So did you hear? I heard it on NPR. Bank of America came to an out-of-court settlement with investors who bought bundled loans that were secured through Countrywide who was committing fraud by reselling them as class A securities when they were not. (I think I've got that right.)
The settlement is so big, they say, that BofA will eat up all of its profit for 2011. And there are other similar suits pending. The article concluded that it was a good step in putting the matter behind us.
That silly, unregulated, unprincipled CountryWide. They extended credit to all sorts of people who didn't meet the minimums, had sloppy recordkeeping habits, and lost track of the Titles. And BofA still gobbled them up.
I still want to know what that means for the rest of us, the you's and me's who own a piece of the rock, maybe a CountryWide-esque loan too big for our britches. Is there relief trickling down?
... So ... you own a car ... you can't afford the upkeep or gas ... you put it on CraigsList ... you find a buyer who isn't deranged and you strike a deal ... but you don't have the pink slip. Is it yours? Can you sell it?
... So ... a bank strategically overextends the buyer, sells them a house, goes belly up, and in the process loses the paperwork, and the Title -- well, you get the picture.
I just want to see it. Just once. My title with all the original signatures of people who owned my house. Can I, CountryWide (slash) BofA?
I'd feel a whole lot better if they would offer up a complimentary refi at 3.75 for 30 years because they need help getting out of this mess. No need to pre-qualify, they'd say, with a solid mortgage payment history like yours! Oh, and a pass on this PMI business under the circumstances. Ya, I'd feel a lot better about the sinkhole of property values with that going on.
Talk about acid reflux!
Jun 30, 2011
Jun 26, 2011
A Two Hour Tour
We boarded the Chardonnay II in Santa Cruz on Friday for a sail around the Monterey Bay. Steve & Barb are legendary for their luck and this was the latest winning raffle ticket from a $10 donation: a 2 hour cruise for them and 50 of their friends. Worth what, a couple of grand?
Cool captain and crew, too. There was a lot of good energy with all these guests who don'tsee each other very often - the brothers and friends and cousins and kids who almost all started at the same point in the Sunset.
After, there was the Santa Cruz Beach and Boardwalk and the Giant Dipper, twice! We saw Laughing Sal from Playland at the Beach, watched surfer dudes ride the waves, and grabbed for rings on the Merry Go Round to throw in the clown's mouth to light up the eyes.
Corn Dogs and Chocolate dipped soft ice cream and salt water taffy. Yum! And then there were the two free on-the-beach concerts with Eric Burdon and the Animals! - House of the Rising Sun
- We Gotta Get Out of this Place
- Baby Let Me Take You Home
- Spill the Wine
- Sky Pilot
- It's My Life
- Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood
- Boom Boom
- See See Rider
- San Francisco Nights ... the list is endless.
Great day, guys! We have The Animals Retrospective cranked up as I'm writing this.
Jun 21, 2011
This just in, from InnerWeekly
Liking Is for Cowards. Go for What Hurts.
by Jonathan Franzen
When I was in college, and for many years after, I liked the natural world. Didn’t love it, but definitely liked it. It can be very pretty, nature. And since I was looking for things to find wrong with the world, I naturally gravitated to environmentalism, because there were certainly plenty of things wrong with the environment. And the more I looked at what was wrong — an exploding world population, exploding levels of resource consumption, rising global temperatures, the trashing of the oceans, the logging of our last old-growth forests — the angrier I became.
Finally, in the mid-1990s, I made a conscious decision to stop worrying about the environment. There was nothing meaningful that I personally could do to save the planet, and I wanted to get on with devoting myself to the things I loved.
But then a funny thing happened to me. It’s a long story, but basically I fell in love with birds. I did this not without significant resistance, because it’s very uncool to be a birdwatcher, because anything that betrays real passion is by definition uncool. But little by little, in spite of myself, I developed this passion, and although one-half of a passion is obsession, the other half is love.
And so, yes, I kept a meticulous list of the birds I’d seen, and, yes, I went to inordinate lengths to see new species. But, no less important, whenever I looked at a bird, any bird, even a pigeon or a robin, I could feel my heart overflow with love.
And here’s where a curious paradox emerged. My anger and pain and despair about the planet were only increased by my concern for wild birds, and yet, as I began to get involved in bird conservation and learned more about the many threats that birds face, it became easier, not harder, to live with my anger and despair and pain.
