Chicagoland: Gateway to the West

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Chicagoland“I’ve hit Chicago, but Chicagoland? Never. That alone made this leg of the journey even more enticing, a perfect way to kick things off.

Not that we needed enticing.

Remember your first day of school? Work? Summer camp? The eagerness. The excitement. That urge to dive in headfirst. Optimism bubbling up. Anything feels possible.

Now, imagine embarking on a long vacation. Same vibe. That first-day buzz. All that anxiety Continue Reading “Chicagoland: Gateway to the West”

Go West, Young Man! The Open Road Calls

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"Go West, Young Man"“Go West, Young Man!” From the first time I heard that line, it has echoed within my head. Sure, life has taken me many places—many wonderful places, many exotic places. Still, the allure of this simple sentence keeps coming back. It’s been a never-ending whisper, lingering just below the surface of everyday life.

It’s in the quiet moments before dawn when the deepest sleep removes all inhibitions that the call echoes loudest. But upon waking, it disappears. The daily routine takes over. Yet it gnaws. Beneath the skin. Yearning to be free.

Then, one morning, it happened. The bags packed snugly into the family truckster (an aptly named Ford Expedition, courtesy of the also aptly named Enterprise), the phrase became a reality. We, the Carosas, were heading west. No longer a young man, the spirit of my youth danced sprightly in my mind.

On this day, we would heed the siren call of this purely American vision.Continue Reading “Go West, Young Man! The Open Road Calls”

America250 Celebrates And Inspires Our Strong Heart And The Enduring American Ideal

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America250America250 is approaching fast. Can you feel it—that pulse of pride beating louder throughout our nation? Are you ready?

This July 4, as you stand beneath the sky, oohing and aahing at the bombs bursting in the air above, you also stand on the cusp of a patriotic milestone. It’s one that you share with every other true American. It’s a strength that has carried our nation for nearly 250 years. All of us have it. Or should. Do you?

Remember your childhood years when you first experienced the anticipation, excitement, and ultimate joy of Independence Day? Sure, the food was great. The weather was (usually) great. But there was something greater gnawing at your soul. What made everyone so happy? Where did this universal spirit come from? How and when, you wondered, will your parents, teachers, or anyone else finally reveal this secret to you?

As you held the twinkling sparkler in your soft, young hands, you didn’t know the Founding Fathers lit a spark in 1776 that burns as brightly today as it did then.

It’s not about battles. It’s not about speeches. It’s about us. Fireworks are fun, but they don’t reveal the heart of America’s strength. It’s a flame deep inside, kindled long ago, that remains blazing within us all.

If only we are allowed to feel it, dream it, and live it.

America250 Celebrates the Founders’ Flame in Every Heart

It’s likely been a while since you opened your old elementary school textbooks, if you still have them. They might be old and musty, but the lessons within them shine as brightly as the new dawn. Indeed, they reveal that first light that birthed our nation.

Others (mostly those thoughtful thinkers who hung out at 18th-century European salons) would call it by various names. First, they snubbed “The American Experiment.” Then they contemplated “The American Ideal.” Finally, they conceded to “American Exceptionalism.”

In case you missed it, they were talking about you.

Sure, you weren’t around back then. Heck, there’s a good chance, like me, your family was still living in one of those snotty (yet poor) European countries. But you’re here now, so you’re part of a bigger family. You share a legacy that begins on a hot summer day in July 1776.

Imagine yourself sitting in the uncomfortably humid Philadelphia State House. The flickering candlelight glows softly in the dark hall. The voices within, however, are anything but soft. The air hums with defiance.

Steaming with tension, the delegates understand the risks they are about to take. Just being there puts their very lives in danger. So powerful, so merciless is the British Crown that Ben Franklin sums up the proceedings with his famous quip, “We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately.”

Still, these brave men argue and debate. Their tone oscillates between heated roars and speculative murmurs. Nonetheless, the quills scratched away until the Declaration of Independence took its final form: We hold these truths to be self-evident…

Here’s the thing about the Declaration of Independence and why we continue to cherish it nearly a quarter of a millennium since Thomas Jefferson applied that final ink to parchment. It never represented a war plan. The Founding Fathers didn’t intend it for that purpose. Instead, they saw it as a vision of self-governance.

