The Force of 1776 Enlightens Graduates Choosing New Paths

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1776 Enlightenment

This is a high-resolution image of the United States Declaration of Independence. This image is a version of the 1823 William Stone facsimile — Stone may well have used a wet pressing process (that removed ink from the original document onto a contact sheet for the purpose of making the engraving). via Wikimedia Commons

To the Class of 2025: Congratulations, you’ve just inherited the most powerful force in human history! As we celebrate America’s 250th anniversary, let us also honor your passage into self-determination. Like our Founding Fathers in 1776, Enlightenment principles guide you.

Of course, you might not think the Enlightenment is particularly relevant today, or to you personally. The dazzling philosophy that once sparked revolutions seems dated by today’s standards. However, your enlightenment is real, very personal, and no less profound.

Consider those graduating with you. The moment you share isn’t just about the diploma a school administrator hands you. It’s about the door that’s opening to reveal a brilliant light, beaming with a sudden surge of knowledge, freedom, and potential.

Sound familiar? It should.

The Light Side of 1776 Enlightenment

If you see why America’s 250th excites us, you’ll recognize the same ideals that powered our Continue Reading “The Force of 1776 Enlightens Graduates Choosing New Paths”

Lafayette In The The Spring

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LafayetteNo, that is not a typo. It’s a reference to a classic optical illusion. You probably have seen it—a triangle that contains three lines. The first line is “Paris.” The second line is “in the.” The last line is “the Spring.” People will often read it as “Paris in the Spring,” not the correct “Paris in the the Spring.”

I know, I know … This thought immediately pops into your head: “But it’s obvious that the word ‘the’ is repeated.”

And you wouldn’t be wrong.

Until you look at the picture of the triangle with the words in it.

Why is that?

Believe it or not, there’s a scientific explanation for this. It comes from vision science, and it’s called a “saccade.” This term refers to what happens when both eyes move simultaneously in Continue Reading “Lafayette In The The Spring”

The Flame of Duty: U.S. Army Celebrates 250 Years of Enduring Spirit, Service, and Unity

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U.S. ArmyWhat makes a farmer grab a musket and risk it all?

Before the sun set on April 19, 1775, the rag-tag ruffians couldn’t believe what they had just accomplished. The British, that well-trained army of international fame, had retreated to Boston. Soon, thousands of militiamen from all the New England colonies would surround what John Winthrop had called 145 years earlier “the city on the hill.” The Revolutionary War had begun.

But it wasn’t that simple.

Two-and-a-half centuries ago, if we had remained divided, we would have fallen. The rag-tag ruffians may have won the day in Lexington and Concord, but they could not have sustained an extended military campaign. Our nation’s Founding Fathers knew that winning the Continue Reading “The Flame of Duty: U.S. Army Celebrates 250 Years of Enduring Spirit, Service, and Unity”

The Necessary Outsider: Why We Need The Searchers’ Ethan Edwards (But Never Thank Him)

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The SearchersKenny and I raced to our raised ranch, the last house before the Thruway’s roar, to sprawl on the green carpet for The Commander Tom Show. The Lone Ranger reruns were the prize—our masked hero galloping in to save the town.

Eyes glued to this stark black-and-white world of morality plays, we definitely knew what was right and what was wrong. Our hearts raced as the masked man burst onto the scene. But when the dust settled, the townsfolk barely nodded, and he rode off alone. At seven and eight years of age, we wondered, “Why didn’t they invite him to stay?”

Life was easy back then. The good guys wore white hats. The bad guys wore black hats. It didn’t matter the show or the leading man. He was undeniably the hero, the good guy, the stalwart star who always Continue Reading “The Necessary Outsider: Why We Need The Searchers’ Ethan Edwards (But Never Thank Him)”

The Red Jacket Medal Mystery: Lost. Found? Still Unsolved.

