To everything, turn, turn, turn.
There is a season, turn, turn, turn.
And a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to gain, a time to lose.
A time to rend, a time to sow.
A time for love, a time for hate.
A time for peace, I swear it’s not too late.

The Byrds 1965

In 1967, San Francisco celebrated the Summer of Love, a “renaissance of compassion, awareness, and love, and the revelation of unity for all mankind.” (San Francisco Oracle). Peace loving teenagers flocked to the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood to mellow out on free love and illicit drugs. The Fillmore Auditorium brought psychedelic rock to the forefront as bands such as Jefferson Airplane and Grateful Dead inspired a new generation of non-violent, hippie awareness. Thousands flocked to Golden Gate Park to receive free food, medical treatment, and basic necessities for anyone that needed them.

As I drive along the groovily named Brotherhood Way, I wonder why that spirit of peaceful optimism in 1967 no longer seems possible in S.F. today. The evidence is clear. For one, this metropolitan area notably suffers from the second worst traffic congestion of urban areas in the U.S. today. As I slow to a stop in an angry sea of horn honking gridlock now, traffic congestion tests my patience as I travel into the downtown. It is also noteworthy that a significant portion of the city’s population is considered officially homeless. I ponder the inhumanity of watching destitute people having little success in securing shelter from the cold. With S.F. having a liberal reputation  in favor of equal rights for same sex  relationships, it makes little sense to me why so many  “Elect Trump” signs are displayed near prominent street intersection in adjoining suburbs. Finally, as it has been documented that a high % of the city’s population relocates to S.F. from other countries, I become aghast of reports that white supremacists and Neo-Nazi followers have been reported recently to be perpetrating violent actions against such newcomers  in nearby Sacramento.

For a downtown of such exquisite beauty, I wonder why the white population is migrating in historic numbers to outlying communities.  As I elect to board the BART Rapid Transit system to escape traffic gridlock to downtown, I wonder why there are so few Caucasian faces that join me today in this time convenient journey. With the average cost of ownership housing in S.F. rising rapidly, I question how the American Dream of owning a home is possible for the vast majority of working families in this city.

I conclude my visit to the “city by the bay” to gaze in awe at the welcoming image of the Golden Gate Bridge. For many  newcomers , this international gateway  symbolizes a spark of hope that  human dignity and equal opportunity will take place  for all  Turning my attention to the right now, the stark isolation of Alcatraz Island stands in the distance, to remind me that there should be severe consequences for those who contrastingly show bigotry and hatred toward mankind. In a tumultuous election year, perhaps San Francisco can lead America to re-embrace that mellow groove time when a generation came together as one in the Summer of Love of 1967.

Approaching San Francisco by car from Lake Tahoe presents a spectacular entrance into this Golden Gate city of hills. Leaving the arid flatness of the California Central Valley along Interstate 80, Downtown San Francisco gradually emerges into a soupy fog of tortuous hills surrounded by the murky waters of a wide bay. Traffic snarls to a crawl as we cross the Bay Bridge. I imagine then that the end of the earth lies ahead at the end of our 5,000+ mile journey west zigzagging across the American landmass.

Veering South along State Road 101 toward our Daly City Motel, the sea fog thickens. Tightly packed villa houses distract me on both sides as cars defy gravity by parking vertically in steeply downward positions toward the street. My obscured vision in the distance fools my mind then into imagining an expanse of water at the end of every hill. Haphazardly dodging electric tram lines in the driving lanes of major avenues, I suddenly remember that such unusual driving skills are critical for avoiding deadly S.F. collisions.

Arriving at our motel, I relish the absence of motion and elevation in that moment. Expecting summer now, a cold wind from the westerly bay instead shocks my senses. The shorts and t-shirt I comfortably wore in the Central Valley will just not do here. How is it possible that summer in S.F. requires a knitted hat, gloves, and a heavy jacket? Will the sun ever make an appearance today to brighten my fog shrouded, emotional condition?

For the next five days, my independent travel spirit will surely be tested by geography, weather, and human congestion. Never doubting my will to find the unexpected insight, however, the itinerary does not seem to really matter. Using the S.F. Bart Transit System will enable me to relax from the stress of car travel as I search these famous hills for interesting destinations. Forty one years ago, my wife and I made our first visit to S.F. on our honeymoon as innocent tourists. I am honored to return again to this great city by the bay as a traveling fool and yet a wiser man.

“When you are discontented you always want more, more, more. Your desire can never be satisfied. But when you practice contentment, you can say to yourself, ‘Oh yes – I already have everything that I really need.” (Dalai Lama).

