Yearly Archives: 2008

Finally Figured Out Chippewa Hi-Shines

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One would think that a Bootman like me ought to know these things, but I have to come clean — I learn a lot from experience.

This morning as usual, I was using my website to determine what boots I wanted to wear today. (I often use my website to facilitate my boot choices.) I will be on my Harley as usual to get to the Metro, then at work in some meetings. After work when I get back to where I parked my bike, I will be riding again to attend another meeting at our local police district station. This is a regularly-scheduled meeting in which I am involved as a civic leader.

So, bike cop boots were on my mind. So was the weather: very hot and very humid again. (It was 80°F [27°C] at 5:00 this morning, and predicted to reach 95°F [36°C] again today). I wanted to wear good-looking boots that would work for all these activities: riding my Harley, meetings at work in a professional environment, and then meeting with the cops in my district at home.

Chippewa Hi-Shine Boots were the answer. An easy choice. But as I was looking in my boot closet, I pulled out both pairs that I have: my older pair that I got in the mid-90s, and the pair I got for my partner in 2005 and to which I had lug sole plates added a month ago. The older pair still look nice, so I decided to put them on.

Why were they feeling so tight on my legs? Why did my feet seem to swim in a cavern in the foot of the boot, but the shafts were literally sticking to my legs? Since my legs were already sweaty, I had to use a bootjack to yank the boots off my legs. I looked at those boots very closely.

They are standard size 10D. That’s what I usually wear. I looked at my partner’s boots (now mine) and they are size 8.5EE. I pulled them on. They felt GREAT! I had more room in the calf, so they weren’t sticking to my legs or feeling tight, and my foot felt comfortable — not too tight, not too lose.

So, I finally figured it out without really thinking about it. Chippewa Engineer Boots run large. But for those of us with a muscular calf, we need the size in the shaft, not in the foot. So a wide boot provides a wider shaft. Duhh… it figures.

I wonder who else figured this out, and why I am so dense as to figure it out only now. I’ll have to discuss it with my friend Mike after he recovers from the “Up Your Alley” (Dore Alley) fair this coming weekend in San Francisco.

Life is short: wear boots!

How Can I Help You?

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The simple thought or question, “how can I help you?” … seems to have been replaced by the question, “what will you do for me?” Man, that just drives me nuts. The Starbucks-swilling Beemer-driving yuppies were all over the grocery store and parking lot today where I regularly take some elderly friends shopping.

They stand in the middle of the aisle, as if they are the only ones there. They get angry if you are in their way but don’t give a hoot if they block you. They stand there swilling their coffee and yapping on their cell phones expecting to have privacy, and give a dirty look if you say, “pardon me, but the apples that my friend wants are behind you, will you kindly move?”

They leave the store and walk the shopping cart out to their SUV, which they parked as close as they could to the store, even if it meant circling the lot a dozen times instead of just parking a little further away in a clear space. After unloading their groceries into their car, they just put the cart wherever… they wouldn’t think of bringing back to the store. Nooo… it’s all about them, their needs, what’s best for them.

I tell ‘ya, nuts this behavior drives me. But I remember what I was taught by my parents and from my faith, to love, to live, and ask, “how can I help you?” Seriously, this world would be far better if more people just took a sec to think about someone else other than themselves.

Pardon the rant, but today’s fiasco at the grocery store just sent me over the edge. If I hadn’t pulled a child out of the way, a Beemer-driving, cell-phone yapping yuppie would have creamed her. The driver didn’t even look, stop, or give a damn. I pray for his soul.

Get Lost!

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“Let’s Get Lost!” — my plan on how to spend Thursday with my twin brother.

He is home briefly from Europe to attend some meetings in Washington, DC. He took a few extra days to show his wife around his former stomping grounds, and planned some time to spend with me. His wife and my sister went shopping on Thursday, while my brother and I became “biker dudes.” Man, I love that big lug of a guy — he is my soulmate and even though he is four minutes younger than I am, he is my “big bro” (because he is six inches taller!)

He rented a Harley — just like my Road King, but black — and we went for a nice long ride yesterday, to nowhere. We would come to an intersection and play “rock-paper-scissors”. The winner of the game picked the direction for the next turn. We found some roads that I didn’t know existed, found a farm of llamas and rabbits, and enjoyed lunch at a roadside café that I had not seen before, right here in my home State of Maryland. We found some covered bridges (and some “uncovered” ones as well) and didn’t travel a mile on an interstate highway. I died laughing when a woodchuck ran across the road in front of my brother and he slowed and swerved to miss it, only to see the woodchuck stand on its legs and shake a fist at him! I swear it did!

