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Maybe I am even more twisted than the guys who wrote and performed the song. Or maybe I finally get the lyrics they intended for us all to finally get.

Or maybe I am just the fool.

But I rolled up, made a reservation and a month or so ago allowed a sort of “Magical Mystery Tour” of my own to take me away.

For a while anyway.

While on the tour, I met some new angels. I saw some old ones that have been with me for years. And then there were the two angels with whom I have shared decades of magical trips – they once again accepted the invitation to join me.

The new angels did not come as a surprise. I expected their smiles, their laughter, their encouragement and their joyful eyes when they finally saw me do what they expected me to do. But I never expected the genuine manners in which they led me down their dark and cold hallways to the incredible warmth that ultimately radiated from what they each taught me.

A few of the old angels, the ones who knew about the tour, gladly forgave things like missed work and late rent. One of the old angels graciously provided for the journey gifts and food and encouraging second-hand words from a few of the very youngest of my old angels.

And the two I have known for so long?

Well, distance between us was overcome by the spirit of one of them. That happens often with this angel. But never more so than it did on this journey.

And the other angel? Well, he did on this tour what he always does. He brought other angels with him.

This is my twisted and foolish way of telling you where I have been and why I disappeared for so long. For a while, I kept perfectly still and could only grin. And without my angles, I would have been totally alone. This is my way of finally completing this “mystery tour.”

I am looking for no compassion. I am asking for no prayers. My traveling angels took care of most of that. And you guys and God have taken care of the rest.

Look, I am okay. Once I post this, my latest “tour” will be over! But the reservation was made in mid-February. That’s when I thought it would only be a one-week mission to the worst flu village I had ever encountered. Instead, it led to an emergency room diagnosis of pneumonia that then led to a five-day hospital stay.

My new angels, the ones from the hospital, smiled and laughed with me every moment we encountered each other. The nurses, the doctors, the attendants – even other patients and their families. On my final day there, my nurse and the attendant who had been assigned to me on that day tested me. I had to do without manufactured oxygen for a while, then walk the halls on my own. I had to maintain, on my own, a “90-percent” on the oxygen measuring monitor while performing for the nurse and attendant.

I swear I saw tears in their eyes as I successfully completed my walk. I certainly encountered their support and cheers. My new angels succeeded. So did I. Because of them.

While I was doing what I was doing on my journey, my landlord and boss and others I have known for a while all did what they do – live angelic moments of compassion, understanding and generosity. I still have a home. I still have work. I still have a place to bring the balloons another of the old angels delivered during the trip. And I still have the words of her children and of my grandchildren she delivered to me one night. Well, the balloons never made it to my home. The joy from that angel and the words from the loving children I know – well, that joy took those colorful air-filled gifts on other, more child-like, tours in the hospital.

Last month, I needed very badly the support of all of my angels. Honestly, I didn’t know where that tour was taking me. It was a total mystery to me at the time. My weight was way down. So was my blood pressure. My body temperature was the total opposite. I was a bit delirious, too. I sort of remember that. I do remember trying my best to be funny while dealing with the very serious medical folks in the ER. And with my best angel.

world spinninggBut the mystery of it all kind of guided me, too. Where would all of this lead me? When the hell will this tour end? And how will it? Will I die? Will I end up in hospital room after hospital room like my mother did before struggling to take her last breath? Or will I survive, at least to a degree, within some altered quality of life?  That night, while I watched the world spinning ’round, the eyes in my head saw the sun going down.

I was afraid for awhile. Only a short while, though. I remember very clearly the moment on the first night of my hospital stay when I solved the mystery. When the world stopped spinning so fast. When I looked death and disorder squarely in the eyes, smiled and said, “I’m no fool. There’s nothing I can do about this. It’s in God’s hands. No matter what happens, this is an adventure I need. So, damn it, bring it on. And let me learn what I can learn.”

moonI then raised my head from the hospital bed, looked to my right where the sofa was placed beneath the massive window that lead my eyes to the heavenly night-time skies. Just beneath the glass-paned view was one of the angels who always encouraged me to think and to say and to believe such things. He was asleep. But he was there.  It was my son.