I vividly remember my first visit to the Rocky Mountains. It was Spring Break, 1982 and I needed desperately to gear down from my stressful life as an inner city teacher in Miami.    A family friend of my wife had invited us to stay in their studio apartment near Steamboat Springs, Colorado and we graciously accepted. This beautiful, Western town would soon become a regular stop in our vacation travels.

I have always appreciated the opportunity to experience the quiet peace of the Rocky Mountain winter in Steamboat. My senses seem enhanced to the deadness of winter as I took morning walks through glistening layers of snow. Only a soft crackling of ice or a lonely howl of a wolf could break the silence to remind me that survival is a difficult one in this austere environment.

The onset of darkness in the Steamboat Valley was equally magnificent. The silhouette of nearby peaks framed by the fading presence of a pink and purple sunset were always worth the wait. In the absence of city lights, a symphony of glittery stars would fill the clear sky each evening. I felt fortunate then to be alive to witness these spectacular displays of nature’s glory.

Steamboat, at its heart, remains a resort town for downhill skiers, marathon runners and white water rafters. Never imagining myself as a competitive, outdoor athlete, I have taken a less serious interest in the area as an outdoor enthusiast. In winter, I survived numerous falls as I learned to cross country ski and snowshoe there. In summer, I clumsily made my way, traversing steep, Rockies trails and gained confidence as a novice hiker.

Rarely finding the true solitude of nature at home in densely populated South Florida, Steamboat remains a powerful attraction in my life. Taking the time to research the area on our road trip west, this summer, my wife and decided to book a one month condo stay there on Air B@B for Fall. The challenge to”downsize”my possessions as I get older means I will pack less this time and avoid the pricier, tourist temptations that I have always witnessed there.

I look around today at our increasingly divided country on a day that celebrates a document that addresses all Americans as one. Yes, the Declaration of Independence was created to represent unity of purpose at a time when the freedoms we enjoy today were threatened by our status as a colonial outpost of the British Crown. Since our representatives of government today fail to offer effective solutions to pull us together as a country, then the spirit of one requires recognition from the people themselves.

A sea of multicultural madness will descend on the Rose Bowl in Pasadena tonight. In spite of the urban chaos, this will be strictly an American affair. The Star Spangled Banner begins the pageantry as thousands pay homage to the valiant struggle for obtaining America Independence by singing our National Anthem. The largest show of fireworks in Southern California tonight will soon follow. On this clear night, let each spectator realize that with each explosion of color and sound, they are alive to gather freely in this country regardless of race, color, or creed.

On freeways today, traffic conditions will not adhere to the daily norm of commuter gridlock. Take advantage of the extra driving space today to be courteous to all drivers, regardless of appearance or circumstance. Use turn signals when changing lanes and fight back the feeling of road rage for aggressive drivers along the way. You might even allow others to drive while you take time as a captive passenger to relax in the company of others to gaze at the nearby beauty of a beach or mountainside scene.

Today is not the day to find fault with your revered L.A. baseball team today Whether you win or lose, be happy that Dodger Stadium will remain standing as a symbol of community pride tomorrow. As you make your way to and from the stadium today, take the time to admire this hillside cathedral of baseball greatness. Remember that your Dodger team was the first to include both black and white players in major league competition.

Los Angeles has historically been a place where people from all walks of life have found a welcome home. Starry eyed romanticists flocked to Hollywood to seek fame and fortune in motion pictures. Aspiring entrepreneurs in aerospace and petrochemical industries profited from a business climate that offered a wealth of innovative opportunities. Immigrant pioneers gambled that their fortunes would improve by leaving their homeland for the opportunity to attain the American Dream here.

As a visitor to L.A., I have taken the time to propose ways to promote “Americanism” on our nation’s birthday. I am hopeful that my reflections about the “City of Angels” on the 4th will bring me optimism for a future of shared vision in our country’s destiny.

“Without a rich heart, wealth is an ugly beggar.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson.

On a lengthy road trip as we are currently venturing on, it’s vital to have “chill” stops to regenerate your fervor for the long road ahead. A three day stay in one place gives us time to rest for planning our next destination. Taking full advantage of a weekend stay in Fort Collins Colorado, I long for a shady spot to sit quietly and read.

A look around Old Town seems suitable now. Ambling around a bohemian atmosphere of new age rock shops, indie music stores, and independent bookstores, I spot a shaded bench nearby a set of hanging bells and sit down to relax. With little ambition, I become tempted to test my musical talents on this beautiful chime. Uncharacteristically, I find the patience to window shop with my wife for no particular reason.

