One guy’s 2013: Imperfectly perfect

By Steve Cichon

“The grass isn’t always greener on the other side of the fence.”


Can we all agree this is a dumb thing to say?

Stupid as it is, though, when you break it down, you begin to see the complexity underlying the thought.

What does “greener” mean? There are infinite shades of green, and we all have our own unique notion of which color green the grass should be. What’s greener for you, might be less green for me.

And what about the other side of the fence? Are you going to climb that fence, or try to make your own grass closer to your neighbor’s?

Maybe he started with better grass seed. Maybe he has a $10,000 underground irrigation system that constantly waters the lawn at the perfect rate, while you hose yours down twice a week. But did you know he never eats out to pay for the system and the water?

He also gets it sprayed every week, so his kids and dog have to stay off the grass about half the time.

Greener grass, but at what cost? Especially when plenty of people like the natural look of your lawn better than the chemical look of his.

You need to figure out what that lawn you covet is worth to you, and if its worth the sacrifice. Nothing good comes without sacrifice.

Even though my wife generally cuts the grass at our house, I spent quite a bit of time thinking about these sorts of questions in 2013 as I “retired” from radio.

People always ask why I left. After 20 years of broadcasting and 10 years as a radio newsman, I walked away from my dream job as WBEN News Director to start my own business. Buffalo Stories LLC is really my big boy dream job.

People always ask what I do. I create and write for people, I help people learn to create and write for themselves, and I use my experience to help figure out what individuals, businesses, and non-profits need from their public persona to get them where they want to be.

I shoot video, write books, create websites, teach college classes, look into souls, bring people together for the common good.

In a sentence, I listen to people and use my skills to help them take what they already have and form it so they can better live their passion.

It’s what working for myself has allowed me to do, too. I am living my passions: helping people succeed, and helping Buffalo succeed by weaving threads of our glorious-yet-too-often maligned past into our future.

So when people ask, these are the things I tell them. I am extraordinarily blessed that they are all true. What I don’t usually talk about is that working from home and being your own boss isn’t all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows.

Before I move onto bigger and better years, let me be honest for a moment about 2013.

It’s been hard. It’s been really hard. I’m not complaining, and I’m new at it, but it’s hard.

It’s hard to share a workspace with the rest of your life, including a wife and a dog. It’s hard to walk away from 15 items on the to-do list to walk into the next room to make dinner. It’s also hard to walk away from the dinner table and head back to work. It’s tough to get up at 5am to get some work done so I can spend some of the rest of the day with family or work on other projects now that I’m a “free man.” It’s torturous to wonder if I’ll ever land enough of the clients and projects I love.

It’s also a tough pill to swallow that the gains this year have not been financial. I’ve actually brought in, over the last six months, a tad less than I would have had I stayed in radio.

But nothing good comes without sacrifice. For all of the nonsense, in the last six months I’ve played roles in amazing projects, been hired by amazing people, and now have some truly extraordinary things on the horizon. I’m helping businesses and non-profits succeed. I’m writing books. I’m teaching. I’m working on TV documentaries about our beautiful extraordinary city and it’s people. I’m building on small successes, and planting seeds which will grow strong as time wears on.

Greener grass? I rototilled in 2013. I hoed and raked and seeded and watered, and most of it is lush, green, and beautiful. It’s even OK that a few spots came up brown, because it’s not only the results I’m proud of, but the vigilance and hard work, too. No shortcuts, no baloney. I think it’s the better way, despite the hardships.

I hope you can find your green patches from 2013, and hope that you’ve steeled your spine to do the work, and set your vision to make 2014 the best year yet.

This page originally appeared at

Christmas miracle…

By Steve Cichon

It says something about us. I’m not sure what, but I think it’s a tiny bit of proof that we’re not completely done for. That there is some how, some hope for us after all.