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Red Jacket

Red Jacket, lithograph by Corbould from 1835 painting by C.B. King, printed by C. Hallmandel, via Wikipedia Commons

“Against Red Jacket Club,” blared the 1910 headline.1 Marking the beginning of the end, it referred to the exclusive Canandaigua social club that defined elite prestige in grand, well-appointed fashion for two decades. Everyone who was anyone sought an invitation to its annual party, which the group limited to 100 guests.

By 1910, its days were numbered. Unlike the earlier move to disband in 1908, this would be the final nail in the organization that had formed in 1888. The financial burden of operating with dwindling membership and maintaining the nearly century-old Federal-style mansion on the corner of Main and Gorham proved to be too heavy.2 Trustees representing the bondholders had no choice but to sell everything.

“All of the personal property of the famous Red Jacket Club, once the ‘swell’ organization of this village, was sold at auction… the club possesses among its relics a silver medal presented by President George Washington to the famous Indian chief, Red Jacket…”3

But the story of that shiny token goes back much further, well before the Club first laid eyes Continue Reading “The Red Jacket Medal Mystery: Lost. Found? Still Unsolved.”

And They Call It Puppy Love

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puppy loveThe gray clouds drizzled gentle tears shortly after nine in the morning on Wednesday, May 14, 2025. Wallace Jetson had breathed his last.

It was a day my brain had told me was inevitable. It was a day my heart feared would someday come.

I never liked dogs when I was a kid. Too much work. My brother Kenny liked dogs. I preferred fish. Release them from a plastic bag, shake a little food every now and then, and it all ended with a single flush.

Ever since she was a kid, Betsy dreamed of having a beagle named Wally. I always told her, “Let’s see how you do with kids first.”

She took that test three times, passing each one with ease. So I set aside my own prejudices and, for her fiftieth birthday, surprised her with a trip to Cedar Grove Kennels in Bergen. They bred beagles there. I wanted Betsy to have her childhood dream come true.

They say you don’t pick the dog; the dog picks you. One pup, among a brood of more than a half dozen, took an interest in us as we approached. Without hesitation, he drew himself towards Catarina’s feet. She swooped him up into her arms. We instantly knew he was the one.

Martin Leggo approached Betsy and asked, “Which one would you like?” Betsy’s smile beamed as she pointed to the one Catarina was holding. “That one.” Betsy picked him up and caressed him. She never let go.

That’s when Wally, pure-bred grandson of American and Canadian Champion Snow Jetson, entered our world. She cuddled him in her arms on the long drive back home. He nestled in for the ride. Perfectly content. As if he understood this was the place he was always meant to be.

Did I say “arms”? I should have said “hands.” That’s how small Wally was. You could scoop him up in the palms of your cupped hands. When we got home, he chased Peter, but his little legs couldn’t keep up.

That Wally loved Betsy goes without question. She trained him, fed him, and smothered him with heartfelt affection. And he returned the affection. And then some. When she left the room, he would faithfully follow, stop at the door of her exit, and wait patiently for her return.

In later years, the routine shifted a bit. He knew she’d be gone for long hours when Betsy left for work in the morning. That’s when he’d take his bed in the position behind my chair, quite content that, except for the occasional Zoom call or broadcast from the studio, I would be there next to him. When I sat in my seat, he’d move his plush cushion right up against my chair leg. I guess he wanted to make sure I was there next to him. I always had to be careful backing out to get up so I wouldn’t hit him.

When Cesidia and Catarina were home, before they retired for the evening, they’d quietly say goodnight to him because he looked sound asleep. But those magic words had him turn on his back, legs pointed in the air. That meant only one thing: belly rub! He demanded this before allowing the girls to sleep, and they lovingly obliged.

During the day, he’d stay in his bed as long as I was there working. When it was time to get the mail or paper, I’d wake him (I didn’t need to be too careful backing up my chair then), and he’d joyfully follow me out and down the driveway. The only other time he’d get up was when I “dropped” popcorn on the floor for him to eat. And if I didn’t drop it, he’d prop up on his hind legs, nose on the table like Snoopy’s on Schroeder’s piano, and butt his head into my arm to remind me he was there waiting for the next drop.