In the distance, I gaze in awe at the snow peaked vistas of the Rocky Mountains. The mere glimpse of this towering expanse in morning glory hypnotizes my present attention. Breathing in and out deeply, I savor the opportunity I have been given to witness the slow unfolding of such ineffable beauty, alive and healthy today.

No longer a product of my ego or possessions, I seek inner satisfaction in the presence of nature’s calling. A “minimalist” outlook for traveling lightly on the road this spring/summer has set the tone for a more permanent downsize of my material possessions in retirement. The true test of this resolve will take place when I return home to my familiar routine of staying obsessively entertained in busy South Florida.

My wife and I continued our tour of the Midwest in Kansas City, Missouri. Fortunate arrival timing and seasonable weather conditions allowed us to have an enjoyable weekend of major league baseball, live music, and military pageantry. Finding no problem in booking an affordable motel near several, major sights, we set out the following morning on a walking itinerary of the downtown area.

During the golden era of railroads in the early 20th century, Union Station became a major hub of transportation in downtown KC. It remains today as a great symbol of civic pride. Beginning our walk through this historic terminal, we heard melodic echoes emanating through the busy corridors. Stepping outside the front entrance, we amazingly witnessed a crowd of more than 20,000 people celebrating a festive, military concert of the Kansas City Symphony. A program of proud, patriotic music unfolded now, to demonstrate that there is a serious commitment in this city to honor those men and women, who paid the ultimate price, for our country to remain free.

At the corner of 18th Street and Vine, our next destination became the American Jazz/Negro Baseball Museum. As a major center of Black American achievement in Kansas City, I quickly learned from the exhibits that there was also a hidden story of institutionalized racism behind these important, American art forms. To gifted pianist Count Basie and other talented black musicians, Kansas City once meant a lack of opportunity to play in white-only dance bands. To pitching legend Satchel Paige and other African American athletes, poorly funded, Negro baseball leagues were their only option in an era of race segregated, major league baseball,

Driving to the eastern suburbs of K.C, we caught sight of Kauffman Stadium. Winning the World Series of baseball in 2016, the Kansas City Royals had achieved the pinnacle of success for America’s national pastime. As this stadium fills every night with winning baseball, we were thrilled to obtain two, decently priced tickets in the upper deck of Royals stadium. As the game proceeded, I witnessed a team of relatively unknown players unselfishly overachieve with timely hitting, great hustle, and reliable pitching. On this night, we felt their contagious energy as they efficiently handled the opposing team while royal blue remained the talk of this baseball crazy town.

I learned this busy weekend that Kansas City immortalizes the lives of its hometown heroes. Many of them rose from humble circumstances in early life to attain legendary status in public leadership, professional baseball and new forms of creative music. Being so immersed in this historical sample of KC society, I saw firsthand evidence that American greatness in this heartland of Missouri remains strong.

Last summer, my wife and I blew through the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas on way to visit a friend in Texas. East coast bias as it is, I prematurely labeled the area as somewhat primitive as a result of its woodsy nothingness I observed along the way. In returning this summer to Eureka Springs, a place I had only briefly seen before, I realized then my previous failure to identify the true essence of Ozark country.

Although Eureka Springs contains less than 3,000 full time residents, it plays bigger as a tourist destination. People come to relax here from the stresses of urban life to experience a time warp taste of small town hospitality. No rush today, you can sit quietly by a natural spring or window shop for antiques at your leisure. You might even find the urge to hop on a local streetcar to absorb the slower pace of life surrounding you.

It seemed odd to this city hardened dweller that everyone appears so trustingly amiable. Along a steep, hill, I spotted a 1962 classic Pontiac. The owner appeared willing to give me a grand tour of the vehicle. A proprietor of a local bead store provided hometown advice to my wife for making free bead designs. A morning breakfast at our motel became a trusting exchange of conversation about family matters and life crises.

What I most learned from my brief experience of the Ozarks is that a nostalgia for my past memories of close knit friends and family remains strong. There was once a time in my life when I played after school until dusk with neighborhood friends, listened attentively to mom and dad at nightly family gatherings around the dinner table and told silly jokes to fellow YMCA members near the campfire.

Paying homage to the quirky friendliness of the Ozark region, the following joke seems appropriate. “An Arkansas farmer brought his hog to the Barber Shop one day. The barber humbly asked the man what services were required. In response, he tersely stated;  “Gimme me a haircut, but I need my Razorback.”