“White Christmas” was first recorded by Bing Crosby in 1942, and the recording became the number one hit song for several months that year. The song made GIs fighting overseas during World War II cry thinking of home. It sold so well, that the original master recording became damaged because they copied it so much. Bing and the same crew got together and made a new master recording in 1947. That ’47 version is the one we’re all familiar with.

Bing’s White Christmas remains the best selling song of all-time.

I am an admitted old-soul, nostalgia guy. I like Norman Rockwell and Bing Crosby and “It’s A Wonderful Life.” I also know that generally, I’m in the minority. But somehow, a 66 year old recording has somehow remained unquestionably mainstream.

The song is certainly well presented, and it’s powerful lyrics are open for you to insert your own fuzzy-around-the-edges wishes, desires and memories. And Bing Crosby, media’s first superstar and once the most powerful entertainer in the country, now just sounds like a generic guy who could be anyone’s dad singing. The song remains powerful by tapping into those fragmented memories of a simpler time, when Christmas meant hardly being able to fall asleep the night before, and waking up to wide-eyed wonder.

Girls my age might warmly remember getting a Cabbage Patch doll under the tree in 1983. And while that is a simple, warm memory for her, her mother might remember the near-riot that broke out at Gold Circle when two women started fighting over the last one. That mom might remember getting her Chatty Cathy doll in her stocking. Like so much of our stuff, it’s not the actual thing we hold so fondly, it’s the memories and feelings wrapped up in those things that we hold dear.

We each know that there’s something special, warm, and wonderful about the Christmas spirit. Deep down, we all know that it’s something that we should take with us the rest of the year. Helping people, bringing joy to people, realizing and embracing the true meaning of life.

Even as the 2013 Christmas spirit has become too much about free shipping and removing the remaining humanity from the commercialized part of the holiday– somehow a seven-decades-old recording thrives amidst our “toss-out-the-old” culture, and invites us all to stop for a moment.

The White Christmases we’re dreaming about are generally gone. The care-free feeling and the loved ones who are no longer here can’t be brought back. But hopefully being reminded of something we’ve lost along the way, we can some how try to find some relevance in simplicity, and find a place in our heart and some time for it our calendars in our modern hectic lives.

That song wouldn’t live if we didn’t want it.

This page originally appeared at

Just trying to be nice

By Steve Cichon

We are in an age where people love to be offended, even when they have no right to be, and it manifests itself in all sorts of strange ways.

Saying “Happy Holidays, ma’am” to this woman could very easily get you stabbed in 2013.
Saying “Happy Holidays, ma’am” to this woman could very easily get you stabbed in 2013.

Certain words and phrases, meant to share warm tidings and respect, are quickly becoming (if they aren’t already) taboo, and it makes my brain want to explode like oatmeal left in the microwave too long.

Specifically two phrases, always offered to convey gladness of heart and civility, seem now to inspire my fists to leap forth in rage against people who would rather take offense than appreciate what is being shared in a simple word or two.

Today, I’m thinking about “Happy Holidays” and “ma’am.”


I am a church-going Christian. When I wish you “Happy Holidays,” I have three goals in mind:

1.) I am wishing (praying, actually) that you and your family are touched by the beauty of this season.

2.) Brevity. Depending on the timing, I don’t want to say, “Hey! I hope you and your family have a great Thanksgiving, a merry Christmas, and a happy new year, and possibly nice Hanukkah, too.” That’s a lot of words. I say “Happy holidays” (even in CHURCH, when I’m wearing MINISTERIAL GARMENTS and stuff) to convey all the goodness of all those things.

3.) Inclusion. On Christmas eve, I’ll wish everyone and anyone a Merry Christmas. I would hope that even people who don’t celebrate Christmas can feel and appreciate the overwhelming beauty in people during holiday, even if that means sitting home and quietly reading or going out for Chinese food because there is nothing else to do.

It’s not a war on Christmas when I wish someone Happy Holidays. “Happy Holidays” is what’s in my heart, and I’m sharing it with you. If someone else wants to start listening to Christmas music on Columbus Day and wishing people a Merry Christmas while they are still raking leaves, they should be allowed to do so. But it’s not for me.