And he would be there next to me as I worked into the wee small hours of the morning. We became midnight buddies. When I called it a night, and after I turned off all the lights, he’d get up in the dark and sleep the rest of the night in his kennel.

Sure, on nice sunny days, he’d go outside and sit in the lush, cool grass at the end of the driveway. There he’d wait in a stiff stoic stance, looking longingly down the street, as if he expected Betsy’s car to be coming ‘round the corner any minute. Of course, if Betsy were home, he’d still stand in the spot, anticipating the arrival of anyone, especially his fellow four-legged friend Teddy. Eventually, he’d come back inside and assume his usual position in his bed behind me. I suppose he found the soft tapping of the keyboard keys quite relaxing. He’d sleep or rest. It was a tranquil setting.

Until Betsy came home from work. As soon as he heard the car in the garage, he’d pop right up and rush to the door, tail wagging. He may have derived comfort from my consistent presence, but he missed his master. To him, she was his entire world.

And speaking of his world, ever the faithful pooch, Wally himself pitched in to help when the family resumed control of the Sentinel. When times were tough and content was lean, he provided a regular column called “Wally’s World.” And when submissions increased, and the paper filled, he never complained when his column was cut back.

When Wally wasn’t having columns ghostwritten for him, he’d do what beagles do—hunt for real and imagined prey. It was usually imagined. Oh so many toys suffered the same fate. He’d shake the stuffing out of them. But even sans stuffing, he’d treat them as treasures. Whether it was the flat football, the emaciated elephant, or “French Toast,” he made sure to keep one of them close by in his cozy nighttime retreat.

There was one time, however, when Wally had the opportunity to practice what nature had bred into him. A small baby bunny had lost its way and was alone in the flower garden outside the garage. Peter wanted to see what Wally would do. Catarina would have none of that and took the little rabbit out of Wally’s mouth. Betsy concurred and put a leash on Wally. She had no problem with him chasing the much larger deer out of the backyard. Or baying at the possum playing dead. But, baby bunnies? She drew the line there.

Where she didn’t draw the line was Wally’s insistence that he sleep on the green chair at Betsy’s parents’ house. Since his bed was movable, Wally slept wherever he wanted to. One morning, we woke up to find him on the green chair. How he got there, we didn’t know. Until we saw him hop down, grab his fluffy pad, and put it somewhere else to lie. That night, we saw him leap up into the soft seat. Initially, we tried to discourage him, but he remained persistent. Besides, it was at night, and not a creature (us) was stirring, except for Wally.

puppy love

Master of His Own Domain

The green chair was strategically placed in front of the big picture window facing the street. Wally liked to stand up on the edge of the backrest and watch the goings-on outside. When Betsy left for the store, he’d watch the car drive away. When he heard the car come back, he’d jump on the chair and watch Betsy get out of the car and walk towards the door. Before she got into the house, Wally rushed around to greet her arrival, tail wagging wildly.

But mostly, Wally looked out the window, waiting for people to go by. Especially people walking their dogs.

Wally loved people. Wally loved other dogs. Wally loved everyone and everything, except for the neighbor’s cat. Of all things, he liked food most. Especially people food. He ate everything, half of Peter’s sub, Catarina’s white cream donut, half of Bety’s family-sized bag of Hershey’s Kisses (meant for our Super Bowl party), and dryer sheet, the occasional piece of jewelry, and a generous supply of recyclables. Which is why hydrogen peroxide and whipped cream were invented. He never learned that there was no upside to eating things like Cesidia’s mitten. But he did learn the barter system and happily traded undigestible items for a treat.

For all his love of food, he became a very finicky eater as he got older. Every so often, I’d have to sprinkle popcorn bits on his real food to trick him into eating. But when we ate, he expected to eat. Usually from one of us. He had a knack for finding the “weakest link” when it came to foraging for food. For a time, this was Betsy’s mother. Then it was my father, who especially enjoyed feeding Wally Betsy’s homemade chocolate chip cookies.

