WAVES OF OUR TIME

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