Personally, I think wishing someone a “Merry Christmas” while you still have Thanksgiving leftovers in your fridge is a bit much, especially when you don’t mean it. Worrying about whether a miserable cashier mindlessly grumbles Thank you for shopping at Walmart and doesn’t mean it, or if they grumble happy holidays or Merry Christmas– it doesn’t much matter to me.

Unfortunately, the feeling is usually more “f-you” than whatever the words are meant to convey anyway. Either way, I usually try to smile, and offer some cheer in their day, and say warm words which I truly mean one way or another.

If someone warmly looks me in the eye, and tells me to have a great holiday, I get it, and give it back. Bask in it and share it. Preach the gospel, use words when necessary.

I don’t like that teachers and store clerks and other people aren’t allowed to say Merry Christmas, but I also think living it is more important. And living it involves looking into people’s hearts and leaving some love — not indignation– behind.

Or, if you want to treat people’s however-thinly-inspired attempts at warm tidings disrespectfully, maybe you should go for the throat and just drop an f-bomb on them.


Ma’am is the one that really kills me. I strive to treat everyone with courtesy and respect. Whether you are a 7 year-old female, or a 79 year-old female; whether you are serving me or being served by me, I will address you as “ma’am,” and humbly treat you with the dignity and respect afforded to someone worthy of the title “ma’am.” Too often the response is not respectful in turn.

“Do I look that old?”

“My mother is a ma’am!”

Get over yourself. Like I said, I make no judgement calls. No matter your age, no matter your station in life, you deserve my respect and I pay it to you with a respectful title. I respectfully request that you not scoff in my face when I offer you the respect you deserve, whether you realize it or not.

If you ask me, “Do I look that old,” the answer is probably yes. Some people, myself among them, don’t take compliments well, and I understand that this might somehow be related to that. However, I can’t control that you are no longer 19 and a size whatever, and calling you ma’am seems to underline that in your head.

The truth is, I’d call a 19 year-old in size-whatever ma’am as well. And I (or someone like me) did call you ma’am, you just didn’t hear it because you didn’t care back then what a screwball in a bow tie called you. Now you feel old and you take it out on me. Get over yourself. Learn to appreciate people respecting you for being a human being and a woman. Please. I’d hate to have to turn to the only other generic greeting I have for females, and I fear it would cause much more consternation.

So I guess it’s your choice, ladies. Would you like thank you, ma’am, or ‘s’up, slut? If you’d be offended by “slut,” you should likely be appreciative the opposite, “ma’am.”

Yes, I am pontificating. Yes, I suppose I’m being judgmental and a tad hypocritical, too. But people’s reaction to my intentions really doesn’t change the intention in my heart.

So, I say to everyone reading this, with a warm smile, “Happy Holidays, ma’am,” even if you’re dropping an “f-you, slut” on me.

This page originally appeared at

UFOs on the Niagara Frontier

Are we alone out there? While many of us still ponder that question, it’s no longer a question that receives the sort of mainstream media attention that it once did. At some point, we stopped thinking of UFO sightings as news. Maybe it was around the time society started thinking of people who see UFOs as fringe kooks. But through the 1950s and 60s, everyday people made reports– and those reports were in turn, put in print.


A joking paragraph in 1951 Courier-Express article

Here are a few of those reports from Buffalo area newspapers. They show the cross-section of opinion with a mix of straightforward reporting, sensationalism, and skepticism.

Since conspiracy theories abound,  rest assured the only edits made to these images were, in some cases, taking the date and name of the newspaper from the page on which the story occurred,  and resizing it and pasting it to the top of the story. Nothing else was changed from the microfilmed copies of the newspapers.


This story was about DC, and made no mention of Buffalo.










Courier Express, 1969


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Photos from Buffalo’s Jimmy Griffin years

By Steve Cichon

He remains one of the most popular figures in Buffalo’s history. He was also one of the most vilified.

