Went outside this morning looking for inspiration. Found none. The air was cool, the plants looking healthy, but nothing rang my bell.

This is one of those days when words fail me. I’ve just had my 78th birthday and I’m on my fifth assassination or assassination attempt of a US president or candidate for president, and all of those happened in the last sixty years of my life.

Happy Independence Day. I have two cents worth of thoughts and I’m going to take advantage of my first amendment right to free speech and give them to you.

Willie Mays. He helped destroy my dreams in the 1954 World Series when he ran down that drive by Vic Wertz in the Polo Grounds. Cleveland was my team.

A few thoughts on things my parents gave me and what I’ve done with them.

Yesterday was Father’s Day. My oldest son called. My youngest son popped in with best wishes. And my daughter and her two arrived on the way to summer camp with a pair of socks for me declaring me a cool ass grandpa.

Yesterday I talked about the foundational women in my life, but there were others who had a large impact as well.

Today, as we continue my voyage of discovery, I look back into my life and memories and talk about the women in my early life. Three in particular hold places of honor. My mother, my grandmother and her mother. The foundation.

I’m back talking about my family. More history. Let’s chat about my youngest brother. He’s gone. Died in 2005. He was gay. This month is LBGT pride month, and I think about him a lot, but always during this month.

I think my best bet is to emulate Chance the Gardener in Being There and maintain my silence, smiling, nodding, and taking my pleasure in the simple things…

We’re still in childhood talking about my family and my dichotomous life. And what is the dichotomy?

Back to my childhood, the one of constant moves. No one ever told me, here’s how you make friends. I guess they figured I’d figure it out.

It’s back to my mini memoir. So far it feels pretty ragged. I’ve talked about World War II and religion. There will be more on those later. Right now, it’s time for family. I’m the oldest of four boys. What I remember about my childhood is moving a lot and always being the new kid. For an additional bit of spice, my ears protruded.

I forget sometimes that the spring flower season is upon us. The pasture behind the house is covered in the golden blooms of tickweed. The miniature crape myrtle is festooned with pink. The sage is gray and lavender. The lantana is yellow and red.

There were three women in my life as a child. My mother. My father’s mother, and her mother.

Something occurred to me yesterday. I never heard my parents complain or talk about current events. When the Mass went to English. Not a word from my mother. When the schools integrated, or Emmett Till was killed. Not a word from either parent.

I’m back to talk about my past and we’re still on the subject of religion. As mentioned previously, I was raised Catholic. And there were big changes in the church during my youth. One of the biggest of all was that we finally got to say the Mass in English.

Here’s something else I noticed in my youth. We weren’t really bible people. Sure, we had readings from it in church, and we had one at home. But my mother never sat around reading it. And it hardly ever came up in school.

Over the last several days, I’ve written about the gospels most affecting my life. But there’s also an important epistle, First Corinthians, chapter 13 1:13.

Since we’re talking about the poor, see yesterday’s words, here’s the bit that cemented the idea for me. It showed up in the gospel of Luke 19, 31-46, the gospel of the Sheep and the Goats…