I wore my Chippewa Firefighter Boots… okay (AZ), I admit it, I really DO have “favorite” boots that I wear more often than others, especially for riding my Harley on a hot day. These boots are super-dooper comfortable and don’t get hot, even though they are leather-lined. I got my brother into a similar-looking pair of boots, my Milwaukee Motor Clothing Trooper Boots, which he said were comfortable, even though he seldom, if ever, wears boots. But he did for me (even though I refused to wear plastic rental shoes when I was his best man at his wedding last year).

While it was a hot and humid day, reaching the peak of 97°F (36°C), nothing could be more enjoyable than tooling around 178 miles with my life-long best friend. Man, what a great day.

When we got home, we laughed and retold our stories, which of course became more like tall tales by the time we made them up (I mean, relayed them again). My partner smiled, laughed, and was heartened to enjoy happiness with us as I grilled a steak dinner with all the trimmings to enjoy eating on our deck.

Live and love life! Wear your boots! Love those you love hard, each and every day, and show them how much you love ’em. Life is short. Keep love and a smile handy, and all else will be grand.

Homecoming in Boots, Horseless

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Traveling by air these days just isn’t fun like it used to be. The inability to get a decent seat on an airplane without paying niddling “upgrade” fees begins the process, followed by overzealous young wannabe cops at security stations.

I have traveled over 1,600,000 actual air miles in the past 30 years. The vast majority of that travel was for a former job, where I was on the road about 280 days/year. I got to see a lot of interesting things and meet great people, and do a lot that others thought was helpful. I spoke at hundreds of conferences and attended thousands of meetings. I visited every state and territory of the U.S. dozens of times, as well as 56 foreign countries. (I don’t consider Canada “foreign” and have been blessed to have been to every province and territory of that lovely land dozens of times, and having been made an honorary citizen years ago.)

Being away from home, with two days here and three days there, often going from point-to-point, was very exhausting. It wasn’t unusual to awaken in a strange hotel room and wonder where I was, what time zone I was in, and what day of the week it was. I took to making a simple sign that I left on the nightstand with that information, “you are in ___ and today is ___ in the ___ time zone.”

I changed jobs and do not travel as much. That’s good. I’m sick of it. Yesterday on my way home from a conference in Kansas City (MO), the kid at the security station squinted at my passport and asked if I had a driver’s license instead (?? what ?? I guess he had never seen a passport before at this supposed “international” airport). Then another security kid demanded to inspect my carry-on bag to remove a can of Coca-Cola. OMG, yeah, right, I’m gonna terrorize the pilot by shaking up the can and opening it to spray it on him, or something. I know this kid was following orders, but the orders are just absolutely silly. Just goes with these days in America where everyone assumes an insultingly greater authority and looks over his shoulder for terrorists. (Like the little old lady in the wheelchair who was patted down behind me. Oh, gimme a break!)

Oh well, I tried to have some fun by wearing my Olathe Buckaroo Boots with jeans tucked in at the airport. Actually, I wore my black Dan Post Ostrich leg cowboy boots through security, because they are easier to take off, so as not to delay a line. (This airport is so dinky, it has only one magnetometer to enter the gate area. I’ve always laughed at little airports like this that call themselves “such-and-such International”.)

I gave my fellow travelers a little show by pulling out my Olathe’s from a sack (what they call a bag in that part of the country), putting my Dan Post boots into it, then rolling my sock over the bottom of my jeans and pulling on those beautiful tall Buckaroos. Left foot first, of course!

One old lady and one young woman in KC said, “nice boots.” The pilot of the plane also complimented them. When I had to change planes in Charlotte, some nitwit at my arrival gate said as I got off the plane, “where’s your horse?” I ignored that one, but then someone else said the same thing just a few minutes later. This time I said, “he got stuck in the back of the plane and will be out in a few minutes.”

I stopped for lunch in mid-concourse, and sat in a big white rocking chair while eating and watching people during my two-hour layover. About a dozen people said, “nice boots” and a few more were asking where my horse was. To those people, I said, “he’s getting a bite to eat over there,” and pointed. Derned enough if each and every one of those fools looked where I pointed. Ha ha.