The Declaration, though it emerged from a cauldron of intense pressure, wasn’t about fighting. It wasn’t about all those eloquent words, either. No, it memorialized a bold ideal, something never before expressed with such vigor.

Most importantly, the flame it lit wasn’t just for a single rebellion at that moment in time. Its fire has glowed in the hearts of all in a way that transcends time.

America250: True Power Comes from Ideals, Not Actions

After centuries of ‘modern,’ bloody revolutions, especially in the post-Marxist world, the American Revolution seems hardly revolutionary. And yet, it was. Perhaps a more radical revolution than we think. And one that has allowed us to reach heights never imagined by anyone living before 1776.

Why? But to truly understand why this Revolution remains so extraordinary, we turn to one of the nation’s leading historians. Gordon Wood, Professor of History Emeritus at Brown University, is the author of the Pulitzer Prize-winning book The Radicalism of the American Revolution. He explains clearly what makes the American Revolution stand out and what makes it resonate with us today.

First, unlike what popular literature cites as the primary reason for revolution (and what you might remember about the root cause of the French Revolution), the American Revolution did not arise because of class disparity. Wood writes, “the social conditions that generally are supposed to lie behind all revolutions—poverty and economic deprivation—were not present in colonial America. …in destroying monarchy and establishing republics [the Founding Fathers] were changing their society as well as their governments, and they knew it.”

On its face, except for not having a king, the structure of the new American government contained many elements of the old colonial governments. Sure, there were popular elections, but the titles and duties were very similar. But something was different. And it was big. Wood observes, “One class did not overthrow another; the poor did not supplant the rich. But social relationships—the way people connected one to another—were changed, and decisively so. By the early years of the nineteenth century the Revolution had created a society fundamentally different from the colonial society of the eighteenth century. It was in fact a new society unlike any that had ever existed anywhere in the world.”

Okay. Sounds impressive, right? But Wood wants to remind you of the context under which this occurred. “[T]his astonishing transformation took place without industrialization, without urbanization, without railroads, without the aid of any of the great forces we usually involve to explain ‘modernization.’ It was that Revolution that was crucial to this transformation. It was the Revolution, more than any other single event, that made America into the most liberal, democratic, and modern nation in the world.”

There are some today who prefer to see only the imperfections of America. It’s as if they demand a god-like perfection from mankind. There was a time when these thoughts would have been heretical. Thanks to the consequences of the American Revolution, we can freely think these thoughts. It doesn’t mean they’re right. It just means we have the right to express them.

Wood, however, reminds us, “To focus, as we are today apt to do, on what the Revolution did not accomplish—highlighting and lamenting its failure to abolish slavery and change fundamentally the lot of women—is to miss the great significance of what it did accomplish; indeed, the Revolution made possible the anti-slavery and women’s rights movements of the nineteenth century and in fact all our current egalitarian thinking.”

Renewing Our Strength for the Next 250 Years

Funny how actions fade, but ideals last forever. That’s the sign of an enduring event. Sooner or later, we forget the significance of any action, whether it represents failure or heroism. Once sparked, ideals ignite generation after generation. We can look past any action, but our loyalty to the ideals of truth, justice, and the American Way strengthens with every passing year. Where actions stumble, ideals stand tall.

Wood says, “[The American Revolution] was one of the greatest revolutions the world has known, a momentous upheaval that not only fundamentally altered the character of American society but decisively affected the course of subsequent history.”

He concludes, “The Revolution did not merely create a political and legal environment conducive to economic expansion; it also released powerful popular entrepreneurial and commercial energies that few realized existed and transformed the economic landscape of the country. In short, the Revolution was the most radical and most far-reaching event in American history.”

And that history is there, inside you. The heart that beat for liberty in 1776 still beats within you today. Let it beat strong. Let it beat free. Let it carry America forward.

This is the story Gordon Wood tells brilliantly. Read his book The Radicalism of the American Revolution.

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)”

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