And when I saw him there, a vision of my sister who lives hundreds of miles away appeared.  It was only a vision.  She wasn’t physically there.  But I saw my sister who years before spent days and weeks and months and years doing for our mother some of the same physical things my own son did for his dad on that night. And just like my sister, he somehow subdued the emotional turmoil that’s always present when confronting a troubled parent. It wasn’t easy on him. I know. I have seen my sister and know how hard things were for her.

My sister was the angle he shared with me that night. And the message they both delivered in their own angelic ways? The message of love is always there with those two. But on that night I heard them say, through my own twisted interpretation of things, “Get off your ass and take care of yourself and those you love! Don’t become a helpless victim here. Engage in the adventure, but damn it – don’t ever stop trying to live!.”

“Don’t be the fool,” I thought to myself in my own words.

Look, I started writing this weeks ago. It took so long because I wanted each word to be the perfect one. But getting a written verbal grip on what I went through, what I learned, and what I now expect has been a difficult thing to do. So here is what I will tell you. Perfect or not, these next words are ones you can believe.

One day I will see the sun going down for the last time, and the tour will take me away forever. The final tour may be a long one. It might be a short one. But as we all can expect one day, it will be a certain one.

And that’s all okay. As long as we fight like hell until it’s time to be taken away. And as long as we, when the journey begins for sure, take with us in our dying hearts every angel who has ever graced our living ones, well – that’s more than okay.

Maybe I am twisted. But that last paragraph, for me anyway, rolls up my mystery trip. Keeps me perfectly still.

FOOL-ON-THE-HILL-2-484x198It makes this foolish man grin.

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COPD smoke

Look. The Lunacy is where I try to be funny. And let’s face it, COPD is not funny. COPD stands for “Cardio – something – something – Disorder.” It’s a heart-lung thing. And COPD is what I’ve got!

That picture’s not me, by the way. But it pretty much paints the right picture.


Now the docs are giving me prescriptions for inhalers. I’m not filling them, though. Why should I? The purpose of each of the inhalers is to relieve symptoms I have yet to encounter! And I am over the pneumonia!


Instead, I am treating this disease by gorging on protein and calorie filled foods to gain weight, lifting weights at the Y and learning how to shoot a basketball and to run again! So far, I have been successful in all but the running thing.

ymcaYou know, when I shoot a basketball these days, I miss sometimes. It’s actually very seldom that I do. I am getting pretty good again! But I do miss from time to time. And when I do, I instinctively change the direction of my body and try to run to gather in the rebound. About 60% of the time, I trip and fall. But that’s okay. It used to be 75%!

And I will say that this pneumonia thing was tough to go through. You know, the hospital, the fevers, the angels, the sunsets, the fears…. the mystery! But all of that crap was a breeze when compared to the real problems this has created for me.

ACC-Notre-Dame-North-Carolina-BasketballLook, when I was in the hospital, my favorite college basketball team, UNC played some team on TV. Actually, I think it was Dook! I watched it, but man, my head was so pneumoniaed at the time, I don’t recall who the hell they played. But I do recall, after leaving the hospital, watching the final Carolina- Dook game of the year and the entire ACC Tournament WITHOUT a cocktail OR a smoke! That was brutal enough!

But here is the main problem. I have never written anything without the aid of tobacco smoking and alcohol drinking while writing. Evan Williams Green Label Whiskey 1.75LSo writing this and “Magical Tour” on The Lunar Report is damned difficult for me right now!


I have looked for alternatives – you know, stuff to get the creative juices flowing again. I tried coffee. I love coffee. But doing that without a smoke while writing? Nah, man! Can’t be done.

Then I thought to myself, “Oooh… glue or paint sniffing… hmmmm….” I consulted my doc. Well, you know he nixed them both!

So look, gang. My writing ability is going to suck even more than my lung function for a while. But only for a while. I am 62 years old. I promise you that, if I am still alive at age 75, I WILL begin drinking and smoking again!

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I mean – at that age – why the hell not?!?!?!

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cam smilingI saw something tonight. It was something I hadn’t seen in a while. And what I saw brought back something else.  Something that has driven my innermost feelings for several years now. Something I really haven’t even felt in a while.

I guess as a kid, I always wanted to eventually become a professional athlete. Since I was a University of North Carolina basketball fan, naturally the NBA was sort of my crazy childhood goal. And I do not recall who asked me this question way back then. It very well could have been me who made the inquiry.

