Category Archives: Quotes

The creation of the American weekend was a Godsend

In 1908 (or there about), an East coast Industrialist (you would think his name would be etched in stone and revered in song), came to the conclusion that it would be a good idea to close up shop on Saturday and Sunday to allow his Christian and Jewish workers to celebrate their respective religious day of worship.  At the time, the “weekend” as we know it, didn’t exist. This simple, but righteous gesture turned out to be the start of a revolutionary  change in the American workplace. In addition to the goodwill he personally received, this Industrialist discovered that his workers made fewer mistakes in doing their jobs once they returned to work from their two-day sabbatical.  As a result, his business boomed, profits zoomed – and what followed was the beginning of a shift in employee and employer relations that changed the world’s workplace.

That dear people, is how Americans (in the words of the R & B super group, The O’ Jays, began “Living for the Weekend” – not to “party down,” but to have time off with family and community to pray and revitalize one’s body and soul.

A decade or so later, Henry Ford, that master of American manufacturing innovation, adopted that “worker’s weekend” idea but added a twist: he did not reduce the size of his employee’s paycheck to compensate for their time off. As a result, rank and file Ford Motor Company employees not only had more time to rest and relax; they had more money to spend. And just as Ford envisioned, they bought Ford cars – lots of Ford cars along with other goods and services. Other car manufacturers adopted the “Ford Way” and so did America. This new approach to the workplace help lead the way to a more consumer-driven economy. And in the late 1930’s, then President Roosevelt signed into law the 8-hour day, 5-day work week.

That’s how the “weekend” became enshrined into law and into the American Psyche.

Past posts on this blog have, hopefully in a light-hearted way, implored, cajoled, nagged, suggested and requested that folks use their weekend to change the “who, what, where, why, when and how” of their lives to give themselves a maximum of joy and happiness; to build memories for a moment in time and for a time in the future.  This brief history of the founding of the “weekend” is to shed light on why we have those two precious days of “possibilities” beyond their original intent. However, folks still, by and large, use the weekend to worship in the faith they choose (or none at all) as guaranteed by our Constitution.  But as Henry Ford foresaw, weekends have morphed into enjoying the fruits of our labor from a cornucopia of experiences.  I will continue (every now and again) to urge you to feast upon that endless array of life. To that end, I have attached my latest appeal for you to discard your “ordinary” for the unusual; from the “been there, done that” to the new and exhilarating; to the mind-boggling, sensational and hair-raising “different” – but in a good way, mind you.

Consider the words of Wayne Dyer, American Author and Motivational Speaker, “Stop acting as if life is a rehearsal. Live each day as if it were your last.”

We all know that that “last day” is pre-ordained. When the time comes, will you have a weekend memory that was an absolute blast? One that will again rock your heart and soul as you smile your last. Or will your final fleeting thoughts be of a weekend that was like all the rest – a nice memory, but nothing earth-shaking; just time gone by and faint visions of living one’s life safely, gracefully, tastefully. Don’t get me wrong, that will be enough to please one’s soul as a way to appraise the travels on the roads, paths, and trails you have taken through life. But, and I truly believe this – many of us will mourn our past of lost chances that flowered and flowed in and around our lives beckoning us to burst for joy; cry from a deep well of happiness from have the pleasure of perhaps loving long, or loving short – but loving well. To think back and laugh, laugh, laugh at a silliness that made your heart  smile,  maybe produced a hug, and you were smothered in kisses that unexpected day you tasted the “incredible.”

I have no idea what experience would be off-the-charts, superbly different, and exquisitely splendid, that might leave you convulsing with excitement. But I know there is something in your future that will do just that; if you let it happened, if you seek it. Perhaps you have already had a “memory moment,” great – on to the next “future joy!” In the meantime, to kick off this springtime weekend of the New Year, here is another oh-so-gentle plea urging you to spend this Saturday and Sunday on a quest for a mega-memory that will inspire you, conspire within you a desire to begin living for your weekends.



Here I am again. That crazy fool in www-land, nagging and ragging about expanding your weekend life; trying to get you on a different curve – but most likely getting on your last nerve. So this one is short and sweet; concise and neat: open your dreaming heart to search for a different view of things you can do. I don’t want you to have weak end to your weekend. I want you to transcend and let something new create a trend. Imagine taking a ride on a tide of an adorable vibe that gets you a look at a beautiful side of a sigh.