How does this happen? I think, for one thing, that my love of birds became a portal to an important, less self-centered part of myself that I’d never even known existed. Instead of continuing to drift forward through my life as a global citizen, liking and disliking and withholding my commitment for some later date, I was forced to confront a self that I had to either straight-up accept or flat-out reject.
Which is what love will do to a person. Because the fundamental fact about all of us is that we’re alive for a while but will die before long. This fact is the real root cause of all our anger and pain and despair. And you can either run from this fact or, by way of love, you can embrace it.
When you stay in your room and rage or sneer or shrug your shoulders, as I did for many years, the world and its problems are impossibly daunting. But when you go out and put yourself in real relation to real people, or even just real animals, there’s a very real danger that you might love some of them.
And who knows what might happen to you then?
by Jonathan Franzen
When I was in college, and for many years after, I liked the natural world. Didn’t love it, but definitely liked it. It can be very pretty, nature. And since I was looking for things to find wrong with the world, I naturally gravitated to environmentalism, because there were certainly plenty of things wrong with the environment. And the more I looked at what was wrong — an exploding world population, exploding levels of resource consumption, rising global temperatures, the trashing of the oceans, the logging of our last old-growth forests — the angrier I became.
Finally, in the mid-1990s, I made a conscious decision to stop worrying about the environment. There was nothing meaningful that I personally could do to save the planet, and I wanted to get on with devoting myself to the things I loved.
But then a funny thing happened to me. It’s a long story, but basically I fell in love with birds. I did this not without significant resistance, because it’s very uncool to be a birdwatcher, because anything that betrays real passion is by definition uncool. But little by little, in spite of myself, I developed this passion, and although one-half of a passion is obsession, the other half is love.
And so, yes, I kept a meticulous list of the birds I’d seen, and, yes, I went to inordinate lengths to see new species. But, no less important, whenever I looked at a bird, any bird, even a pigeon or a robin, I could feel my heart overflow with love.
And here’s where a curious paradox emerged. My anger and pain and despair about the planet were only increased by my concern for wild birds, and yet, as I began to get involved in bird conservation and learned more about the many threats that birds face, it became easier, not harder, to live with my anger and despair and pain.
How does this happen? I think, for one thing, that my love of birds became a portal to an important, less self-centered part of myself that I’d never even known existed. Instead of continuing to drift forward through my life as a global citizen, liking and disliking and withholding my commitment for some later date, I was forced to confront a self that I had to either straight-up accept or flat-out reject.
Which is what love will do to a person. Because the fundamental fact about all of us is that we’re alive for a while but will die before long. This fact is the real root cause of all our anger and pain and despair. And you can either run from this fact or, by way of love, you can embrace it.
When you stay in your room and rage or sneer or shrug your shoulders, as I did for many years, the world and its problems are impossibly daunting. But when you go out and put yourself in real relation to real people, or even just real animals, there’s a very real danger that you might love some of them.
And who knows what might happen to you then?
Jun 18, 2011
Finding the Magna Carta
It sounds ridiculous to say I had a disappointing day in England because it is one of the Wonders of the World as far as I'm concerned.
You know how sometimes you over-anticipate something and build it up so high that it backfires? That didn't happen. Stonehenge just really sucked.
No, really: the pictures DO do it justice. It really is a bunch of large stones in a cow pasture. I have NO IDEA why calendars are devoted to it. One thing not replicated on film is the fencing that keeps tourists away and the little shacks that sell souvenier rocks and bottled water. Presumably, so you have a memento of the experience and are hydrated on the long trip home.
An hour and a half train trip and nearly 45 minutes by bus, for this? I was positively inconsolable knowing that the day could have been spent doing something, anything else. So I parked my butt at the train station and was thumbing through Fodor's Guide to the Universe when lo and behold I found a cathedral nearby with one of the tallest spires in England. And it was, like, a 10 minute walk.
I headed through town and could not help but notice the most marvelous smell coming from the fish and chips storefront just off the sidewalk, literally one step in and you are at the counter. Real English fish and chips, bubbling in oil and seasonings, being scooped up and drained on newspaper and copious amounts of vinegar and salt added before being tightly wrapped in fresh newspaper and shoved into a bag. L3, please. There was a line.
I took the searing bag of hot lava onto the street thinking I would die from the salt alone and that lunch would probably need to be thrown out. But at present it was keeping me warm.
Salisbury turned out to be an astonishing stop, architecturally and historically. It was deserted except for a friendly docent standing in a nave who introduced me to one of the last remaining copies of the Magna Carta signed by Prince John. Fodor's didn't even mention it!
