The worst New Years Eve

Sitting at home on the biggest party night of the year, hanging out near my wife who is resting, recuperating from yesterday’s surgery. My daughter is watching an episode of I Love Lucy with our new 8-week old lab, while my son vanquishes foes in a videogame.

To drown out the distant screams of PlayStation avatars and studio audience laughter from half a century ago, Pandora is providing a stellar mix of trip-hop music while I peck away at the laptop.

And I’m at peace with this tranquil, if not downright dull domestic suburban scene on New Year’s Eve.

Several years ago, this would not have been the case.

Thanks to absolutely miserable New Years Eves I spent as a youth – file all under the “good, clean fun” tag that comes with celebrating the occasion with church folks – I felt the need as an adult to make up for lost time. The result: Huge pressure to experience the zenith of partying every December 31.

I trace it all back to that NYEve spent with about 200 area youth group kids – at Peek’s Family Funeral Home in Westminster.

Who knew this facility would have a giant room, large enough to accommodate a bunch of blissfully ignorant (and captive) kids, tables full of pizzas and Shasta, and a movie projector ready to play a double feature of The Cat From Outer Space and Seven Brides For Seven Brothers?

Clearly, being in the vicinity of the deceased wasn’t the worst part of the evening. Not even close.

Because whatever genius youth minister "planned" this gathering apparently neglected to check on seating options for the hundreds of kids. Folding metal chairs were at a premium on this special night.

So there I was, probably clad in my best Hang Ten shirt and Toughskins, trying unsuccessfully to sit Indian-style on the concrete floor with my greasy paper plate of pizza, enduring four hours of intergalactic feline wackiness and some dancing idiots (in the woods, I think).

I vaguely remember some youth minister carefully stepping his way through the masses of slackjawed kids sprawled on the floor to get to the projector, just in time (allegedly) to pre-empt the lackluster conclusion of Seven Brides with a half-hearted countdown.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one . . . happy new year.”

After about 90 seconds of forced and manufactured enthusiasm at the appearance of the new year, as well as the exchange of some stiff, youth group hugs, the minister at the projector deemed the celebration complete – and sentenced us to spend those precious, first few minutes of 1978 watching the end of Seven Brides.

Released from our bondage, we shuffled out of the funeral home/entertainment hall in a daze. Finally, I snapped out of my hard concrete + bad cinema induced lethargy to suggest to my peeps that we go have some fun.

Let’s go toilet paper the Smith’s house!

Ahh, yes . . . more good, clean fun.

Suffice it to say, we were caught by Mr. Smith, who politely insisted that my cronies and I clean up the rather significant mess we created in his yard (and 20-foot trees).

I finally rolled home sometime around 3 in the morning, totally sober and in absolute control of my faculties -- apparently so I could vividly recall and relive for the rest of my life every painful detail of this night, the worst New Year’s Eve.

teeth and tuxes

A few thoughts going through these guys' minds:

--"This was definitely worth $60."

--"The way my hair looks tonite will never go out of style."

--"I hope this picture never ends up on Funegro."

One must also appreciate the diversity of the club . . .

the counter's dream

Last nite I had a dream. Part of it took place at church where, before worship services began, one of the ministers got up and exhorted the crowd with "I hope you enjoy the show today." The show?

And if that weren't enough, during the mid-service meet & greet -- the church's 7th inning stretch -- that same minister returned to the microphone. "OK. Let me encourage you to make your way back to your seats now. When you get back to your seats, be sure to check the attendance cards in the back of the pew in front of you, because during the break, one of our ushers has placed one $50 Carrabba's gift card in one of those rack of cards! Good luck!"

Indeed, this ill-advised promotional stunt in last nite's dream may have been a foreshadowing of this morning's anemic count of 527 -- and the sort of dramatic steps that might be needed to restore attendance to the dizzying heights of two years ago.

I'll check with my new Assembly Counters group on Facebook to see if it is normal for an emotionally invested counter to have these sort of prophetic dreams.


Random thought: What if brands could arrange for product placement in your dreams?

Leftover Meeting Food

- Food

r.i.p. carlotta

We buried our beloved black lab in the backyard about an hour ago.

The inevitability of her condition gave me time to dig her grave this afternoon, a most surreal activity as she hobbled around in pain just feet away from the pit in the unseasonably warm afternoon air.

Symbolically, the temperature plummeted as we lured Carlotta into the car for her last ride, a sad and quiet trip with our family to meet our compassionate vet who finally eased her cancerous pain.