I believe in the new for you; not the usual things you do. How many times has the usual made Sunday night blue? Ending with another unfulfilled weekend with you wondering where the time flew? Why your heart and found nothing new and exciting to do?

Which every now and then, I nudge you to change your weekend habits; dag-nab-it!  Make those 48-hours open up their pleasures and treasures; you can create a weekend of happiness beyond measure. So when you get that smile from across the aisle that says, “Hello. I’d like to give you my heart today,” don’t freeze – buckle at the knees” – go with the flow and let life that day give you wonderful weekend glow.

“Life is change. Growth is optional. Choose wisely.”  So says Karen Kaiser Clark, International Speaker, & Authority on coping with loss and growth through pain.


Copyright (c) 2017. Roads, Paths, & Trails – “Weekends, Wisdoms and Wonders.” All Rights Reserved.

NOTE: here is a link to that rousing mega-hit song “Living for the Weekend” by the R&B group – The O ‘Jays. Take a listen if you’re so inclined:

UNSOLICITED COMMENT: the Hilton Hotel company is currently promoting “Weekender” deals at all their properties. Seems I am not the only one trying to get you to make a weekend of it.



Star stuff and God dust

When you wish upon a star, are you praying to god or God? Is it from the heart or your mind that you hope for an answer? Are they one and the same in time?

We come from star stuff say some wise folk. Others preach from dust we come and dust we go. Many wonder at the nature of life; so short does it shine – gathering within it time sublime while blind minds feast with no rhyme. Is there fire in the soul for both sights to please?

Out there, out there – in deep time somewhere – dare we dream of the journey of our beginning? Does that mean we start at the end; how should we compare? Will we know the peace of life that spills from within us? Shall we just bask in the dust sprinkles golden with truths many say we must.

When you wish upon a star, are you being real or trying to feel?  Is it from dreams hidden in your You;  sparking itself alive like mind-fire true. Glory! Star Stuff and God Dust – pray tell – it that you looking back from heaven upon yourself?  Or is it your heart telling you mind to get over itself and adjust.


“When your heart speaks, take good notes”  ——Unknown


Excerpt from “Rainbow Stories and Waterfall Men” – a collection of poems and prose.


Copyright(c) January, 2017. Roads, Paths and Trails. All Rights Reserved

Don’t Pass it on.

Gossip. Shades of the truth. Bits and pieces of hearsay or innuendo- a juicy tidbit here; a little dirt there. What could it hurt? Besides, someone else will do it; why shouldn’t I get in my two-cent worth? And so it begins: a lie embellished, and relished. A reputation tarnished, a job denied – a child isolated. A secret world of whispers designed to hurt. Hate filled, fear-based, malicious jealous words that harm.

Don’t pass it on.

That could be you on the dark end of that lie; the rumor which could destroy your heart. And hope. God made it a commandment; this bearing false witness- but many still believe a friend because they are a friend. They would not tell me an untruth – that would be so uncouth of her or him. So you remain silent and cowardly in your loyatly to them.

Don’t pass it on.

Those dark whispers that bury the light of fact. Sometime a thunderbolt of decency will undo the vile; it may take a while – it may be too late many times.  The nastiness may have ripened on the vines. So the secret putrid slime of a lie blossoms in too many minds.

Somewhere it has been said that “rumors are carried by haters, spread by fools, and accepted by idiots. That statement alone should be enough for us not to pass it on.


“Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.”   ______Eleanor Roosevelt, former 1st Lady of the United States of America, 1932 – 1944

The Bo Dollar Kid

The story began two – maybe three years after World War II. My father (he was actually my step-father; and just a few years ago, I found out he would best be described as my “common-law stepfather” – if there is such a thing) had been home a couple of years after having served in the Army. This would have made me about five or six years old. I remember I hadn’t started kindergarten yet because I was born in March but couldn’t enrolled until September.

We lived on Caldwell Street. I even remember the address; I would share it with you, but there’s nothing there now but a vacant lot. Our home was a small caretaker house which was split in to two apartments. The three of us lived in the front half. It was a huge room with a tiny kitchen that had a cooking stove, ice box, a few cabinets for dishes, pots ‘n pans and stuff. Set off to the side, sitting in between the living room/bedroom area – and our kitchen, was a fair-sized black iron pot-belly stove used to heat the place.  I slept on a couch that sat beneath a big picture window which looked out on to Caldwell street.  At twilight time or a bit later (my bedtime was pretty early) I could hear people walking by talking, shooting the breeze; I’m guessing they were headed to the juke-joint – a tavern that sat on the corner. Our little caretaker house belonged to the owner. There was a kind of beer garden that separated the two buildings.