The “rocky road” that consumed my mind to re- experience a champion sports team in Cleveland, Ohio is over. As a 12 year old child of nearby Akron in 1964, I witnessed a heavily underdog Cleveland Browns team led by fullback, Jimmy Brown, destroy the Baltimore Colts 27-0 in the National Football League Championship game. My parents had relocated our family to South Florida at that time but I never lost the youthful passion for winning that this city had given me that day. How odd that it would take 52 years of sports futility for this to finally happen again. Thank you Cleveland Cavaliers and especially LeBron James. As NBA basketball title holders in 2016, a lifetime of Cleveland sports failure has finally ended for me.

When Akron resident, LeBron James rejoined the Cavaliers, two years ago, he understood the pain of the Cleveland sports fan. Foregoing the temptation to maintain his superstar presence on a proven, Miami Heat powerhouse, he longed for a more lasting presence. In addition to offering his unique, basketball talent, LeBron’s aura of success personified the blue collar mentality of Cleveland as a city. Work hard, nothing comes easy, and remain humble to the cause, became the mantras of this true, American hero on the court and off now. It would only be a matter of time then that the city’s renewed love affair with its hometown hero would logically end in the attainment of a coveted, basketball title.

Game 5, 6, and 7 of the NBA finals demonstrated LeBron’s leadership commitments to these high ideals. Down three games to one to a Golden State team that had only lost nine games all season, the Cavaliers became the first team in NBA history to win a championship under such losing circumstances. Undeterred by these bleak prospects, LeBron’s offense and defensive brilliance and willingness to adjust his game in the face of physical intimidation, masterfully inspired his teammates to three, consecutive victories. As all eyes fell on him as the final game ended, the “King” would fall to his knees in silent reflection of this historic accomplishment.

The Cleveland curse is over for me now. I will no longer expend my energy on “fear of failure” neurosis that we will never win the big one in my lifetime. I will never dismiss Cleveland grit to envy New York, Miami, Los Angeles as “more glamorous  sports markets. I will never waste time in fretting over missed, game opportunities with unneeded boos. There has never been a better time for being “all in” with Cleveland now. Go Cavs, Go Browns, Go Indians.

I felt the ghosts of segregation as I walked the downtown streets of Montgomery, Alabama today. It was difficult to imagine a time when a black skinned person could be jailed if they sat in the front of a bus, took a seat at a restaurant lunch counter or attempted to enter a bus terminal through a whites only passageway. The evidence was clear at the Rosa Parks Museum, however, that these heinous acts of racial discrimination against African Americans were once sanctioned by law in this city.

What exactly it meant to be black as I followed the segregationist path of history at this museum confused me. If you looked white, but we’re actually a mulatto black, you might obtain a first class travel ticket. If you were white and painted your face black, you could be adored as a performer in a vaudeville minstrel show. At the federal level, a black could be protected by the equal protection provisions of the 14th amendment but at the state/local level they were sure to be denied basic rights by racist, Jim Crow laws. Accordingly, inner city, public schools were technically integrated by mixed race, yet white flight to suburban communities ultimately re-segregated them over time.

I took a short walk along Dexter Avenue to find the imposing presence of the Alabama State Capitol and the adjoining First White House of the Confederacy. Along the way, rebel flags flew as an anti-abortion protest took place nearby. It was here that Martin Luther King and his freedom fighters ended their peaceful march from Selma to Montgomery after being viciously attacked by angry, white supremacists along the way. Only a simple, Civil Rights Memorial plaque remains today to honor the forty one people who died in this infamous episode of American History.

As I concluded my brief glimpse of Montgomery’s turbulent past, signs of a better times became clear. A black college student spoke to me of her plans to obtain a doctoral degree in her hometown. Restaurants were filled with integrated gatherings of many races. The Confederate flag no longer flew atop of the conspicuous dome of the State Capitol. Rosa Parks’ courage to peacefully reject the injustices of a blatantly, racist system reminded me that Americans must have similar resolve to preserve their “liberty, justice, and pursuit of happiness” for all. Donald Trump’s example of perpetuating violence and distrust among our citizenry cannot be tolerated in this pivotal election year.

Prime Time of Life So Why Not Dance Away

My Time Our Time For When There Is No Care

Trouble Now Music Stops Before the Light of Day.

Precious Lives Gone No Longer Couples Pair

We Seek No Revenge For Vainglory Kill

For Smoke or Fire Grows Quickly Distant Foes

No Words Of  Blood Can Quell An Angry Will

That Finds A Place To Hell in Others Woes

See The World As A Place For All To Love

Find Inner Peace in Brethren We Serve

Will To Be One Oh Silence Mourning Dove

Gain Wisdom of Grace As Fallen Deserve

Anger Will Not Redress Dreams Gone Shattered

Our Souls Can Find Peace Our Lives Had Mattered