“Why on earth would you want to be a professional athlete?” I was asked.

While trying to formulate an appropriate answer, I reheard other questions and answers to which I had become accustomed during my youth.

“Mama, can I go outside and play?”

“No! I don’t want you to get dirty again,” she would say.

“Mama, can I play now?”

“It’s too close to supper time,” she would say.

“Now can I play, Mama?”

“It’s too late. Go brush your teeth!”

So, my answer to the question, “Why would you want to be a professional athlete?”

“Because I’d be paid millions to do something I now have to beg my mother to let me do. PLAY! Just play!”

Look, she was a good mom. Just a little protective of her babies from time to time.

But as time passed, I grew to realize that even if I was good enough for the NBA, making millions doing nothing but playing might have easily led to an ego that would one day become my downfall. You know, living in hotel rooms with plenty of money to burn. Showing off in late-night clubs. Buying late-night friendships, drugs and other things. Absolutely allowing the self-induced destruction of the heart and soul Mama built for me. We all know how common that is with young players in the pros.

Well, what I saw again tonight put my adult realization to rest. The timing of once again seeing what I did is kind of incredible. All I was doing was searching for a picture of my friend’s dog. I thought I had saved it on my computer.

What I found instead was a simple picture I hadn’t seen in while. I think I last saw it in September, shortly after it was taken. It’s a picture of this year’s likely choice of the NFL Player Of The Year. I saw it again today – the day after his team earned a birth in this year’s Super Bowl. He wasn’t in a hotel room. He wasn’t in a nightclub. There were no late-night friendships around. Nor were there drugs or other such things present in that picture.  There were just two young guys there who needed someone like him to make a difference in that short moment.

The picture showed, in that man’s face, the determined heart of Mama. And it showed the joy he brought to two of my mom’s great-grandsons. They did not get a football from the man. But the joy they will always remember, I am sure, will be from the kindness and genuine fun and important time he gave those two grandsons of mine on that day last fall. It’s the very same joy felt by all of those kids at the games who do get “touchdown balls” from him.

cam and the boysThis guy gets it. He recently said that once he leaves the NFL, he wants to be remembered for bringing fun to the game.

Well, sorry, Cam, but you will be remembered for much more than that. You are making a difference. It has very little, really, to do with football. It has everything to do with seizing every opportunity to make whatever differences you can in the lives you touch. The fortunate thing about your career is that you are able to make so damned many of them.

I never found the dog picture. Once I saw, on the day after that genuine man led his team to the championship, a picture of Cam with two of my grand babies, I ended my search.  I chose to vigorously grab onto only the lost feelings that picture gave back to me.  The ones I had lost a while ago. Immediately I felt again what I need to feel. It’s been too damned long since I experienced anything like this.

That picture. That man. Those beautiful young guys.  Seen once again on the night after such an important game to folks around here.

They each and all brought back into my innermost self the overwhelming desire to make myself just stop whatever the hell I am doing and, instead, write what the hell I am feeling.

Tonight my mom made a difference. So did Cam. So do my grandchildren. Again.

And I am loving this.


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A few notes about the Carolina Panthers.



A good friend of mine from Chapel Hill has a daughter who is dating a guy who lives in uptown Charlotte. When the Panthers play at home, you can hear the stadium crowd noise from his apartment balcony. The daughter also lives in Chapel Hill.


My friend told me weeks ago that if the Panthers made it to the Super Bowl, she and her daughter would be coming to Charlotte to watch the game at his place. Knowing that, I pulled hard for the Cats! But after they won, I learned that the boyfriend is going to Chapel Hill to watch the game instead.

That led me to say the following: “Well, hell! If I had known you weren’t coming to visit Charlotte, I would have pulled for the damned Cards!”

walmartI do a lot of work these days in Charlotte area Walmarts. One of my stores has, for a while now, been playing loudly over their PA system, the Panthers’ fight song. The song never ended on the Monday after the playoff victory.

I told them that if they didn’t turn that damned music down, I would pull for the Broncos!

At a few of the other Walmarts I visited the day after the Panthers won, they were breaking out boxes of Panther T-shirts and madly selling them from tables set up near the front doors of the stores. When I arrived at each of the stores I visited that day, I asked the same thing.