And when we had parties, it was everybody. Not on purpose, however, but you know how scraps of food would regularly get dropped during a party? There was Wally, joyously cleaning up after everyone’s spill. Who needs a Roomba when there’s a Wally?

Of course, parties could sometimes traumatize Wally. One year, one guest insisted on dying the white tip of his tail blue. He made a successful escape and remained au naturel. Another year, when he had a leash but was running free, his leash got caught on a pole. Convinced somebody was holding him back on purpose, he yipped and yapped to complain. When he turned around and noticed it was his own doing, he freed himself and sheepishly ran off in embarrassment, tail between his legs.

puppy love

Big Brother, Little Brother

Legs? Did you mention legs? For the longest time, people would see Wally running free in the yard using only three legs, usually following Peter as he mowed the lawn like a little brother follows his big brother. No sooner did they ask, “Is he lame?” than he’d race on all fours. We never figured that one out.

Like most dogs, he didn’t like fireworks. We considered this odd because he was born during a thunderstorm, and you’d think he’d be accustomed to loud noises. During the July 4th season, Betsy would take him inside for a quieter setting. Still, he shook.

Same thing with lightning storms. When the roar of thunder approached, he’d nudge himself in between my legs. Sometimes he’d shake so violently I thought he might fall apart. In older years, as his hearing deteriorated, fireworks and thunder became less frightening.

Wally, who would have been fifteen in July, remained relatively healthy until the very end. You might not think this since, ever since his bout with pneumonia, he had a hacking cough that could convince you he was a six-pack-a-day smoker. Towards the end, though, the body started to lose its stamina. No longer would he bound two steps in one leap from the garage to the mudroom. Fortunately, however, the vet diagnosed the problem, and Wally once again would race with vigor.

The last week or so was tough on him. He started to experience a hematoma in his left ear. Again, we don’t know why. After it came back again, the vet told us he could have risky surgery or take a steroid. The steroid required him to go off his regular medicine for a week. Without that medicine, over the course of the week, his legs weakened considerably. He could walk, but it was a labor. The steroid medicine, when he finally got it, offered a momentary boost. You could tell the strength came back into his legs.

But then the side effects hit. It was a stomach issue. He had less of an appetite. Then he stopped eating. We took him off the steroid medicine, but had to wait five days before he could take his old medicine. The atrophy of his legs worsened.

The last couple of days, I had to carry him up the two steps from the garage to the house. On that last night (about an hour after midnight) before I stopped working, he wanted to go out. I had to carry him all the way. I stayed with him so he didn’t go off to die (as dogs often do). He started to wander off, but then he saw me and came back towards the house. I carried him in.

Once inside, I dropped a few popcorn kernels on the floor. He ignored them. Instead of going to his bed behind me, he went straight to his kennel. He was having difficulty breathing. I figured he was trying to tell me something. I said, “Good night, Wally. Go to sleep.” I turned off the lights and went upstairs.

In the morning, he couldn’t swallow what Betsy gave him to soothe his stomach. He tried, but he couldn’t. He looked at her forlornly, as if to say, “I’m sorry.” He was hurting, but he was still trying to please the master he so adored. Betsy scheduled a vet appointment for 9:30 am and told me to get ready.

I came down a little bit before nine in the morning. Wally’s breathing was very faint, and he struggled for every breath. I could tell it was hard for him. I said, “Good morning, Wally.” And his eyes moved to look at me. Not that he could hear me (that sense had vanished long ago), but he could see I was there. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I suppose he wanted to ensure it was safe. That I’d be there in the seat next to him. That everything would be OK.

Moments later, Betsy came down, looked at Wally, and said, “He stopped breathing.”

I put my hand on his chest to see if I could feel anything. The only thing I felt was my own pulse. No sound. No whimper. Wally passed quietly into the tranquil sleep of forever.

Wally was what everyone imagines a dog to be, and then some. He was no fish. Wally was family. He will be missed.