I don’t know how or when this whole thing started; my earliest memory about it began with me being shaken awake one night and taken to a strange place; a tavern is how I’ve come to think of it.  Inside there was a long counter and some tables; there must have been eight or ten of them – maybe more, set up in this huge room.  There were spittoons sitting by the tables and next to the high stools along the length of that dark wooden bar.  It looked just like the inside of the tavern next to our house (there’s a funny story that happened there; perhaps I will get a chance to share it with you.) The difference between the two was like night and day.  Like Black and White.  Which of course, they were.

So there I was, roused out of a sound sleep; barely a year or so away from “toddler town,” standing in this loud, raucous, smoked-choked place filled with a bunch of drunken, leering White men yelling and screaming their heads off, and I’m trying to come to grips with why I was there.  Not only was I confused, I was scared. Really scared. The first time this “incident” happened, it was my father who took me to this place. I remember other times when my mom would take me.  I could sense that neither of them was happy about what they were doing; and what they told me I had to do.

It turned out that I was there to scramble, push, shove, and fight with other kids like me (my age and color) to grab as many Bo dollars that I could get my hands on.  Bo dollars that would be thrown all over the floor by those…….White men. Years later, I would assume that bets were placed on us. I’m only guessing, mind you – but it seems logical now that I think about it because of all the shouting going on.

It was ugly, brutal!  Little kids colliding, knocking each other over, pushing, shoving – clawing trying to get to those silver dollars.  There was hurt, pain and crying for all of us. God forgive me, but I was good at it. I was the best at it.  I’m sure that’s why I was shaken awake many more times to do it. Those Bo dollars were heavy; and they seemed huge in my little hands.  But I always managed to grab five or six of them before the melee ended.  How and why this disgusting, humiliating and demeaning practice came to be, is known only to those men who started the whole ugly spectacle. To be honest with you, this is only the second time in my life that I have talked openly about what happened back then. I have thought about it more times than I care to remember; sometimes fleetingly, always with shame – for me and my parents. It had to be low-down, gut-wrenching hard for them to live with themselves, having had to put me through that ordeal. I was a grown man when I finally asked my mom about it; even then she was still very uncomfortable talking about the subject. Who could blame her? But I pressed her and asked why – why did they make me scramble around on that filthy tavern floor in front of those White men hustling, fighting and grabbing to get a few measly silver dollars?

Henry would have lost his job, Frank, Jr.,” That was all she said.  And there wasn’t much I could say to that.

I would put it into context later in life because Louisville, Kentucky can certainly be considered “in the South” – some say even part of the South.  In the years after the WWII, not much had changed for Black folk like my parents – despite their contribution to the war effort.  Old Jim Crow still had a stranglehold on their lives and livelihood.  Somewhere along the way, my trips to that awful place ended; and then the only thing that would frighten me at night was peeking out from under my bed covers and seeing our black Felix the Cat clock with the swinging tail and swiveling eyes that glowed in the dark. It’s amazing that things that scare the bejesus out of a child.

There were several more years living in that carriage house apartment next to a park with the swings,teeter-totters, sandboxes and a view of the Louisville Slugger baseball bat factory where my mom worked. Life would be a mixture of good and bad for us during that time.  At one point, the house nearly burned down with me trapped inside. Ugly domestic collisions between my parents were not “Leave it to Beaver Time.”  And a case of child abuse brought on by anger and frustration will forever be a memory on my heart; but I forgave that parent many, many – many years ago.

There are several unusually good things I remember about life in that Caldwell street house: one I have only discussed with my wife. Another was about a different bunch of White men. They always dressed in white and would only come out at night and march through the neighborhood. My mom would wake me when you could hear them in the distance. We would kneel on the couch (that was my bed) in front of that big picture window and wait for them.

They were an US Navy Drum & Bugle Corp. band. The music was thunderous, soul-stirring; magical in its sound and fury as these men marched in harmony right outside that Caldwell Street window. After the sound of their songs and thump of their boots had faded into the darkness, my mother would close the curtains, kiss and hug me and tuck me back in to bed.  Sleep would come easily and deeply once I had covered my head and turned my back on that damned Felix the Cat clock with its swiveling glow-in-the-dark eyes.

I have never forgotten those times when I was shaken awake in the middle of the night either.

“Forgiveness does not change the past, but it does enlarge the future.”   —-Unknown.