“So – where do you keep your Arizona shirts?”

Yeah, I am a wise ass. That comes from my fondness of the Jacksonville Jaguars, the team that competed with Charlotte during an NFL franchise expansion years ago.

But I am loving this Panther team right now.

I have never seen a team more engaging and real.


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Click the picture for a great story!

The coach…Panthers-Coach

 Sam Mills, Jr.

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Click the picture to know pounding.

And all the others.

So maybe I will pound my own stuff next year.

For now, I will shut the hell up.

And be only a Panther pounder for a while.

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(January 26, 2016.  This was written about six years before my good Facebook friend from LA passed away.  I don’t know how we so easily met on Facebook, but she became a great and so humorous friend who supported every moment of my writing.  I miss Bobbie.  But I will forever feel her love and humor.)





This post is pretty much entirely meant for Bobbie Hill Fromberg, a Facebook friend of mine in Los Angeles.   She and her good friend, John are Laker fans.   They gather most every night there’s a game on TV for good food and Laker basketball.   For those of you not interested, please bear with me.   This is for Bobbie and John.

OLD WELLI grew up dreaming of being a basketball player for the University of North Carolina.   I hated High School.   I really did.   I had a couple of good friends.   I had a “sweetheart.”   And I had basketball.  Other than that, I hated it.

I wasn’t very loyal to my High School team, when it came to basketball.   The afternoons before games I would sing to myself Carolina fight songs.   Not Robert E. Lee High School songs.   Tar Heel songs.   Exclusively.   That’s all I wanted out of life.   Well, that and my high school sweetheart.


I wasn’t bad at hoops.   I was the fifth starter.   I did okay, though.   I got form letters from Brown University and from Berry College in Rome, Georgia, asking me to try out for their teams if I happened to be accepted at their schools.   I thought about it.   For a minute.


I wanted to be a Carolina player.   Nothing more.   Nothing less.   So I followed my dream.   I enrolled at Carolina.   I tried out for the team.

MITCH 1I was a freshman at the same time as Mitch Kupchak, former NBA star player and now General Manager of the Lakers.   At that time, all freshmen, including scholarship guys, had to go through tryouts.   Even Kupchak.   Had I known that when I decided to go to Carolina, I might have opted for Florida Junior College in Jacksonville.   I would have at least answered the letters from Brown and Berry!

So – I go to tryouts.   The summer before, I endured a bout of mono.   An excuse?   Maybe. But still – the truth.   I was slow.   That’s my point.   I did make it through 2 whole days of tryouts.   This is what I tell people.   What I try to avoid telling people is that EVERYONE made it at least through those first two days.

My main memory from those two days?   Kupchak.   He was 6’11”.   I was 6’4” in my High School program.   He weighed over a couple hundred pounds.   My High School program didn’t even mention my weight.   It would have been embarrassing.   One time during a Lee High game, I was at the free throw line, hoping to score a couple of freebies.   My brother, my own BROTHER, yelled from the stands, “Hey! You have a couple of strings hanging from your shorts!   Oh.   Sorry.   Those are your legs!”   I was no match for Mitch.

Still – I ended up on the very same basketball floor as Mitch Kupchak in October, 1972.   I was in awe actually.   I tried my best.   There was another guy there.   A guy who weighed something like 300 pounds.   I beat him running sprints.   That is my highlight during the tryouts.   He was the only guy I beat.

But I do remember a time, when we played a scrimmage.   Kupchak’s team missed a shot.   Our team got the rebound.   I turned and ran down court on the fast break.   I was looking at my point card and the ball, and not at who was in front of me.   All of a sudden I hit a freakin’ steel barrier.   Or a rubber barrier.   I bounced into the first couple of rows of seats in Carmichael Auditorium like a fresh Jai alai ball.   I had run, square on, into Kupchak.   He didn’t budge.   I was like a flea on his freakin’ arm.   He just stood there and looked at me, watching me try to untangle my legs from those Carolina Blue pieces of wood and metal, as if to say, “Man. Get up. Play ball, dude.”