Jimmy Griffin was Mayor of Buffalo from 1978-1993. No one has ever held the post longer, and it’s a pretty good bet that no one ever had more fun doing the job. He got things done. Like Pilot Field. And the waterfront. And the Theatre District. And getting people to stay home and enjoy a six pack instead of heading out into the Blizzard of ’85.

Look at the smile on this guy’s face in nearly every photo, and tell me he’s not having a good time.

Mayor Griffin with Burt Reynolds, when he was in town shooting "Best Friends."
Mayor Griffin with Burt Reynolds, when he was in town shooting “Best Friends.”
Mayor Griffin had a car phone in the 80s. When they were REALLY cool.
Mayor Griffin had a car phone in the 80s. When they were REALLY cool.
Reeling in a Lake Erie mermaid with lawmaker Mary Lou Rath.
Reeling in a Lake Erie mermaid with lawmaker Mary Lou Rath.
Hizzoner was a natural behind the controls of a front loader.
Hizzoner was a natural behind the controls of a front loader.
He was also a natural on an elephant, leading the circus parade into the Aud.
He was also a natural on an elephant, leading the circus parade into the Aud.
With Seymour Knox on the Aud ice…
With Seymour Knox on the Aud ice…
Jim Griffin: Buffalo’s original Irish dancer? with Mercy sisters wearing Talking Proud buttons, dancers, and County Executive Ed Rutkowski
Jim Griffin: Buffalo’s original Irish dancer? with Mercy sisters wearing Talking Proud buttons, dancers, and County Executive Ed Rutkowski
Jim Griffin’s leadership spawned waterfront construction…
Jim Griffin’s leadership spawned waterfront construction…
Two rockstar Jims of 80s Buffalo… Jim Kelly and Jim Griffin
Two rockstar Jims of 80s Buffalo… Jim Kelly and Jim Griffin
The ol’Rockpile… Griffin’s tenacity and will pushed though the building of Pilot Field…
The ol’Rockpile… Griffin’s tenacity and will pushed though the building of Pilot Field…
County Executive Ed Rutkowski, The Mayor, and Danny Neaverth on the streets of South Buffalo…
County Executive Ed Rutkowski, The Mayor, and Danny Neaverth on the streets of South Buffalo…
A true man of the people and a one-time gin mill owner, Mayor Griffin poured a fine beer…
A true man of the people and a one-time gin mill owner, Mayor Griffin poured a fine beer…

These photos are among the roughly 200 photos which come from a new book about Buffalo’s beloved mayor.

A Buffalo Scrapbook: Gimme Jimmy! The James D. Griffin Story in his own Words and Photos, by Steve Cichon, will be in stores next week, or you can order a copy now at  and have it delivered to your home by next week.

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The cars of our childhood

By Steve Cichon

I saw a pristine 1990 Chevy Lumina over the weekend. I actually drove a Lumina for a while, but my thoughts turned to a great friend who drove a Lumina, too. Radio newsman Ed Little looked classy behind the wheel of his always well-maintained, respectable mid-sized General Motors sedan. The hipster who was driving it on Sunday was more ironic than classy.
My dad loved cars– looking at them and driving them. He’d always excitedly point out cars that he or someone he knew once owned. As a young man, he drove sports cars like an MG and muscle cars like an AMC Javelin. Of course, I now point out old cars to anyone who will listen.

Just like with my ol’man, seeing an old car that reminds me of a car from my past is one of those instant mood changers for me. I’ve owned a few interesting cars through the years, like a white 1971 Mercedes. Very eye catching, but not too comfortable to drive. I love my ’86 VW Golf, ’95 Plymouth Neon, and ’97 Honda Civic. Those cars weren’t spectacular, but they were comfortable and easy to drive. When I see one, I want to drive it.

But the real memories come from those cars my dad and my grandpas had long before I could drive.