Finally arriving at my home airport of BWI, I was met by my cousin who works there. We retrieved my bag, and he took me to the private pilot’s parking area, where I can park for free. My cousin saw the boots and smiled. He said, “I see you’ve been doing some shopping!” He knows me well.

I stopped by the grocery store on the way home to get myself some milk (my partner always forgets that I crave milk when I get home) and some stuff for a couple elderly friends of mine. I dropped off their groceries and they also complimented the boots. Neither asked me about a horse.

Finally arriving at home, I discovered much to my chagrin that my partner had waxed our hardwood floors. Carrying my one piece of luggage through the foyer almost landed me on my butt due to the combination of being off balance, wearing boots that are not quite broken in and still have very smooth leather soles, and the slippery freshly-waxed floor. I put the luggage down and tiptoed into the dining room to take off the boots and my socks (which would have been just as slippery). I then made my way upstairs to unpack and load up the clothes washer.

Well, I guess the horse found better pasture, because he didn’t follow me home. Perhaps one of the fools in Charlotte found him and led him away.

I sure am glad to be HOME! I enjoyed cooking a home-cooked meal for my partner and recanting the journey with him, then snuggling later without any TV, computer, or phone. We turned all that off and turned our attention to each other. He sure made me feel welcome, at home, safe and sound. And that’s how it should be. (Plus, I never could have trained a horse to scratch my itches the way my partner does.)

Boots & Leather Website Milestone

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I was doing a routine scan of my website to check for broken links. The software provides a report on the number of images, links, and other things when it is through running. I noticed that my website reached a milestone when I ran that scan: the software reported that I now have 5,008 images on it! Wow! Who woulda thunk?

But then again, I guess having 132 pairs of cowboy boots and motorcycle boots as well as a large assortment of leather gear and cataloging them on my website, www.bootedman.com since March, 2005 — more than three years now — has resulted in lots of photos of my boots and gear. And that’s not to mention all of the photo galleries of cop boots which attract the largest number of visitors about one subject than any others. The photos from the DC-based “hotboots” parties of past years also bring a number of visitors, but since those event gallieries are old and the parties are not being held at least for the summer (and I don’t go any more), there’s nothing new to add. I will, however, continue to build the cop boot galleries when I attend events, as well as any other event where boots are predominant on men’s feet that I may attend (which is seldom).

It has been really fun to learn HTML and website construction, which is self-taught. My website is still rather simple and static, but performs quickly and does what I set it out to do: catalog my boots and gear so I know what I have, and share my avocation with those who are interested.

Life is short! Wear your boots! (and leather)

Olathe Buckaroo Booted!

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Greetings from Kansas City, Missouri, the heartland of the USA. I’m here for a conference. It’s going well, and fairly busy. However, I got a respite yesterday afternoon when a buddy and his boyfriend took me to Higginsville, Missouri, about 50 miles East of Kansas City, to do some boot shopping at Kleinschmidt’s Western Wear.

This store claims to have over 19,000 pairs of boots for sale. It was a Bootman’s dream to walk through all the rows and rows of boots. While most of the boots were commonly available via other sources and were from major manufacturers, this store had a good selection of Buckaroo boots, and from a famous bootmaker, Olathe Boots. (By the way, it was made clear to me how to pronounce “Olathe”, which is “oh-lāy-tha”).

These boots were once made in Olathe, Kansas, but were bought by Rios of Mercedes, a bootmaker located in Mercedes, Texas, just 8 miles north of the U.S.-Mexico border. The new Olathe boots seem to have very good quality, so I’m happy with them.

This is what I wrote for tutorial about this type of cowboy boot:

Buckaroo Boots get their name from the men who wore them, the California vaquero, a type of Spanish or Mexican cowboy who worked with young, untrained horses. The California vaquero or buckaroo, unlike the Texas cowboy, was considered a highly-skilled worker, who usually stayed on the same ranch where he was born or had grown up and raised his own family there. Cowboys of this tradition were dubbed buckaroos by English-speaking settlers. The term buckaroo officially appeared in American English in 1889.

The Buckaroo’s Boots are tall, ranging from 15″ to 20″ or up to the knee. They are usually two-tone, and many have multi-colored stitching on the foot and shaft. They usually have a deep scallop and pull holes instead of straps.