The Magna Carta is as historically significant to the English as the Declaration of Independence is to Americans. It is a proclamation of freedoms granted to the citizens and limiting the monarchy's autocratic powers. This particular document was intended to 'reign in' Prince John who, in King Richard's absence fighting in The Crusades, tried to enslave Britains and usurp the throne.
Imagine standing there with an oozing bag of fragrant cod fillets in stark disbelief. I had some time to kill and the docent was very knowledgeable about the church and the document. I was right there looking down at Prince John's flowery signature from the 13th century!! Go, me!!
Walking back, I thought about what a close call the day had been, and how unlikely it was to find Salisbury Cathedral and the Magna Carta. I was in such a good mood, even the rail strike that delayed the trip back by several hours and required some creative criss-crossing to outlying towns around London didn't get me down. As it turns out, the fish and chips were out of this world.
http://encyclopedia.tfd.com/Magna+Carta
You know how sometimes you over-anticipate something and build it up so high that it backfires? That didn't happen. Stonehenge just really sucked.
No, really: the pictures DO do it justice. It really is a bunch of large stones in a cow pasture. I have NO IDEA why calendars are devoted to it. One thing not replicated on film is the fencing that keeps tourists away and the little shacks that sell souvenier rocks and bottled water. Presumably, so you have a memento of the experience and are hydrated on the long trip home.
An hour and a half train trip and nearly 45 minutes by bus, for this? I was positively inconsolable knowing that the day could have been spent doing something, anything else. So I parked my butt at the train station and was thumbing through Fodor's Guide to the Universe when lo and behold I found a cathedral nearby with one of the tallest spires in England. And it was, like, a 10 minute walk.
I headed through town and could not help but notice the most marvelous smell coming from the fish and chips storefront just off the sidewalk, literally one step in and you are at the counter. Real English fish and chips, bubbling in oil and seasonings, being scooped up and drained on newspaper and copious amounts of vinegar and salt added before being tightly wrapped in fresh newspaper and shoved into a bag. L3, please. There was a line.
I took the searing bag of hot lava onto the street thinking I would die from the salt alone and that lunch would probably need to be thrown out. But at present it was keeping me warm.
Salisbury turned out to be an astonishing stop, architecturally and historically. It was deserted except for a friendly docent standing in a nave who introduced me to one of the last remaining copies of the Magna Carta signed by Prince John. Fodor's didn't even mention it!
The Magna Carta is as historically significant to the English as the Declaration of Independence is to Americans. It is a proclamation of freedoms granted to the citizens and limiting the monarchy's autocratic powers. This particular document was intended to 'reign in' Prince John who, in King Richard's absence fighting in The Crusades, tried to enslave Britains and usurp the throne.
Imagine standing there with an oozing bag of fragrant cod fillets in stark disbelief. I had some time to kill and the docent was very knowledgeable about the church and the document. I was right there looking down at Prince John's flowery signature from the 13th century!! Go, me!!
Walking back, I thought about what a close call the day had been, and how unlikely it was to find Salisbury Cathedral and the Magna Carta. I was in such a good mood, even the rail strike that delayed the trip back by several hours and required some creative criss-crossing to outlying towns around London didn't get me down. As it turns out, the fish and chips were out of this world.
http://encyclopedia.tfd.com/Magna+Carta
Jun 17, 2011
The Six Year Blog
We've got a few throw pillows in the yard covered in a Hawaiian print in yellows and greens and pinks, hibiscus and plumeria and frothy leaves on a black background. They conjure up all sorts of pleasant memories when I look at them.
I'm at a too-big rambling old desk. The top is a formica replacement but the legs are original hardwood and sturdy, dark brown in color and all banged up. The drawers open almost the entire 3' depth which makes them incredibly heavy. They scrape in and out on wooden slides that will collapse at any moment, and are stuffed, and I mean stuffed with *old stamps*ear plugs*duct tape*cast-off sunglasses*guitar picks*mickey mouse rulers*old photos and slides.
Above, on the hutch, is Aiyana, the girls in happier days, and The Babe. Next to that are my bronze baby shoes and a can wrapped in plaid fabric with buttons haphazardly glued to it for pencils and scissors. 'To Mom from Tim, 1995' is scrawled on the underside (age 7). To the left are bills; to the right, receipts. The yellow pages (!!!) take up the upper right cubby.