I rejoice that yesterday we got to share a great afternoon with her at Arbor Creek Preserve, watching her come to life as she splashed in the creek and occasionally trotted.

And we are forever grateful for this member of our family who constantly surprised us with her capacity to please and her ability to bring joy.

The Time Value of Money

Consider the Sovereign Bank clock.

I do just about every weekday, en route to the train station. In theory, it should give me a sense as to whether or not I'll catch the 8.04 heading downtown.

The reality requires some degree of guesswork and mathematics, though, as the Sovereign Bank clock is comically inaccurate, off by an average of 70 minutes.

(It was 7:10 pm when I took this picture.)

Guess this could be viewed as an apt metaphor for the sad state of the financial industry today.

At the very least, a bank that can’t keep time doesn’t exactly instill confidence in this prospective bank customer.

“Hello, I wanted to check my balance.”

“Certainly, Mr. B. Looks like you have somewhere around $500 in your checking account.”

“Hmmm . . .I thought I . . .

“You know, give or take $200. You might have had a couple of transactions since last week. We’ll probably be updating our files pretty soon.”

To be fair to the Regional Director of Timekeeping at Sovereign Bank, it’s only been a few weeks since we went off Daylight Savings. I can only imagine the vast coordination and planning involved in pulling off the Herculean task of changing the time on that giant clock -- twice a year! Of course, in this day and age of people sporting their fancy “wrist-watches” and all, the public display of time could be viewed as a luxury rather than a necessity.

But keeping and displaying an accurate measure of a valued commodity seems like it should be right in a bank’s wheelhouse.

As opposed to that of my wife, whose bedside clock inaccuracies rival those of Sovereign Bank. But that’s another post . . .

Worst Series

What a farce.

That the penultimate series for the "boys of summer" was nearly decided in tonight's comically wintry conditions is yet one more reason to shorten the season to 154 games.

And while the owners might cringe at the loss of eight games' worth of revenue, perhaps they can divvy up the proceeds from the brisk sales of those WS2008 long sleeve turtlenecks and wacky earflap hats. Those will look mighty good at the ballpark next August.

The Filter Monster!

Just replaced our pool filter.

Judging from this warning sticker on the new filter, I'll be hiring a lion tamer to change the DE.

I'm not exactly clear what's going on here, but, best I can tell from the visual, one wrong move and the filter lid awakens, opening wide its well concealed jaws to either taunt you with sharp insults or secrete an acid-like substance to temporarily blind you. This maneuver seems counterproductive, though, as it would severely limit your ability to enjoy the spectacular pyrotechnic show that eminates from the filter's midsection.

Apparently, just prior to this dramatic event, the filter has gnawed your feet off in a thoughtful manner as to leave you with smooth nubs to balance upon and contend with the menace that is the agitated and clearly provoked Filter Monster!

perspective

“The most valuable things in life are not measured in monetary terms. The really important things are not houses and lands, stocks and bonds, automobiles and real state, but friendships, trust, confidence, empathy, mercy, love and faith.”

Bertrand Russell (1872-1970) philosopher & mathematician

"But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal." Mt. 6.21

believe in a church?

Maybe the good folks at First Baptist have some research that suggests this approach to church marketing is spot on.

But this billboard on the Tollway left me wondering if believing in a church is an issue.

Let's back up:
I'm not sure what it means to believe in a church. (To me, this is quite different than believing in the institution of the church.)

To believe it exists?
To believe it will have potlucks and attractive, shiny people?
To believe it will meet my spiritual, social and emotional needs?

I assume it's the latter option.

The church is people. And I want to believe in people. That they'll treat me well. They'll do what's right. They'll be selfless. They'll be encouraging. They won't let me down. They'll live by the Golden Rule.

Of course, people screw up. They don't do these things. They cheat, gossip, get small, petty and selfish. As a result, I lose faith in people. Perhaps the research and focus groups said they'd had a bad experience at a church. I get that.

Yet for an organization ultimately selling a higher belief, as well as a community united through that belief, this billboard struck the wrong chord with me.

employee recognition

DART passengers disembarking at the Arapaho station are greeted with this poster at the train stop.

Let me congratulate Mr. Gardner II (undoubtedly from a proud lineage of train operators) on this recognition. This humble commuter looks forward to riding on a train captained by this lord of the rails.

I'm afraid I may be too late, though.

With this honor, I would expect he's risen above merely driving the train. No doubt with his new pedigree, he'll take on a Captain Stubing sort of role onboard, mixing it up with the rank and file riders. ("How's your ride this morning?" "Why, that's an unusual fragrance you're sporting." "Good afternoon, Homey, is that the new Snoop album you're listening to?")

