’s depths. Grabbing the handle with the bag now filled with what seemed to be two hundred pounds of black water of unknown quality. Struggling to push it up the steep embankment, as the water was hungry and did not want to release its grip on its prey. No thought of alligators, which are frequently found in this region on golf courses, was mine; just the previous week, a nine-footer near my boat requested a lift. As the star, I found myself in a ridiculous, gong-show slow-motion moment that should feature flashing lights and blaring music. My golf video, a comedy of errors, would be jam-packed with bloopers, near misses, and plenty of laughs, showcasing shanks, FIST (Fu-k it’s still there) shots, A Fart (Always fu-king always really terrible) shots and water hazards galore. With some help, the bag and my clubs hauled free from the water’s grasp, left to scramble out and up the muddy bank alone, water still clinging to my clothes. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and the water and embarrassment were cold and chilly. I spoke and laughed too soon, as one day the pendulum swung, and mine was the same fate. The Leprechauns Laugh Before me, a vast horizon Floating fields of green A leprechaun’s playground His pot of gold mine to lay claim 18 mere 4.25-inch holes So far, so distant, each flag stands tall The pebbled key, to unlock so small, Undaunted, I bring my bag of tricks To slay the leprechaun’s waiting dragons 18 monsters restless, guarding the gold The fiery breath of sand Still water and hills to bite deep Behold its edges of long hairs The Dragon’s teeth Stand stout against my swing, I have no shield Only a bag of swords Which one to choose I try not to remember That round in September Where it all went wrong Like a jester, a clown, I danced To the winds of the Leprechauns’ song A slice, a hook, that clunk, too fat, too thin My trail of steps, way out of bounds, So many penalties, my card of shame So bad, on so many levels Chasing that little white 1.68-inch devil Around all the Leprechauns’ playground When the dance music was done The Leprechaun smiled and laughed So proud of his fun Having a pint at the 19th hole Come all to drown your sorrows All your tales are not true As those poor attempts Bogies and double bogies Isn’t getting it done as The Leprechaun smiles and laughs - Tom Welsh

At some point, I will be asked, or I will ask myself, why am I doing this? I am putting my thoughts and some secrets on paper for everyone to see. Will that be in tones of “What the hell are you thinking?” Or maybe I wish I could do that. Time will tell. Are you trying to be some influencer? Are you getting paid for this? The answer to that right now is no to money and probably yes to the influencer thing. A man’s voice of time, and experiences in a large stadium filled with so many voices, too many screaming, holding a fluttering banner…. I am here! The Influencer Thing Being an influencer is older than our time on this earth. The oldest influence is still in play… religion… and I am not touching that…no way…no matter how. Moving quickly past that, our lives have many influences. The whole gambit is out there waiting for you, stalking you, plotting to take some of your hard-earned money. Commercials are an influencer and a big one, their never-ending messaging. Music, politicians, your friends, you’re not-so-friends, books, newspapers, Facebook, Instagram… the list goes on and on. Information and disinformation are coming right at you 24/7. Some of us buy in real heavy, controlling our lives, our thoughts, and who we associate with. I expect the influencers we choose will have a large part in who we become or are at any moment in time. I sat and waited outside in a downtown area a few weeks ago. As expected, people came and went in pairs, one-offs, or small packs. The vast majority were much younger than I. In my teens, university, and work, smoking was everywhere—in planes, restaurants, theatres, workplaces, beaches, and streets. Endless cigarette butts dancing somewhat crushed and discarded on the floors, roads, food courts everywhere and anywhere. Dirty, full ashtrays on every table. Carloads of kids were stashed in cars in a thick fog of smoke. It was everywhere, one’s life in a haze of smoke. For some, like my stepfather, it was the first thing they did in the morning, along with coughing up a lung. I remember him one day while sitting on the stairs leading to the bedroom with his ever-present Buckingham lit, holding it up in front of his face and saying convincingly that it would take more than this to kill him. He was right, as it was a combination of tobacco and alcohol in a raging decades-long battle to see who would take him out first. Where is this line of thought leading? You ask? While sitting at that