First- Here’s that Lumina, like the one Ed Little had. I’d wait to see this car pull up to fine restaurants like Alice’s Kitchen, Your Host, Grandma’s Pancakes, and the Four Seasons.

In the Cichon house, we had this exact car: a Dodge Aries station wagon with faux wood paneling and tan Naugahyde seats. We also had a black one, with red velvet seats. Nice.

There were also 2 AMC Spirits in our family. Grandpa Cichon had a white one with a big blue pinstripe, my family had a brown one.

This is the exact interior of our 1981 Spirit. I hurt myself on the steering wheel playing Dukes of Hazzard, climbing in and out of the windows.

Grandpa Cichon traded in the Spirit for a Pontiac Bonneville. It was in this car, my brother and I witnessed one of the great events in our lives up until that point. Usually calm Gramps got hosed at a full-service gas station. He unleashed a torrent of Polish-American cursing that remains with me nearly 30 years later. We i see this car, I think, “You G-dd-mmed horseball!!”


Grandpa Coyle would get a new Oldsmobile every year or two… But all though my childhood, he has this odd, pea green Ford pickup– Which was actually van without an enclosed back. There were only two seats, and I can remember fighting with my brother over which one of us would get to ride on the hump where the stick shift was… on the way to the hardware store.

Finally my Great-Grandpa Wargo drove this beautiful pea green Ford Maverick. It was a car that was old and mysterious, just like Great-Grandpa. I especially liked that the old yellow NY plates had three numbers then BUX. I liked -BUX on a license plate. Our plates were boring by comparison.

What did your grandpa drive? I’d love to see it, tweet me @SteveBuffalo.

This page originally appeared at

Remember your audience– and your audience doesn’t want to remember OJ

By Steve Cichon

It was jarring. A relatively new-to-Buffalo TV news guy just referred to “former Bill OJ Simpson.” Um, yeah, we know dude. No need to remind us. Thanks.

There is no need for any further description of OJ Simpson. We all know who he is. If they are running some random story about a random old Bill, because he’s an old Bill, feel free to mention it.

But just landing in Buffalo, and deciding to start the latest on his current legal drama by reminding us of one of our most painful civic realities, just to show us that you, too, are aware of this heart-wrenching connection is too-smart by half and shouldn’t happen.

Personally, I’ve written and read hundreds of OJ stories as a news man, and never called him “former Bill OJ Simpson” on first reference. Ever. The words are superfluous, because we all know. What’s worse— we don’t want to hear about it, so no need to mention it.

Even worse than that, it had nothing to do with the story. I could write a book about why its a bad idea, and as a former news director, if you said that on my watch, I would write a book about it.

It’s not all or even mostly this guy’s fault. Part of the issue is the lack of surrounding crew. Ten years ago, you made that mistake once, and there were a dozen producers, photogs, etc to tell you the right thing to say. Now, chances are you are your own producer and photog.

A few months ago, a newbie weather guy mentioned elly-COTT-ville in a forecast. No one corrected the poor SOB and he continued to say it all morning.

I’m thankful we’re to the time of year when I can experience the youthful enthusiasm with which we’re told that one shouldn’t put their hand or foot in a snowblower. By a 22 year old woman with a mint julip accent— who may or not not have ever seen snow.

Like in anything else in life, you write for your audience. Not every fact which is new or interesting to you is new or interesting for your audience. It’s local news for local people. It’s not for someone from Germany or Florida or Rochester. It’s local….meant to appeal to locals.

Dad knows best, so shut the eff up

By Steve Cichon

I did something great yesterday. I told myself to shut the f*** up, and I really meant it.

For a very long time, I’ve been doing an exaggerated impression of my dad, saying with disgust, “Just… shut… the f*** … up–”

He was not a fan of people annoying him by going “chirp, chirp, chirp” as he’d say while doing the blah, blah, blah hand motion.

Dad, 1984. He’d have preferred you just have an Old Milwaukee tall boy and shut up.
Dad, 1984. He’d have preferred you just have an Old Milwaukee tall boy and shut up.