Maybe JMG2 would invite a select few to dine with him at the Rail Operator's table. Or graciously point out some of the facts of the train, to say nothing of engaging the stunned commuters with his charming repartee. He would reassure and edu-tain over the tinny PA system. "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. It's a pleasure to have you aboard. In the next 20 seconds, we'll be reaching a maximum speed of 51 miles per hour, then rapidly decelerating for another stop. I hope you've had as much fun riding the train today as I've had serving you."

Sure he might take the wheel for a ceremonial drive, for a fundraiser perhaps. Or for part of his DART farewell tour as he takes the big offer from Amtrak.

Of course, there's a downside of having your picture posted on a train stop that services such a diverse and colorful constituency. Let's just say I wouldn't expect Mr. Gardner II's shining face to be unblemished for too much longer. In fact, it would seem to be the equivalent of an open book test for taggers. Or it could be a brilliantly disguised sting operation to flush out the city's defacers. Regardless, over the next few days (hours?) I'm afraid the shining visage of our city's Rail Operator of the Year will undergo a significant and entirely unsanctioned overhaul, including (yet not limited to) blackened teeth, "crazy eyes", and, quite possibly, devil's horns.

Seems like a curious way to recognize a top employee -- and a heckuva train driver.

how i'm coping with the financial crisis

While ingesting a steady diet of bad news in The Wall Street Journal and recalculating my retirement age, my mood was brightened considerably when our 6-year-old altered this picture of Paulson and Thain. Timeless schtick.

Takes me back to the days of creating similar art, with church directories, yearbooks, and freebies from realtors as my canvas.

Coke. Red Around The World

Coke. Red Around The World, originally uploaded by The Searcher.

Jeff, I thought you would like this...

Dark Knight

Loved it.

Good Article on Happiness

I like this blog - I'm trying to pare down my RSS reading list but this one is a keeper.

Alien preparedness

Stumbled across the movie Signs on TV the other night. I’ve always liked it. And while it’s not one of those rare flicks (e.g. The Godfather, Heat, The Game) that compel me to drop everything I’m doing to watch, I did get sucked in for a few minutes.

During that brief time, it hit me.

I’m not prepared for an alien invasion.

You probably know the film’s plot. The world is invaded by extra-terrestrials. These malevolent aliens are everywhere, even in a lovely two-story country home (with basement) occupied by a family of four.

The part I saw was when the men of this house (played by Mel Gibson and Joaquin Phoenix) team up to nail strong and uniform planks of wood across doors and entryways. The result: Efficient, well-crafted, even aesthetically pleasing barriers that keep the aliens from advancing.

I can’t help but imagine how that scene would play out at our house.

Assuming the aliens would come in through the roof, they’d first complain about the lack of cool air circulating upstairs and that stain on the carpet.

I’d remind them they’ve landed on a hot and flat part of the planet that’s subject to the volatile price swings of a deregulated electricity market. At seeing their collective alien eye glaze over in macroeconomic confusion, I’d change my tactics. “Hey, I’d like to see you scaly intruders shell out 700 bucks a month for energy to keep this house cool.“

But I digress . . .

My wife and I would probably hear the aliens rattling around upstairs, perhaps jumping up and down in a series of unplanned and, frankly, undignified gravity tests. They’d be speaking very loudly, too, quite possibly in their frustration with the poorly maintained recumbent bike they’ve encountered in the guest room.

At hearing these dull thuds and indecipherable dialects, we'd look at each other and spring into action.

“We can’t let them downstairs!” I’d heroically proclaim.

Just like in the movie, we would grab some wood and start building a barricade at the base of the stairs to repel the aliens.

Only this isn’t the movie. This is our house.

“Honey, didn’t we have a 2 x 4 left over from the fence?” I’d yell while running into the garage.

“Look behind the workbench,” my wife would say. “If it’s not there, the kids might have taken it out to the fort.”

Behind the workbench, all I find is a paint can lid, two Pokemon cards, and a CD case for Foreigner 4 (disc missing). So I grab the wood I find in the garage, which amounts to a couple of mismatched shelves buckling under the crushing weight of pool chemicals and pavestones, a 31-inch Johnny Bench bat, a dog-chewed broomstick, and my son’s losing Pinewood Derby entry.