Copyright(C) 2015.  Roads, Paths and Trails. – Glimpses of a Memoir #1. “Songs I could not sing for my Sons.” All Rights Reserved.

NOTE: BO dollar is a term many coin enthusiasts think refers to a standard silver dollar. Many believe it to be the Morgan silver dollar. The “Morgan” was a heavier-minted silver dollar than those commonly circulated after the 1950’s.

Bo dollar was the “slang” description used among poor Black Americans when talking about a silver dollar in the rural South in the 1930’s and 40’s. Anecdotal and some written references confirm the usage of that term by African-Americans in western Tennessee and west-central Georgia during those same time periods.

On a personal note: Bo Dollar was the term I was most familiar with growing up in the 40’s and 50’s in Kentucky, Missouri and Indiana. To this day, I refer to silver dollars as “Bo Dollars.”

A Mountain of Imagination

I live among mountains shrouded at their peaks in willow-wisps clouds of translucent filaments drifting and swirling in the light of crisp sunny days. From my distance view, their rocks, boulders and hard-scrabble brown shrubs give them the allure of adventure to be lived; yet  harbor mysteries that hold the promise of unseen danger that will thrill and frighten one to the core.  Patches of green run like trails along ledges curving and dipping in patterns like quilts made of fabric salvaged from discarded pieces of life to live again.

My mountains stir my imagination beyond all reason. I long for them to rumble and shake, kicking up dust; tossing off deep-time; eons – epochs of debris to finally be trumpeted to life fulfilling their destiny and birth the horrors locked within them bringing chaos and mayhem to the world beyond all reason.

I imagine some deep-space, alternate universe life-forms left on our “Blue Marble” world quad-trillions of years ago to walk among us; to pierce the nighttime sky with blazed-red eyes that burn the very air we breathe; to set us afire – to drive us huddled, desperate, ragged and wild-eyed running headlong to God-knows-where; trying to escape the hell on our earth these creatures would unleash.

In their out-of-this-world hunger, we would be carbon-based units that come in flavors.

Why you ask should it be unbridled evil? Could not my mountains harbor truth, beauty – goodness seeded from some long-perished galactic race?  It could. Honestly, I would love my “mountains of imagination” to stir up that angelic dream; but that wouldn’t get our collective brain waves firing and flowing into a total mind shift. It would be too easy: new souls given to us on a golden platter.  We humans have proven over and over again that we need something more to hardwire all that truth, goodness and beauty into us so it would last more than a few lifetimes.  That’s why, and this is just one CBU’s opinion, shared trials and tribulations; dread and despair, hardships untold and fraught with fright knowing that as a species we could damn near go extinct – well, I think we would forever set aside petty differences and finally recognize our oneness.

That’s why my mountain of imagination delivers to me a trial of fire as the ideal ordeal.

Think about it: mountains have always shaped our tiny human lives in ways profound.  They have changed the weather making some places green with plenty; while other lands drown in dry sand or are frigid icy, snowy worlds. These “rock of ages” have forced us to travel around them – fear them. We worship mountains; contemplate our “humanist” in caves dug in their sides. And yes, mountains have driven us to conquer them to test our determination to survive against a foe raised from the very core of our world.

That’s why when my mountain of imagination takes hold, it goes dark, deep and delivers a deadly world of hostile hope. Only then, after we have purged our fear of ourselves – and vanquished those demon monsters risen from an “nth” dimension, will we truly be ready to reshape our world; and open our hearts and minds to the true destiny of mankind: the everlasting embrace of the truth, beauty and goodness that is our birthright.

Until then, I guess my mountain of imagination is just wishful thinking.

“There are many paths to the top of the mountain, but the view is always the same.”

— Chinese Proverb

Copyright(R) 2015. Roads, Paths & Trails. All Rights Reserved

Children of a Child

We both stumbled out of the gate; one filled with hate – the other a child of that fate. Color was the cause of that spate. The dye was casted that blazingly chilly day for children unborn, none would dream nor know how blindness made the life road they would take.

Love should conquer all; stand tall unbending to break one’s fall. It is a hope many have in their heart when it’s time to give one’s soul – but sometime that beginning is not so bold.

The light of us we say are our children; those sweet innocence of purity with the breath of the Gods – with a future to fill guiding them to the stars.  I think this is what the great man saw with much wisdom; the promise of the best of ourselves brought to the world. Though I think he forgot that we are imperfect; burnished with that sin we must all embrace like the winds that swirl.