The Aflac duck pencil; rare photos of San Francisco; an antique floor lamp, a playbill from Fillmore West; an 80 year old bookcase with a soft and beautiful patina; a baseball cap from the 1932 Boston Red Sox that is all dog eared and worn; tons of movies and music. I'm coming to see collectors just see things through a different lens. Feelin' the energy. H B-Day, blog.
I'm at a too-big rambling old desk. The top is a formica replacement but the legs are original hardwood and sturdy, dark brown in color and all banged up. The drawers open almost the entire 3' depth which makes them incredibly heavy. They scrape in and out on wooden slides that will collapse at any moment, and are stuffed, and I mean stuffed with *old stamps*ear plugs*duct tape*cast-off sunglasses*guitar picks*mickey mouse rulers*old photos and slides.
Above, on the hutch, is Aiyana, the girls in happier days, and The Babe. Next to that are my bronze baby shoes and a can wrapped in plaid fabric with buttons haphazardly glued to it for pencils and scissors. 'To Mom from Tim, 1995' is scrawled on the underside (age 7). To the left are bills; to the right, receipts. The yellow pages (!!!) take up the upper right cubby.
The Aflac duck pencil; rare photos of San Francisco; an antique floor lamp, a playbill from Fillmore West; an 80 year old bookcase with a soft and beautiful patina; a baseball cap from the 1932 Boston Red Sox that is all dog eared and worn; tons of movies and music. I'm coming to see collectors just see things through a different lens. Feelin' the energy. H B-Day, blog.
Jun 15, 2011
Baritone Chuckles
Ed.
I had a chat with my dad on Saturday. Don and I were passing by and remembered just where he is: a couple of miles off the freeway, in fact.
He has been on my mind more than usual. He would have been 83 on the 23rd. This would have been his 59th Father's Day. I would have taken pictures of him embracing his son on his wedding day and on the day his daughters' eldests graduated from college. And I mean by that, both Jana and I.
He was an author and teacher. A historian. A lover of all things good. A character, and a person of character. Shortly after he died, I googled his name and the hits filled the first couple of pages. Now he is but a footnote.
Life sometimes feels like intermission ~ that's what ~ the time between acts when the anticipation builds; the time when you discuss and reflect on what you know, and look toward the second act to tie it all together.
I've been collecting additional copies of my dad's books, and very attached to the idea of the tangible proof from the first phase of our relationship. He is fading out of family conversations and I wonder when the day will come that he fades altogether. Maybe I'm feeling especially weary and worn these days.
I don't know all that the boys remember, other than how he made them feel, and not much else counts to a kid. They talk about game days and Cousins Camps and getaways with each of them separately ... and always feeling valued, even with a dozen grandsons running around. I remember how he would sit with them and listen to all the interesting things that mattered to them, even as little ones. I remember how he would grab them in bearhugs as he walked by and how unafraid he was to tell them he loved them; I remember him calling them (Michael) (David) (Timothy) Mouse. It would be nice if these books would be about that, but we'll see.
I constantly tug at the leash. Clearly life has landed me somewhere better than before. There are very few wants. Life has blessed me with the love of a partner and friend; I am proud of my sons who are good people and likeable and hard working contributors, and that is what I wanted for them; I spend my time somewhere that reaches out to those who are suffering; and finally, finally I am in tune with selfless giving to the elders I cherish.
But that first act with my father is never far from my thoughts. It too often draws me back in contemplation. Some friends and family have recently lost a husband, a child, a sister, and their lives are upside down even after years, as though one foot is still rooted there and one in the now, and they are unable or unwilling to tug themselves free. I understand. In eight years, the feelings of loss are undiminished.
There are those who would criticize others for not getting over a death and moving on, but I look at them and wonder how they can be the way they are. I will never not wish for one more glimpse of those long and lazy conversation on a summer's night listening to my father's deep baritone voice chuckling through a story. I 'yam what I 'yam.
I had a chat with my dad on Saturday. Don and I were passing by and remembered just where he is: a couple of miles off the freeway, in fact.
He has been on my mind more than usual. He would have been 83 on the 23rd. This would have been his 59th Father's Day. I would have taken pictures of him embracing his son on his wedding day and on the day his daughters' eldests graduated from college. And I mean by that, both Jana and I.
He was an author and teacher. A historian. A lover of all things good. A character, and a person of character. Shortly after he died, I googled his name and the hits filled the first couple of pages. Now he is but a footnote.