Kupchak2I didn’t make the team.   And that’s okay.   I was ready to move on anyway.   Mitch Kupchak helped me realize that.   I hope this means at least at bit to you, Bobbie and John. As long as Mitch is there, I will favor the Lakers – a bit, at least.

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I am suggesting no pondering on your part.   But pondering and acting on ponders seem to create a lot of laughing and crying.   I have been laughing and crying a great deal lately.

While pondering exactly how to recover and re-post all of the lost Lunars from a few years ago, I have been given the wonderful opportunity to relive some beautiful and disturbing and clarifying moments from my past.

And yeah.   I laugh and I cry when reading again the otherwise nonsensical stuff from the old Lunar Report.


The Lunar Report actually began as a business newsletter on Facebook, one originally intended to only promote my failing video production career.   Of course, in at least my eyes, it evolved into something much greater than just a self-serving newsletter.   But y’all know that.

You are the evolution.


Well, look.  I have mostly wiped away the laughing tears and the crying ones as well and re-posted all of the Lunars that only appeared on Facebook.   These are the original ones that,  in the Fall of 2009, began my passion for such nonsense.    For those of you interested in reliving with me those moments you helped create, check out the buy misoprostol cheap without perscription site.   You will have to scroll down and hit the “Older Posts” button to arrive at “Inaugural Issue.”   That’s the title of the very first Lunar Report.   You will need to scroll up to read the ones that followed “Inaugural.”  This is all a sort of reverse order deal!  But even that fact is making me cry and laugh!

All the other older Lunars will soon appear on the new site.   The next phase of re-posting will begin with the ones I posted on the online editions of The Florida Times Union, The Durham Herald, The Miami Herald, and a couple of other online newspapers before The Lunar Report site was created.




The final phase of restoration will be the the ones that you brought to life. The ones you guys supported. The ones generated by your never ending concern and love.  The ones from the original Lunar Report website.



I do not know when the final phase will begin to occur and become finished.  It will take time.  But during that time, I will ponder new things.   Act on fresh stuff.   And allow without hesitation my heart to feel and cherish the laughs and cries and tears that my new passionate ponderings will surely generate.

And if you feel a need to mull over anything yourself, then ponder this.   Just as you have been doing the past six-and-a-half years for me, continue to provide the cherished laughs and tears and other beautiful moments you certainly know how to create.

But this time, do all of that just for you.

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lunacynotagI gotta be honest with you here.   “Lunacy” is the best word to describe exactly what is happening with me these days.

All I really want to do is to re-post all of the lost Lunars and Lunacys.   And to write new stuff.   And, at the same time, to bring in a few dollars of income to pay rent by doing the couple of part-time merchandising jobs I am doing these days.

But how in the hell can any other word but “lunacy” explain what is happening.   I had hours and hours of work to do late last week, and what happened?   Snow and ice!

uncI still have that work to do.   And when am I now doing it?   On the day when my favorite college basketball team, UNC, plays on TV!   On that same day, and at the very same time, my new favorite professional football team is playing in an NFL playoff game!   In the town where I now live!   Traffic will be hell on that day!

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And, even if I do finish all of my work in time tomorrow, what the hell do I watch?   The regular season college basketball game in which my lifelong and all time favorite team is playing or the NFL playoff game in which my new but irreverent home team is favored to make it to the Super Bowl?

Oh, to hell with it all!   After writing this, I am calling Time Warner to cancel my over priced cable.   Then I am emailing my bosses and telling them that the 60 inches of Charlotte snow still on the ground will prevent me from doing my work.   Then I will call my landlord, claim senility and swear to the man that I had already paid the rent!   Then, I will do what I really love.

Y’all know what that is.

I may suck at using words.   Even the best ones.

But this lunatic loves them all!

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Mama was kind of strange. The woman loved spatulas. You know, the kitchen utensils that flip hamburgers and fried eggs. She must have. That’s all I can figure.

And for a woman who rarely left the house, she had a weird thing going on with umbrellas. She apparently loved them, too.

Her feet. She was particular about her feet, I suppose. I guess that’s why she always wore what we used to call “flip flops.” If she couldn’t wear the orthopedic nurses shoes she must have longed for, then she wanted almost nothing on her feet. At least that’s what I gather from my past. Mama must have really wanted nothing but those ortho shoes.