downtown location, I realized a significant substitution had occurred. A cell phone has replaced the ever-present, must-have package of cigarettes, almost the same size. Now, a phone marks your pocket or finds a home in a purse; it’s often not close enough. Instead of a cigarette dangling out of your mouth, there’s a cell phone jammed right in your face. During the smoking era, most people couldn’t go over 15 minutes without lighting up another cigarette. Many of us can’t go 15 minutes without staring at our screens—the screens of our lives. The haze of smoke that once dominated our existence has transformed into mundane, brief conversations full of nothingness. Constantly chased by annoying ads targeting us, following us like a puppy dog, trying to influence our decisions. The Mundane Side of Life I owned a marine retail establishment for 36 years. Yes, I did okay…. I sold many boats… opportunities for a family’s entertainment. I wrote a book on retail sales and taught sales, boat show tactics, body language, and what is unsaid. Sales is primarily communication, verbal and nonverbal. You learn to watch people for clues, who they are, and how they think. You want to understand the decision maker and who has the most significant influence in the family or outside. A journey to fulfil their needs and aspirations. Unfortunately, we have lost the ability to communicate face-to-face with fewer hidden agendas for too many days. The Date After a long day at a boat show, my staff and I were at a steakhouse. We sat at an exposed table, to all there, no hiding, as were all the tables now at any place to eat, reviewing the day’s business. A young couple sat down across from us at a table for two, appearing somewhat uncomfortable and new to each other. Not much later, I noticed with the movement that they both had their cell phones out and right in their faces, essentially hiding from each other. The silence lasted for some time, though sometimes a quiet snicker or other sound interrupted it. They were in my direct line of sight, so it was difficult not to see them. Their thumbs were busy…so they were texting. They were not directly conversing and were less than three feet apart. Finally, when one looked up at me as if saying hello, or wanting a time out, I asked…. are you texting each other? Sheepishly, he said…yes! As I Rant On From time to time, let’s evaluate our lives, contrasting our present selves with our desires. That includes our influencers. Are they the right ones or the trendy ones? Our lives should be larger than the 2” x 4” screen that seems to dominate our lives. Our days are filled with sunrises, sunsets, light, birds, clouds, the simple movement of leaves, food, and the laughter of friends. That includes me! - Tom Welsh

In the previous blog, Branch One, I mentioned that I have lived a life of challenges. Some I conquered without too much blood; others I did not summit wholly, but the jagged rocks and their scrapes did not stop me. Early in life, one has few choices; our parents make them for us. Convenient? One’s parents try to instill their values, rules, and ways of life to imprint these on our synapses forever. The success rate for that is open for interpretation. Parents make choices that can have far-reaching effects on their children’s lives for decades. For example, my father saddled up his horse and left town before I was born. The tightly held secret, a heavy pressing weight on the family, seldom whispered, an unreachable secret, more often felt than spoken of. My father’s infidelity led to an affair with my mother’s best friend mere months before my birth, leaving me and my sister struggling as a living consequence of his actions. It is not a new storyline, but mine, and I must own it like a prominent birthmark. I was born a few days after an F4 tornado devastated a vast portion of my hometown, its violent winds leaving behind a scene of utter chaos. Seven people lost their lives that day. The incredible force of nature and my father’s profound betrayal were the start of my journey to the sea. My mother rose from the ashes of her marriage to the challenge of raising two children by herself. I spent my first seven years in a roughly converted garage. My father was a ghost, never seen or spoken of—a dark spectre. That ghost constantly haunted the room and our lives. My mother locked him forever in a dungeon, a dark secret that needed to stay chained away, as if you don’t speak of it…it does not exist. I remember one Christmas when I was about five, a present arrived: a drum set. No tag, strange looks from my sister and mother. No answer to the question of where this came from. Shortly, it disappeared as the continued sight of it caused problems. Secrets seldom remain hidden…my sister told me part of the