Now, my dad was a great father and fantastic in many ways. In this case, though, he was fantastically lacking in patience, and fantastically succinct in his expression of that lack of patience.

That phrase, an exasperated, “Just… shut… the f*** … uuUUP–” came out of his mouth when he was at the end of his rope, but more “tired of it” than angry. Of course, that made it an expression commonly uttered by the ol’man, in that exact peculiar way. That strong suggestion would be offered to us kids, to my mother, to the dog, and to the TV when Don Paul was talking about something that didn’t have to do with whether it was going to rain tomorrow.

“Just… shut… the f*** … uuUUP–”

When I first started saying this phrase in this way in the company of my wife, she no doubt recognized the dramatic style as a nod to the Master of the cranky curse-riddled tirade. As time went on though, and as more and more of my personality (d)evolved into something closer to that of my ol’man’s– I think that phrase has become mine.

We are at a point where my wife knows I’m thinking it even before I do most of the time. She’ll smile, and say, “C’mon, say it.” Honestly, we both know I say it mostly for comedic effect. But as time wears on, that little kernel of truth which makes comedy funny– my actual living, breathing desire for that person to STFU… well, that little kernel seems to be growing into a greater desire for clamped mouths every time I say it. Soon, I too will be swearing at TV weathermen.

But yesterday, I was talking things over with myself, mostly being a whiny bitch, when out of nowhere, I realized what I sounded like in my own head, and had enough. I told myself to just… shut… the f*** … up. Dad would have been proud, because I meant it just as much as the ol’man meant it when Don Paul started cracking jokes about Thanksgiving leftovers one time in 1991 or so.

We all have problems, and even those of us who try to maintain a steely exterior, might sometimes get a little whiny in the doubts that share with ourselves about those problems. I know it’s not the solution for everything, but wow– realizing you’re always a loser when you play the self-pity game, and figuratively punching yourself in the face is really a great feeling.

So, the next time you start to feel all “woe is me,” remind yourself to just… shut… the f*** … up. Or call me to complain. I’ll be happy to channel the ol’man and tell you exactly what I think you should do.

This page originally appeared at

If voting isn’t hard, you’re doing it wrong

By Steve Cichon

How do you vote? I’ve been doing it for decades now, and I’m still not sure how to do it.


In theory, sometimes it’s easy. There’s a good looking, charming, passionate, good-hearted candidate who shows leadership and with whom you mostly agree on most issues, and the other guy is a criminal buffoon with the mark of Satan on his forehead.

But it’s never that easy. If you’re doing it right, voting is hard. It’s generally the one chance in life we have to choose the people who are some way in charge of us on some level. If you could vote for your next boss at work, would you base it on the letter next to his or her name?

Those letters mean very little to me, as most of the time, they are only two or three talking points different from one another. Even conservative and liberal are ideas that seem to evolve more quickly than they used to, and views I think of as conservative all the sudden are liberal, and vice-versa.

The labels seem vague and useless, but what does matter to me often leaves me scratching my head, too. It’s different every time, and each race has different elements that are more or less important, but nearly every time, I wind up picking as I’m sitting there with my bubble sheet ballot. Just like at a restaurant with a big menu.

This gravy-covered entree sounds delicious, but will likely give me heartburn. I know I won’t be wowed with this lean meat and salad-y one, but it’s almost as tasty and way more healthy.  Sounds stark, but get the baked potato with the gravy one and the ranch dressing on the salad, they might be just about the same.

For me, the worst case election scenario involves two candidates who on paper seem equally appealing to me. One is a candidate who has the best heart, is passionate, positive and forward looking– but is a bit murky or just plain opposite of me on a bunch of big issues.

The other is a smarmy sort of guy– who if he was in business, you might recommend to a friend because he gets the job done– but you’d also recommend that your friend watch this guy, because you don’t trust him as far as you can throw him. This guy, though, shares your vision for the future of the city or the state or the world or whatever.