My new Buckaroo boots definitely fit this description. They are 18″ tall, have pull holes (and false straps), and have blue leather shafts and black leather on the foot. They’re really cool-lookin’. See pics of my new boots here on my website. I had always wanted a pair of Olathe boots since I saw them on cowboys at rodeos I have attended, and demonstrated by the famous DaveM of “Boots on Line” (he wears them so fine!)

I even wore them today at my conference. They are comfortable, but not for all-day wear. What I like most about them besides the appearance is that they fit snugly, but not too tightly, on my legs. I definitely know I have cowboy boots on my feet while wearin’ these boots.

It was great to get away, and to catch up with two really nice guys I have gotten to know through “BOL”. Alas, though, I must return to what brung me here, my conference….

Boots Away!

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I will be blogging less this week as I am at a conference out-of-town and won’t have regular access to the Internet. I will not have much time off, including the weekend. However, two boot buds will be providing some relief while I have a brief break on Saturday afternoon/evening, when we will be going boot shopping, perhaps, and to dinner.

Considering all the hassles of air travel and the nickel-and-diming that the airlines are doing now in charging $1,000 for the weight of a facial tissue, I am only bringing two pairs of boots with me. One pair that I will wear on the plane, my black dress Dan Post Ostrich leg cowboy boots, and one other pair: my brown Nocona Ostrich inlay cowboy boots. Both are very comfortable, which is a requirement since I will be on my feet all day for the next week. I am not bringing any leather. It’s hot, and I have nowhere to wear it. Oh well, I’ll survive.

Be safe!

Renewing Acquaintance with my Past "Frye Bootman"

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Man, it’s a small world. I had blogged just the other day about Frye Boots. I mentioned in that blog post about a cool dude in high school who influenced lots of other guys when he wore a pair of new Frye boots to school one day.

Today, who should I bump into on the Metro but this same guy! He looked great, and was easy to recognize. I had seen him a few times since high school graduation at reunions, but not in the past decade. Nonetheless, there he was. Same great smile, graceful style, and a full head of hair (can’t say the same for myself!)

He glanced down at my feet and said, “I see you’re still wearing boots.” My reply, “yep, every day!” Since I didn’t ride my Harley to Metro today, I was wearing my new Dan Post Vegas Cut black cherry cowboy boots.

I asked him if he still had boots, because I remembered he wore them in high school. (He had on loafers today). He said, “I don’t have any from high school, but I have one pair of cowboy boots.” I didn’t push it. He’s like most other straight guys who don’t ride a motorcycle. These guys may have a pair of cowboy boots in the closet, but seldom wear them.

He asked, “are you still riding a motorcycle?” My reply, “of course! I just got a new Harley Road King. “That’s great,” he said. He asked me about my twin brother, who was a jock in high school. This guy was a jock, too, so they were closer. I told him that my brother works in Europe but was home for a couple weeks. I gave him my email and ask him to contact me, and I would put him in touch with my brother if he wants to see him while he’s in town.

And that was that. A quick handshake with a “good to see ya” and he walked off toward the Capitol building.

I think I’ve seen him in the past few weeks, but wasn’t sure. Seems that he’s commuting now about the same time I do, so perhaps I’ll see him again soon and catch up some more. It was great to see him again, and recall fond memories.

Yes Sir, Officer!

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Today began like any regular work day. As I was getting dressed, I knew that I would be riding my Harley to the Metro to get to work, then when I got back to the Metro, I will be riding across the county to get some things for an elderly friend who doesn’t drive and drop them off on my way home from work.

Considering that I would be on my bike for a while after work, thus wanting to wear motorcycle boots (instead of cowboy boots which I usually wear to the office), I selected my H-D Police Enforcer Boots. While dressing, I tucked my dress pants into them. I can just pull ’em out when I get on the train. The boots look like well-polished dress shoes peeking out from under dress pants, and they are really comfortable!

I made my man his lunch, as well as my own, kissed him goodbye as he left, and soon thereafter, I mounted my trusty iron steed and rode off.

I wasn’t a mile down the road when I noticed a bike cop following me. He was just riding behind me. No signals, no lights, no motion to move. I wasn’t exceeding the posted speed limit. I thought he was just returning to his district station which isn’t far from the Metro station that I use.