Fittingly, it’s two o’clock in the morning as I finish this. I’m about ready to back out of my chair. I’ll still be careful. Good night, midnight buddy. Have a good sleep.

puppy love

The Side Hustle Juggle: How A Fair Game Taught Me The Secret To A Happy Life (Part II)

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side hustle juggleDawn’s glow broke at 5:30 am, heralding my latest side hustle juggle. As the sun peeked above the horizon, the whine of the laser printers wound down. The parlor-converted-into-a-newsroom fell silent, but the hot, inky tang of the freshly printed pages lingered. The pages themselves sat neatly arranged on the brightly lit layout table. Hours earlier, my co-publisher scoffed, ‘Chris, it’s impossible,’ and left for bed. Her husband stayed to help finish a job that couldn’t be finished.

The paper was done. The deadline achieved. The fumes of adrenaline pumped through my veins. Juggling a newspaper, a job, and grad school, sleepless for twenty-four hours, most people would have flopped into bed at this point. I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Everything was working just as the system promised. An outside observer would not have Continue Reading “The Side Hustle Juggle: How A Fair Game Taught Me The Secret To A Happy Life (Part II)”

The Side Hustle Juggle: How A Fair Game Taught Me The Secret To A Happy Life (Part I)

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“Guess your weight! Guess your age!” the carny’s side hustle pitch barked with enthusiasm. The hint of a playful southern drawl made it all the more alluring.

To this day, I love watching people play the “Guess Your Weight” game. There are several variations on this theme. The barker can guess your weight, or your age, or your birth month. With all those combinations, it’s got to be a surefire winner, right? And just look at those huge Continue Reading “The Side Hustle Juggle: How A Fair Game Taught Me The Secret To A Happy Life (Part I)”

Age Matters Less When You’re Old Enough to Know Better

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Age Matters LessAge matters less now that you’re older. I lied. Age gaps always matter, right? Wrong. In Back to the Future, Marty McFly’s age meant nothing when time travel put him in the same class as his parents. So, why does age matter less as we age? Because shared time, not numbers, defines relationships, revealing a truth that unfolds over the years.

But speaking of those formative teenage years, remember when you were a senior in high school? You might have had a few junior friends. You barely acknowledged the sophomores. And, as for the freshmen… did your high school even have a freshman class? Who knew? Back then, who cared?

Today, it doesn’t matter what class they were in; if they were in high school at the same time you were, they were all your age. At this point, numbers simply have no basis in reality. Age matters less as shared time rewrites the math. Age gaps that felt vast in your youth offer but Continue Reading “Age Matters Less When You’re Old Enough to Know Better”

Should Stolen Art Be Returned—Even If It Hurts the Innocent?

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Stolen Art

Monuments Man Lt. Frank P. Albright, Polish Liaison Officer Maj. Karol Estreicher, Monuments Man Capt. Everett Parker Lesley, and Pfc. Joe D. Espinosa, guard with the 34th Field Artillery Battalion, pose with Leonardo da Vinci’s Lady with an Ermine upon its return to Poland in April 1946. Source: Wikipedia Commons

The Thief’s Gambit—A Patriot’s Heist or a Crook’s Crime?

Vincenzo Peruggia slipped into the Louvre just like everybody else. Except he wasn’t.

It was Friday, August 11, 1911, in the middle of a week-long heat. Only two days before, the temperature in sunbaked Paris hit 100° F. Today, as the work week came to a close, local thermometers would read 36°. That would be Celsius. In Fahrenheit, that would be 96.8°.

The Louvre wasn’t merely one of the world’s most renowned art galleries. On this hot day, it offered a bit of cool shade from the bright yellow disk burning above in the clear blue sky. That wasn’t why Vincenzo entered the building. He had worked there. His job was to build a glass case that would display a particular painting. That painting was Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.

But ol’ Vinny didn’t happen into the museum for work. He calmly ventured in with all the other Continue Reading “Should Stolen Art Be Returned—Even If It Hurts the Innocent?”

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