Life sometimes feels like intermission ~ that's what ~ the time between acts when the anticipation builds; the time when you discuss and reflect on what you know, and look toward the second act to tie it all together.
I've been collecting additional copies of my dad's books, and very attached to the idea of the tangible proof from the first phase of our relationship. He is fading out of family conversations and I wonder when the day will come that he fades altogether. Maybe I'm feeling especially weary and worn these days.
I don't know all that the boys remember, other than how he made them feel, and not much else counts to a kid. They talk about game days and Cousins Camps and getaways with each of them separately ... and always feeling valued, even with a dozen grandsons running around. I remember how he would sit with them and listen to all the interesting things that mattered to them, even as little ones. I remember how he would grab them in bearhugs as he walked by and how unafraid he was to tell them he loved them; I remember him calling them (Michael) (David) (Timothy) Mouse. It would be nice if these books would be about that, but we'll see.
I constantly tug at the leash. Clearly life has landed me somewhere better than before. There are very few wants. Life has blessed me with the love of a partner and friend; I am proud of my sons who are good people and likeable and hard working contributors, and that is what I wanted for them; I spend my time somewhere that reaches out to those who are suffering; and finally, finally I am in tune with selfless giving to the elders I cherish.
But that first act with my father is never far from my thoughts. It too often draws me back in contemplation. Some friends and family have recently lost a husband, a child, a sister, and their lives are upside down even after years, as though one foot is still rooted there and one in the now, and they are unable or unwilling to tug themselves free. I understand. In eight years, the feelings of loss are undiminished.
There are those who would criticize others for not getting over a death and moving on, but I look at them and wonder how they can be the way they are. I will never not wish for one more glimpse of those long and lazy conversation on a summer's night listening to my father's deep baritone voice chuckling through a story. I 'yam what I 'yam.
Jun 13, 2011
The Vertical Garden Project
We gave away the mattress and cover and took the frame apart. The side rails and bottom pieces are going to be pitched, but we thought the mattress frame might make a good vertical garden.
We fell in love with the concept of a vertical garden when we were in Paris and drove past the astonishing Vertical (living) Wall on Jean Nouvel’s Musée du quai Branly. We had never seen anything like it before.
The double bed frame fit nicely against the side of the plain old boring shed, and with morning light and shade all afternoon it was a great location. The frame is roughly 75" h x 55" w.
We had to find the right type of planters. A hydroponic gardening shop I visited was using galvanized gutters for their indoor units, and the sales guy suggested a wider and deeper vinyl gutter. Vinyl would not conduct heat and could be cut to a desired length. It was certainly durable but not necessarily cheap, and available in 3 or 4 colors. Not a bad idea, actually.
The planter boxes came with railing hardware, and it was an easy retrofit to make them adjustable rather than permanently attached. We liked the idea of being able to adjust it as things grow, and that each year can be a fresh look with a new variety of plants.
We added an asparagus fern for fun and a star jasmine in a separate pot to crawl up the frame in-between the planters.
Repurposing the frame saved a ton of money. You can make a vertical garden out of anything that is sturdy and useful - metal bunk bed framing, the top of an old grid patio table. The planter boxes we chose weren't cheap but there are alternatives. The plants were cheap, on average $2.79 per, and we already had the soil ... so it wasn't anywhere near a budget buster.
Did you notice the silverware herb markers? Aren't they great? We were at the Sunset Open House last weekend and bought from a vendor these (FABULOUS) repurposed silver plate cast-offs that she picked up at yard sales and Goodwill stores. She flattens them out and punches words into them. Had To Have Them! She didn't have all that we were looking for and we happened to have a couple of cast-off utensils laying around so we have been experimenting with making our own. They're actually easy to make.
This was a super fun weekend project. A vertical garden is a great use of space, a great use of something destined for the landfill, and now a lovely focal point in what was a drab little part of the yard. We will enjoy it for years, especially at dinner.
Jun 7, 2011
To Thrive Without
“Time is the great leveler. It is one resource that is allocated in absolute egalitarian terms. Every living person has the same number of hours to use in every day. Busy people are not given a special bonus added on to the hours of the day. The clock plays no favorites.” –R.C. Sproul, “Time Well Spent”
I have only read a portion of that quote until today, and previously was of the mind that it was talking about the inevitably of age and how we are all the same in it regardless of station and privilege. Hmmm.