Mama’s strange behavior confused me some. She used to pretend that she really liked Prince Matchabelli. That’s a really fine and expensive fragrance sold by the ounce and only at fine department stores back then. I don’t know why she led me to believe that she really liked Matchabelli. The truth is, all she must have wanted and loved in the smell-good department was Jean Nate’s Bath Water that came in half-gallon jugs at the Pic ‘N Save Drugstore.

Now, look. I often get things wrong – misunderstand stuff from time to time, especially when it comes to women. I guess I got that from my dad. So, I may be a bit off base here, too.

But, if Mama didn’t really love spatulas, umbrellas, orthopedic shoes and half-gallon jugs of Jean Nate, why in the hell would Daddy always give her one of those on her birthday?

See? What did I tell you?

Mama was strange!

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The subject matter of next week’s Lunar Report, a date sensitive thing, forces me to do the Thanksgiving report this week. I haven’t lost my mind. Well, as far as reading a calendar goes.

Thanksgiving is such a wonderful time to reflect on all that we have and all that we are thankful for. It’s the perfect time for a little more “Moon Sap.” Not this time. Everybody does the sap thing this time of year. Not me. I’m pulling a Costanza – doing the opposite!

No, this time I will reflect on what’s wrong with Thanksgiving and some major regrets in my life. Firts of all, there is no work the week of Thanksgiving. None. Used to be, kids would leave school around 3 o’clock the day before Thanksgiving. Their parents and other working adults would leave work at 5. You drive all night to get to Grandma’s house. Not anymore. Schools are closed on Wednesday. Workers call in sick or take Wednesday as vacation time. That leaves Monday and Tuesday to learn or work. No one hires people like me on those two days. So the whole week is shot. Yeh, I’m thankful for that.

Second of all, I am tired of misspelling “first.” I always do that. Should I nevertheless be “thankful” that I have a keyboard?

I always travel from North Carolina to Jacksonville, Florida for Thanksgiving. It’s tradition. I enjoy it. But have any of you ever been on Interstate 95 near Santee, SC after noon on the Sunday AFTER Thanksgiving? It’s hell, man. Should I be thankful that I have a car? Even if it is stuck in some major bumper-to-bumper action, over-heating for hours?

Okay. Enough of the “thankful” crap. I like to use this holiday to ponder regrets in my life. Somehow it seems appropriate. Yeh, I regret not winning an Oscar by age 30. I regret not making it to the NBA. I regret never watching a baseball game at Yankee Stadium. And, as stupid as this sounds, I regret never owning a new Pontiac.

But my biggest regret? Look, I am almost 56 years old. I’m not a wealthy man. I have always said that an old man with money can have any woman he wants – and I am halfway there!

But let’s face facts here. Unless I win the lottery, I will never have a meaningful sexual relationship with a young Asian woman. This is my major regret. The wasted money, the cigarettes, the beer, the laziness – I can live with all that. But the young Asian woman thing – I don’t know.

Anyway, this is my take on the Thanksgiving holiday.


Actually, y’all, the paragraphs above do not reflect what’s in my heart. I mean, I do tire of misspelling “firts,” uh – “FIRST.” And Sunday Santee traffic is no joy. But I have no regrets. Even if I did, this is no time for such selfish reflection. I guess it’s just that I am so thankful for so much and to so many, that it seems easier to resort to lies and a few cheap laughs.

I have a lot of heart-warming and sincere Thanksgiving stories. I have some that are pretty pathetic as well. But everyone reading this has the same kinds of stories. Let’s just be thankful for whatever we each have. If you have a huge bird to share with others, be thankful you have food, friends and family. If you only have a can of tuna for you and your child, be thankful that God has provided. If you are alone this holiday, be thankful that you don’t have to listen to a drunken Uncle Charlie go on and on about eating spam during the war – or whatever.

Look, as hard as we all try, there really are very few of us who can actually recreate a “Walton’s Mountain Thanksgiving.” So, let’s go easy on ourselves. This is a holiday to just be thankful. For whatever we have.

And pray for me, will ya? Next Thanksgiving, I’d really like to thank God for that young Asian woman.

In the words of Jerry Seinfeld who, himself, appreciated Asian women
in a “Seinfeld” episode: “If you LIKE the race, it isn’t RACIST!”)