“Where’s the hammer?” I’d shout over the bizarre alien dialogue, which is growing louder – either because they’re getting closer to us, or they just succeeded in burning 200 calories on that dusty bike.

Upon only partially hearing my question, my well-intentioned wife makes a dash for the baking soda.

Hammer-less, I’d use a picture frame to pound the finishing nail I found in my rusty toolbox through the broomstick into the bat. That sad endeavor would fail spectacularly. Out of view from my wife, I’d sheepishly lay the bat and broomstick across the bottom two stairs with hopes the aliens might step upon either awkwardly and suffer a temporary loss of balance. Psychologically, this could be a victory for earth.

Then in a flash of brilliance, I’d remember the emergency terror kit my wife dutifully assembled after 9/11, tucked neatly away in the hall closet. Surely that packed box of utilities would offer some relief and, ideally, some defense in this dire situation.

I’d open the closet, push the ironing board aside and pull out the box . . . only to discover I was the only member of this household over the past six years not using the terror kit as a mini-hardware store. Grabbing the two remaining items in the kit – an unwrapped tarp and a Sharpie – I’d pursue a diplomatic approach with the aliens by writing a persuasive and, if I may say so myself, a very clever headline across the tarp.

Needless to say, we all get probed.

WWII Poster

17-0744a, originally uploaded by bpx.

The Spirit of Radio

Last night was another of life’s simple joys.

Happened as I was preparing to read to my son in his bed. As I approached his top bunk, I could see he was fiddling with some piece of plastic.

Turns out it was the cheap transistor radio he scored during the July 4 weekend. Juxtaposed against the Wii, PlayStation2 and various electronic gadgets and gizmos in his room, this tiny radio seems, at best, quaint.

But there he was, curiously spinning the dial. He zipped past the gospel hour preacher. Past some guy jabbering in Spanish. And almost past the classic rock station. I stopped his itchy trigger finger before he could dispatch “Peace of Mind” by Boston, allowing me the chance to extol the virtues of one of the greatest debut albums, the first LP I ever owned.

The next spin of the radio dial yielded something beautiful.

A little context might help. The weekend had been tough on the boy. Some sketchy choices of his resulted in some discipline from me. Plus, a big family gathering overstimulated and exhausted him. So by the time he crawled into bed on Sunday night, he was weary -- and probably a little wary of me being there. With good reason. I had been irritable and quick-tempered.

The simplicity of the radio softened my mood, flooding my mind with memories. For Andrew, it was little more than a novelty. A sly smile would creep across his face with every station received.

Then we heard baseball.

I immediately detected the rhythm of the play-by-play announcer. The roar of the crowd. Quickly I told Andrew what he’d stumbled upon: His first baseball radio broadcast. And this was not some meaningless mid-summer Rangers game.

This was Red Sox vs. Yankees. Top of the 9th inning. 54,000+ at Yankee Stadium screaming as Manny Ramirez comes off the bench to face Mariano Rivera, who is trying to preserve the 4-4 score.

I tried to explain the situation. Two outs. Runner at third. The league’s best hitter against the league’s best pitcher. A classic confrontation in one of sport’s greatest rivalries. We were swept up in the moment, cheering and fist-pumping with each pitch. (Alas, there were only three; Manny struck out without even lifting the bat off his shoulder.)

The rally was quashed, the half-inning was over, and the announcer proclaimed the heart of the Yankee lineup was coming up in the bottom of the ninth.

“Dad, do we have to read?,” Andrew asked.

So we spent the next few minutes listening to the game on the radio and talking about baseball. I’d interpret clichés and jargon for him, while explaining how the announcers try to create theater of the mind for us, the listeners.

And how, when I was a kid, the radio would transport me to games. I vividly recall family road trips, listening to Lon Simmons call the Giants games. Or (much to my sisters' chagrin) the ever-present baseball game coming through Mom’s kitchen radio, perpetually tuned to a Dodgers, Angels, or Padres game. Southern California summers allowed us to enjoy the company of Vin Scully, Jerry Doggett, Dick Enberg, Don Drysdale and even Jerry Coleman. What great memories. What joy.

I hope last night will be the first of many play-by-play memories for my son.

My Talented Son

He has more guts than I ever did - the only Freshman to perform a solo at the RHS Spring Choir Concert.

So this is how the other 56% lives . . .

That I'm enjoying a coffee poolside isn't necessarily worthy of a blog post.

But that I'm doing it on a Sunday morning at 10 a.m., and guilt-free, seems like front-page news.

My leisurely Sunday morning comes courtesy of some construction at our church, requiring that our morning assembly take place elsewhere during the afternoon.