story. A young boy, skinny, too shy, with no father figure, struggled—severely scared ankles from boiling coffee, no father’s love or guidance, a recipe for endless questions and teasing. A new man entered my life when I was seven years old, a stepfather. Things looked up at first, but one’s issues all too frequently find a crack to bubble to the surface. The demon alcohol! A man who measured his adulthood in Export Ale and Buckingham cigarettes, as this was the measure of a man’s life, his statement of who he was. To be fair to him, there were some enjoyable moments. His father had alcoholism, most likely because of battle injuries from the First World War, where somehow, he survived six years of that endless, mindless bloodshed. His brother died in his mid-thirties in an alcohol-related car crash. Again, a secret. At nine, I had my first brush with death. Immediately taken to the hospital after a doctor’s appointment with a raging kidney infection, most likely because of near-continuous second-hand smoke inhalation. My entire family smoked, and four of them paid the price for that, and early in life, so did I. Six months in the hospital or confined to a bed at home. Later, I was behind the curve at school and placed in special reading classes. Later that year, I was unjustly taken to the principal’s office and leather-strapped for an offense by the teacher’s pet. Age nine was brutal and left scars that probably still resonate. Fast-forward a couple of years, and there was a moment. One’s life is an unscripted story of moments of different shapes and influences. This was a big one. The undersized, shy kid wanted to play baseball and signed up. There, he met his coach; he was young, just twenty years old. There was a radiating life in him. He could relate to the young thugs sometimes, and the quiet ones, in my case. Mr. Bill Smith In times long ago, the name Smith rang out night and day One who hits or strikes in the Anglo-Saxon heritage Blacksmiths breathe a pounding life of heat and fire With mastery of the earth’s fires, artistically create Something from lumps of coal for us to keep Motionless in the green fields of dreams Stood a young boy…no father to lead him forward A small, quiet boy, alone and teased all the time Head down, eyes searching the fields to find his time, Standing there, frozen in time, yearning to play Others were taller, stronger, and more alive that day Bill Smith sized him up as the song Ragdoll played As just a kid, the clothes were all hand-me-downs… They all laughed at him when he came into town… I’d change the troubled sight into a glad time if I could… Timely lyrics of Frankie Valli etched the field that day Bill Smith loved that song and hummed it all day At that moment, a chance encounter set a boy in motion The skinny kid was, at best, an average player, but Blessed with a hidden grit and a quiet fire radiating inside This kid, with Bill’s help, later stood tall on the field Hit two home runs and earned a special drink one day Time moved on; Bill Smith said his goodbyes. Many more challenges ensued, remembering the early days As a kid, turn the page on what is written in stone Forward his rallying cry; always forward, no kneeling Many thought this kid would not amount to too much Told too often that he would never do that This kid climbed mountains in howling gales to rise And now, as he looks once more upon his past ground, That moment in a green field… that helped that special day A hand that reached out… take my hand, son Helped build a rag-doll kid into one who can stand tall I say to the Bill Smiths, who tirelessly offer themselves You gave more than you knew; I am forever grateful for that. The years have passed, and that time is now approaching six decades past. I often think of those days and what they meant to me. Too late, I fear I tried to find him again. That name is hard to trace. In the first blog, I included this… It begins with me asking a question. The question is…. If you had the right opportunity to make just one change in your life, what would that be? You have 5 seconds to answer. Try this on the first day of every month as you look at a sunset. My answer would be to get the chance to express my thanks to Bill Smith. One of my biggest regrets is not telling him how much I appreciated what he did in those days on the fields and what it meant to me. A skinny branch trying to reach the sun needed guidance and nourishment to grow into a stout tree. Years later, in my forties, I had the chance to work with young boys, becoming men on the fields of green for a decade. In 2022, I made a pilgrimage to the Field of Green, Fenway Park. My shadow in that journey or pilgrimage was my thoughts after losing my wife of 45 years, and I began writing the book The Lighthouse.  Tom D. Welsh