So as thoughts rolled around inside this empty head of mine, I became aware that I look towards the future with dread. What will become of me? Will I be tucked into one of those dark and dreary holes that meets the physical need but kills the spirit? Life-sucking life support ... no, thanks.
I've seen the promised land. Places that intuitively help with the transitions and challenges of age. Beautifully appointed places that are nestled in the hills amid walking and bike trails that engage and embrace life and nature.
Transportation. Health maintenance. Nutrition. Socialization. A Health Center to dispense meds when needed; housekeepers and a kitchen for meals; classes on technology, nutrition and travel; transportation to medical appointments, beauty and grocery trips; a gym, a pool, a woodshop. I'm not naive enough to think it isn't about money.
But . There is a gentleness in the way each of the residents approaches age and aging, a dignity and respect for the scooters and walkers and wicked coughs. There is patience and enthusiasm for every day. One could argue that the residents can afford to be that way considering the cost. But we know enough about the Rich and Famous to know that manners and money aren't inevitable companions.
Simply put, they have solved the biggest concerns as we age and at the same time encouraging independence as long as possible. There is a safety and readiness test each year to stay, and onsite options to transition to assisted living.
That structure frees them to focus on other things. They are confident and relaxed, more self sufficient and engaged. They dress for dinner on Thursday nights and enjoy Bocce ball tournaments. And linger just outside the diningroom to share lively, upbeat stories and warm smiles before heading in to meet their dinner companions. Age is celebrated and understood.
To unburden the day-to-day worries with a little innovation and contingency planning, now that's the ticket! A population who is elsewhere cast aside becomes a sustainable resource here. And from that philosophical environmental opportunity springs trips around the world and best sellers and active participation on committees that oversee the facility expenses and upkeep.
Purpose is translatable. A fat wallet isn't a necessity to implement the philosophy of value and respect. Gimme a plot of land where a garden walks its way to the table and a courtyard for pets to sleep in the sun; close-in to town and conveniences; a place to really open up that golf cart to 22 miles an hour; and brim it with people who want to work and share and live for the future instead of the past. And I guarantee the days of the training crate will be numbered.
I have only read a portion of that quote until today, and previously was of the mind that it was talking about the inevitably of age and how we are all the same in it regardless of station and privilege. Hmmm.
So as thoughts rolled around inside this empty head of mine, I became aware that I look towards the future with dread. What will become of me? Will I be tucked into one of those dark and dreary holes that meets the physical need but kills the spirit? Life-sucking life support ... no, thanks.
I've seen the promised land. Places that intuitively help with the transitions and challenges of age. Beautifully appointed places that are nestled in the hills amid walking and bike trails that engage and embrace life and nature.
Transportation. Health maintenance. Nutrition. Socialization. A Health Center to dispense meds when needed; housekeepers and a kitchen for meals; classes on technology, nutrition and travel; transportation to medical appointments, beauty and grocery trips; a gym, a pool, a woodshop. I'm not naive enough to think it isn't about money.
But . There is a gentleness in the way each of the residents approaches age and aging, a dignity and respect for the scooters and walkers and wicked coughs. There is patience and enthusiasm for every day. One could argue that the residents can afford to be that way considering the cost. But we know enough about the Rich and Famous to know that manners and money aren't inevitable companions.
Simply put, they have solved the biggest concerns as we age and at the same time encouraging independence as long as possible. There is a safety and readiness test each year to stay, and onsite options to transition to assisted living.
That structure frees them to focus on other things. They are confident and relaxed, more self sufficient and engaged. They dress for dinner on Thursday nights and enjoy Bocce ball tournaments. And linger just outside the diningroom to share lively, upbeat stories and warm smiles before heading in to meet their dinner companions. Age is celebrated and understood.
To unburden the day-to-day worries with a little innovation and contingency planning, now that's the ticket! A population who is elsewhere cast aside becomes a sustainable resource here. And from that philosophical environmental opportunity springs trips around the world and best sellers and active participation on committees that oversee the facility expenses and upkeep.
Purpose is translatable. A fat wallet isn't a necessity to implement the philosophy of value and respect. Gimme a plot of land where a garden walks its way to the table and a courtyard for pets to sleep in the sun; close-in to town and conveniences; a place to really open up that golf cart to 22 miles an hour; and brim it with people who want to work and share and live for the future instead of the past. And I guarantee the days of the training crate will be numbered.
Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
--Robert Browning, Rabbi Ben Ezra
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