Life surely teaches us goodness, grace and the angel’s road to take.  We bring that gift to our children; setting them on the journey they will make. Along the way their gold grows old, cold and they become lost souls.

Broken men searching for a mend; rushing into love seeking a godsend. But the piece of peace that soothes sleepless nights bring the children. Oh how we delight! Vow to get it right – to make this life of mine stronger of mind to brightly shine. But dare I say it: my goodness, my goodness – isn’t this the same story line? The same promise divine; passed along the paths of time.

There must be a happy ending to this dilemma; something that is worthy of life’s glory. Or are we forever destined to wring our hearts dry on our circle of one’s childhood story?

“It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men.”

– Frederick Douglass, American Slave, Abolitionist, Statesman – 1818 – 1895

Copyright (C). Roads, Paths & Trails. All Rights Reserved.

True stories behind the story of “Weekends, Wisdoms and Wonders.”

As a young ad agency Copywriter – which made me a member of the “Mad Men” fraternity depicted in the long-running hit TV show which just ended, I worked for a US-based advertising agency with international branches and subsidiaries.  It was near the end of a 3-day corporate meeting being held in Omaha, Nebraska when the “Big Deal” was dropped in my lap. I was part of the team that put together the total presentation program: full multi-screen visuals, all the printed documents – every detail produced to showcase for the attendees the prior year’s successes. The kudos were hot and heavy (meaning it was well-received by the Corporate Suits.) It was at the close of the conference when the “offer” was extended to me. Totally unsolicited and unexpected.

Although the event was primarily for our US offices; many of our world-wide affiliates made the trek to cold, blustery Omaha. It made good sense from many points of view.  One of those overseas offices was in Hong Kong.  And it was this office that tendered the invitation to me to join their creative staff.  Before I get in to details, I must tell you about another opportunity that come my way before the Hong Kong debacle. It dovetailed with the China offer in spectacular fashion..

My primary mentor, a “giant” in opening up job opportunities in the advertising agency business for African-Americans in Chicago, was part of the famous (or infamous) class of “Mad Men” from the Windy City who became close advisors to the Nixon Administration. He became head of a major section of the Department of Education; and as such extended an offer to me to join his management team.  I went so far as to fly to Washington to discuss the particulars.  I loved (and still do) Washington, D.C.  I have visited numerous times over the years.  In the end, I turned down the offer.  Over time, I have surmised that my decision was taken as an affront by my mentor. It shouldn’t have been. But from his perspective, considering all he had done to get me  established in the ad business, I understand his reaction.  In actuality, other things ultimately played a decisive role and trumped my personal success goals at the time – as I will explain later. Be that as it may, my relationship with my friend was never the same.  From my vantage point, however, I never stopped admiring and singing his praise to any and all who would listen when it came to giving credit to how I got into the ad agency business.

Back to Hong Kong. In fact, I have to go back even further to my freshman year in college to provide more background for my decision regarding that China job offer.

I attended a small Midwestern religious-based Liberal Arts college where the student body was basically 100% White (it has since attained University status and is more integrated; though the enrollment is still overwhelmingly White.) This is important because during my time in attendance, there were only about a dozen Black students on campus; but only five were African-Americans.  The other minority students were recruited from the Caribbean and Africa through the church affiliation’s missionary work. In fact, in previous years there were no African-American students enrolled at all. White students were not accustomed to Black Americans from any perspective; and especially one from Chicago (me), who shattered all types of comfort zones, myths, anecdotal homilies and other stereotypes.

It was during new student orientation week, when an English professor encouraged us to share a secret educational “dream.” Being who I am, I boldly proclaimed my desire to learn Chinese and visit that country. What ensured was dead silence. Then there slowly arose snickers, muffled non-syllable words and snorts.  The professor uttered some comment like, “admirable” or “interesting” or some such bland inanity; but the way in which it was done served the purpose of dismissing my statement completely.  Within days, it was all over the campus that the Black guy from Chicago was deemed to be certifiable nuts for  wanting to learn the Chinese language.  Where did he get that idea? I would bet my worse enemy’s reputation that what was unspoken was: what nerve! And that’s putting it nicely. No, I never learned to speak Chinese, and when the chance to work in China was offered; well – I passed on the opportunity.

That made it two in a row. Two chances to gain wisdom and knowledge.  Insofar as China was concerned, to explore the wonders of a 5,000 year old society that few African-Americans have ever seen up close and personal was the stuff of dreams.  And I muffed it. Badly. Even worse than terribly; possibly it could be labeled as unforgivable. I would not dispute any of those descriptions.