So after 40+ years of conditioning -- including mad scrambles against the morning clock, speed shaving, extreme ironing, breakfasts hastily consumed -- I'm having to reprogram myself to actually enjoy this leisurely Sunday morning. Without pretending to be sick.

Old habits die hard, though.

Exhibit A: My instincts to hush my actions in the backyard a few minutes ago as our Baptist neighbors were dutifully loading up their car for church. Wouldn't want them to get the wrong impression of us . . . Just like the cafeteria trick of dressing up to go to Sunday lunch after sleeping all morning. Alas, the reflex to seek approval and to maintain the illusion of piety is still alive. Ugh.

Here's hoping our summer schedule change provides the chance to let down our collective starched guard and enjoy a more casual, relaxed and joyful time together.

Tree at Grandview Point

IMG_3305, originally uploaded by koliver.

We took a short hike down from Grandview Point at the Grand Canyon. I loved this tree.

Chase Field

a letter to one of the parents on our Little League team

As the assistant coach of the Rangers, I had the misfortune of hearing you lambaste Coach Mike during tonight's game.

And while I appreciate your seemingly civil tone after the game, I hope you'll consider sending an apology to the parents who heard your uncalled for tirade. I'm only glad my family -- including my mother visiting from California -- left moments before your outburst. Sadly, the kids on the bench and most of the parents were within earshot of your remarks and subjected to your totally inappropriate behavior. I can't envision a more embarrassing or lower point of the season, which is saying something given, as you loudly pointed out, our on-field performance.

Do I need to say I share your frustration? Of course I do. As a coach and parent, I want to win. Deeply. I want my son to do his best. I want all the kids to succeed wildly, to learn the game, to play it well. I'm delighted by the little successes and breakthroughs we see at practice. Some are about baseball. Some aren't. These kids are 9. They're still learning the game and how to get along with others. They're out to have fun. I hope they do. I think that's still the point. Which stands in contrast to the view you shouted to Mike that "this isn't any fun for the parents." Wow. Has it really come to this?

When I raised my hand to be a coach, I was naive enough to think the challenge would be in managing the kids. Tonight, I was reminded how wrong my thinking was. Having said that, I'm grateful for and impressed by most of the Rangers' parents who continue to exhibit patience and support for the players, the coaches, and the team.

I only hope the next time you approach the dugout, you'll come with encouragement for the kids who, in my opinion, are learning and trying their best. Or for Coach Mike who continues to sacrifice his time, money and energy to do what he thinks is best for the kids who make up the team.

Religious Nuts

spiritualfruitsm, originally uploaded by koliver.

Jeff and OJ

cabin trip 2007-2 079.jpg, originally uploaded by koliver.

Excited Jeff

IMG_1495.JPG, originally uploaded by koliver.

Jeff and Mao

Jeff and Mao, originally uploaded by koliver.

Lunch at Costco

Lunch at Costco, originally uploaded by koliver.

I highly recommend the Hot Dog / Drink combo at Costco if you're stuck there for two hours getting new tires on your wife's car. It's only $1.50, which leaves you enough to get the $1 footlong churro...

Love and complimentary breakfast is in the air

As I motored northbound from downtown Wednesday, I was drawn to the letters hastily arranged on this Super 8 Motel sign that read:

Punja--

Will you marry me?

Anil

I hope Anil first inquired at the Mansion, Anatole, and W about the availability of signage there before settling on the Super 8. Seems like that might surface in counseling.

And I hope Punja was driving northbound. Not that the free HBO offer on the southbound side wasn't compelling . . .

Even better than the real thing . . .

Mary and I celebrated St. Patty’s day Monday by seeing the U2 3D film at the IMAX.

Quite simply, it was mindblowing.

For one, the visual effects were stunning. This wasn’t the 3D cheese of Dr. Tongue’s Monster Chiller Horror Theater. We ducked the neck of Adam’s bass as he moved toward the camera. The flyovers of Larry’s drum kit were exhilarating. And as we were about to ask the people in front to sit down, we realized they were actual concertgoers – part of the film, not our IMAX audience.

Aurally, the film delivered the goods, too. The sounds – from the subtle piano to the primal percussive, from Bono’s glorious Pavarotti impersonation on “Miss Sarajevo” to the crowd’s thunderous approval – were pitch perfect. My only complaint was the volume, which should have matched the volume and intensity of the concert footage.

U2 3D challenged my notions of a filmgoing experience. I left the theater feeling emotions I’ve never had walking out of a film.