Isn’t that a tough choice? In my world, it seems to happen in every election. Maybe it’s my decades of “not being allowed to cheer in the press box,” and my role as someone who has to critically examine both sides every time.

I usually finding myself going with the good guy, with the hopes that he or she will make decisions based on what they truly feel is right for the community every time. Or at least most of the time, right? If there isn’t a good guy, I go with someone in whom I see passion. Even if I agree with someone, I can’t necessarily trust that person to do the right thing for the right reasons every time.

I think most people would agree with this, which is why so many polls show people hating Congress, but liking their Congressman. “I met my guy at a spaghetti dinner for the cub scouts and he was great; the other 434 can jump off a cliff.”

I think most of us are charmed by most of the politicians we meet, because they are generally civically minded people who are trying to do good.

There are very few politicians who are “evil,” or deserve to jump off a cliff. There are a few who are in it just for themselves, and maybe a couple more few who just like to see their names on signs on people’s lawns. But even most of those politicians have a pretty large measure of trying to do some good for the communities they serve. They are not evil sociopaths as they are sometimes branded by opponents or people on Facebook.

Sometimes good guys get caught up in baloney, but bad guys look for baloney to get caught up in. So gimme the good guy. I guess.

I find voting hard. I think it should be.

This page originally appeared at

@#$%!! Winter already?!?

By Steve Cichon

I’m not the biggest fan of winter, and I hope it’s a mild one. I’ll take warm over cold any day of the week.

While sometimes I might say I do, I don’t hate winter. Winter is part of our deal here in Buffalo, so I accept it and try to make the most of it.

What really bothers me– what inspires something closer to hate– is the speed with which it all seems to go by.

A very artistic, instagrammy look at Steve Cichon’s snow blower
A very artistic, instagrammy look at Steve Cichon’s snow blower

In the last week, I made a pot of scratch chicken noodle soup, gassed up and started the snow blower, and got the furnace ready and turned on the heat. Mundane chores that bother some people, but for me it’s not that chore, so much as it’s just that it literally could have been last week that I was grilling on the 4th of July, sharpening the lawn mower blade for the season, and getting the fans out of the attic.

Really. All of that could have been yesterday. But right now, I’m wearing 4 layers as I type in the back bedroom of our drafty old house, thinking that I won’t be warm until May. Again, it’s not the layers as much as it seems perfectly reasonable that I should be wearing shorts to take the dog for a walk today, not pulling out the peacoat for its 21st Buffalo winter.

It’s not that I don’t stop to smell the roses. I do, literally. I love nature, and enjoy taking it in. But the seasonal differentiation device in my brain is like an old VCR constantly flashing 12:00. I have no good sense of time, which means time is always flying by.

Flying by, in fact, like a tractor trailer on a dark road in the middle of the night.

When you see those little pinholes of light in the rear view mirror coming over that hill way behind you, it seems like that little spec of yellow might never catch up to you.

Daydream (or night dream, as it were) for a moment, and all of the sudden, that truck is right next to you, loudly rattling past, whooshing and reeking of diesel for about 6 seconds. Then it’s tail lights, until they get small and disappear– Just as two more little white pin pricks of light appear in your rear view mirror again.

Not just seasons, but all the things of life. All that time looking forward to something, only to have it whoosh by and turn into tail lights before you even realize it was there.

I’m not sure if it comes with age or if it’s because we change the way we live as we age, but it wasn’t always this way. I find myself being one of those annoying people who have tell people who are younger than me to take the time to enjoy… time. I don’t put it quite that way, but that’s what I mean. And make sure you enjoy time while standing somewhere other than my lawn.

I wouldn’t want to return to youth. The wisdom and knowledge of age roundly outweigh the creaks, groans, and grays for me.

The one thing I’d love to get back is time that goes by like a Countrytime Lemonade commercial– with twangy music, hazy sunshine hanging just above the horizon, a breeze gently swaying the willow tree,and the feeling that none of it will ever end.

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