How had I reached my China decision?  What in the world could have held me back from leaping at the opportunity to change my life and that of my family?  To make a career move that would have opened up future job possibilities that I could not even have imagined.  What indeed?  Quite simply, it was good old-fashioned fear; not having the self-confidence to believe in myself – even when others obviously saw talents worthy of their investment in me.  I also believe, subconsciously of course, that the reception to my “China statement” back during my freshman orientation, stuck with me; resurfacing and adding fuel to the fire leading to my ultimate decision. Taken together, these things formed the bedrock of my saying “no” to accepting that job in China.  I rationalized it by telling myself that I was not ready – whatever that meant; and in the case of Washington, D.C., family issues were piled on top of those shortcomings, and they trumped the Nixon Administration and my mentor.

The other reason I rejected the China offer, and this was quite legitimate: was the geo-politics of race. It was well-known at the time that the prevailing view among the Chinese toward Africans, as well as Black Americans was one of utter disdain; total disrespect. They looked upon folk like me as inferior – period.  I just couldn’t see taking my family into another racially hostile system; which in all probability was an even worse discriminatory environment than the one we lived in at home. Rightly or not, the prospect of facing the pain of hate living in China, overruled the incredible learning experience of living in a country full of natural and man-made wonders; while gaining wisdoms that would surely have influenced me and my family forever; be they good or bad.

Despite those real and perceived obstacles, I should have found the strength, the will – yes, the backbone to welcome China with an open heart and mind. In the words of Author, Stephen Kaggwa, “Try and fail, but don’t fail to try.”  Thus, the idea of “Weekends, Wisdoms & Wonders” was born. But there’s still more to the story of its conception.

My wife and I made every effort to expose our three sons to the many fine museums, cultural locations; all the sites, sights and sounds that a vibrant city like Chicago had to offer.  We spent many summer days along the shores and beaches of Lake Michigan, visiting zoos, marveling at the water show of the famous Buckingham Fountain – anywhere we thought our boys would like, appreciate and hold fond memories for them in years to come. When we could afford a vacation – off we went: road trip, road trip.  One year I suggested we go spelunking (Mammoth Cave in Kentucky was the destination); you should have heard the groans and moans.  But your know what? It turned out to be one of our most incredible, memorable and unforgettable experiences ever. Ever!

After many years of adventures, one day our sons told us that some of their friends had never seen or experienced any of the things they had; never seen Lake Michigan or been in the world-famous Chicago Loop; let alone visited a museum.  We were stunned! In disbelief. Because all the things I have mentioned about our Chicago trips were, in many instances, less than an hour or so from our neighborhood.  Later, out of earshot of the kids, as we discussed their bombshell of a comment, it humbled us. Because none of the reasons those kids had missed out on these so-called “normal” activities – were good: lack of funds, no transportation, a sick or disabled parent or guardian; and yes, even the lack of parental involvement. We would find out nearly twenty years later(we had relocated out of Chicago by then); many of those children succumbed to life’s challenges. Some of the boys ended up dead or in prison.. A few of the girls were stuck in hard lives with a bleak future.  But most emerged as solid, hardworking, morally responsible citizens; but a doctor, several teachers, a few top-tier business persons, as well as two military officers also sprang from that so-called deprived bunch of kids. So all was not lost. Yes, our sons turned out just fine.

Now you have the full and complete backstories behind “Weekends, Wisdoms & Wonders.”

For the record, no posts were or are intended to lecture, poke a finger in someone’s eye, berate or criticize  a lifestyle – or otherwise cause negative feelings for anyone. Quite the contrary. I remembered those children of that long ago neighborhood; and of my unforgiving, unforgettable failings of courage to step through two doors of incredible opportunities presented to me. So I thought why not occasionally blog about all the wonderful people, places and things one can see and do in a weekend – and the wisdoms to be gained from those experiences. I then decided to add some “words of wisdoms” to sweeten the pot – to prod my blog visitors to take a step toward getting out of the ordinary habitual things we humans are comfortable doing week end and week out.  And to attempt to do it in a light, fun and non-critical manner.

By the way, what’s on your agenda this weekend?  Drat! I couldn’t resist.

“He is able who thinks he is able”  —-Hindu Prince Gautama Siddharta, Founder of Buddhism, 563-483 BC

Copyright(c) 2015. Roads, Paths & Trails. “Weekends, Wisdoms & Wonders.” All Rights Reserved.