That’s because the third dimension served to break down the barriers typically established between you, the passive observer, and the characters you watch on screen.

In that way, the subject matter was perfect for this next generation of 3-D technology: For decades, U2 has transcended the vast spaces of arenas, stadiums and massive festivals to give performances that somehow feel intimate.

What a joy for this fan, who most recently paid hundreds of dollars for the privilege of standing 70 yards from the band when they played AAC, to be accorded unprecedented access to U2 (for eleven bucks, no less). All from the comfortable perspective of a plush cinema seat with plenty of leg room, cool 3D specs, and cupholders. A sharp contrast to the constant jostling with the hundreds of others who surround you on the arena floor, all vying for a good sightline and seizing any chance to inch closer to the band. For me, that experience ranges from a mere distraction to creating hostility.

Which is why I was struck by my reaction to the audience as I watched the concert on film. On one hand, I felt like I was part of them as I, too, was experiencing the electricity of a U2 show. But overwhelmingly, I felt like a detached observer watching their joy, their passion for the concert. This differs from previous concert films I’ve seen where my reaction would lean toward envy. As in, “I wish I was there. Those lucky so-and-sos, getting to see U2 . . .” Maybe because I had the best seat in the house and didn’t have to hassle with parking. Whatever. I shared their joy. Their unity in song, in dance, in reacting to the actions of the band, was a big smile.

In that way, the film was a celebration of humanity. Tens of thousands of people together, sharing a powerful experience and uniting for a moment.

That sounded a bit heavy. Sorry.

But it also served to make the band more human, too. At times, U2 3D makes you feel like a fifth member of the band who is just kind of exploring the stage. (Hey, what’s up, Edge?) Which makes the band feel lifelike, lifesize, real. If not short. As opposed to the glorification and magnification that comes with seeing them live. (At least from the seats I usually have.) With the proximity the film offered, I found myself focusing more on how well they work together to create affecting music and performances.

I highly recommend the U2 3D film. It was astonishingly real. I actually started to check the newspaper the following morning for a review of the concert. (Of course, it wasn’t particularly newsworthy, since it took place in South America about a year ago.)

Good news from Charlotte

Love

The Generosity of Snowmass

Today was our last day of skiing in Snowmass. Eric (my brother) and I brought our families here for a few days of fellowship and we have been blessed with beautiful surroundings, perfect weather, excellent ski conditions, and the accumulation of many new fond memories.

I have been struck several times during this trip by memories of my first trip here in 1982. My first plane trip, learning to ski, seeing the Rocky Mountains for the first time, learning of Eric and Danna's pregnancy - many fond memories from the two weeks spent here with my family and Eric's inlaws, the McGlothlins and the Lincolns (Abe Lincoln, in fact - but that's another post).

But none of the memories I listed above are the most vivid.

When we experience the Eternal in our lives it changes us and it leaves an impression that is not easily forgotten. I experienced it on that trip in 1982, and it is still my most vivid memory.

One afternoon we took a break from skiing to walk around in Aspen. This was a time when Aspen was really coming into its own - trickle-down economics were fueling its transition from quaint skiing village to resort destination for the rich and famous. The manifestations of that change were evident as we strolled around the town, with swanky boutiques moving in next to mom and pop gift shops. One of these merchants that had recently moved into Aspen was Ralph Lauren, who had opened a Polo shop there.

That Polo shop represented so many things to a young Reagan-era Republican like myself - style, sophistication, wealth, legitimacy. Yet, I knew that anything inside was well beyond my reach. Don't get me wrong - we weren't indigent - I just knew we could never afford such an extravagance just for my pleasure. Still, we went inside to look around, if only to imagine and aspire.

Once inside, lots of brass and hunter green. Beautiful, immaculately dressed people asking if I needed help finding anything. The scent of Polo cologne. Stacks of beautiful shirts, sweaters, jackets - all beyond my reach.

It was then that Danna's father, Ray McGlothlin, pulled me aside and told me I could have anything in the shop that I wanted - his treat. I still get tears in my eyes thinking of that moment. What I picked out is inconsequential - what impacts me to this day is the power of the generosity that Ray showed me. Indeed, the generosity he has shown everyone around him for as long as I have had the privilege of knowing him.

Being here 25 years later has inspired me to try to be more generous to those in my life in this new year. I'm truly grateful for Ray and other people in my life that have shown me how to live the message of Christ.

By the way - I picked out a red, blue and yellow Polo rugby shirt. It was genius.