When I turned the corner onto the street to get to the Metro parking lot, the cop made the same turn. I thought to myself, “hmmmmm.”

Then when I turned into the Metro parking lot and rode up to the special parking spaces designated for motorcycles… the cop rode up right behind me.

I had nothing to feel guilty about, but you know that feeling… when a cop follows you and then stops behind you, you can’t help but wonder what you did that prompted him to stop.

I killed my bike’s engine and dismounted. I took off my full-face helmet and turned around. The cop had a big grin on his face. The first words out of his mouth were, “it IS you!”

Now, what did he mean by that? Has he seen my alter-ego website? Have I met him somewhere or at a community meeting? Had I raised funds for a cop charity with which he was involved? Was he the cop who provided security at a recent public hearing that I presided over? I’m really bad with faces and names, but never boots. Trouble was, his Dehner Dress Instep Patrol boots were as undistinguishable as all the others on our county’s force… dirty, dusty, and well-worn. And I didn’t remember his name when I read his name plate.

If he had parked his bike so I could see his license plate, I might have known where I may have seen him. I know most of the county cops by their plate numbers. Well, anyway, the big smile radiating from his face and his hand thrust out to shake mine certainly shook off any fears that I had done anything wrong.

All he said was, “you’re the guy that Officer (name) told me about, who knows about boots.” He said that not only my boots tipped him off, but also my vest, which had recognizable patches on it.

Then he launched into a long discourse about his boots, what he doesn’t like about them (how hard they are to maintain, and that they get hot), and what he prefers as far as height and sole. He said that he really likes lug soles, such as were on his Dehners (see? He actually lifted his boot to show me.) He went on to say that he absolutely doesn’t want boots that have to be shined all the time. But he likes to have a good appearance.

He complimented my tall, black and shiny boots, and asked me where I got them. Unfortunately, they’re not available any more (but my deviant mind was saying, “Officer, Sir, I have a second pair that might fit you”). I recomposed myself, returned the handshake, smiled back, and then had a brief discussion about boots with this nice (but very chatty) cop.

Eventually he asked me about my recommendation on boots, and I told him what I had learned during my bike cop boot advising experience with another local force. I recommended he consider Chippewa Hi-Shine Engineer Boots and to have lug soles put on them at my local cobbler, who provides a significant discount to cops.

He thanked me profusely. By then, I had locked my bike up six ways from Sunday and was in the process of covering it. He helped me do that. He then wished me a nice day, and rode off. He left a huge smile on this Bootman’s face! Wow. Nice to be recognized for some expertise by someone who must wear boots for his profession.

Little Things That Mean A Lot

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Some days I really wonder when common courtesy and civility went out the window. But here are a few examples of little things that I have done and others have done for me that mean a lot…

At the naturalization ceremony for my two friends on July 4, we arrived early to find seats. I saw a few people going to a box in the back of the room and pull out small flags. I thought my friends and their families would like to have a flag as well, so I got up and looked in the box. There were hundreds of flags, just piled there. I gave my friends their flags, then stood at the door and handed them out to everyone else who was arriving. Funny, no one thought to do that. But man, it sure made the ceremony more festive!

When the ceremony was over, there were some hecklers standing in the back of the parking lot yelling about “those illegals.” Well heck, these folks worked hard to become U.S. citizens. So I asked one of them why he was there, and he told me that his church pastor told him (some lies) about the event. I explained it to him, and he looked embarrassed. He and his crowd of misinformed miscreants soon left. (My partner warned me “not to get involved,” but some people like this just make my blood boil.)

Then not to mention that I just hate seeing trash strewn about. I picked up their hateful signs and leaflets and put them where they belong: in the garbage.

Speaking of trashing our streets, later that day while riding my Harley to my brother’s, I was stopped at a traffic signal. I saw in my rear-view mirror that a nitwit behind me threw the waste from her fast-food meal out the window of her Lexus. I got off my bike, picked up her garbage, stood in one of my most “Harley-Biker-Growling” poses, and threw the garbage back in her window with an admonishment, “look at the example you are setting for your children!” Her kids were in the back seat, watching. She just stared, mouth agape (Bikers on Harleys can have an intimidating appearance when they’re angry.)

Saturday morning, I sent five birthday cards to some elderly friends whose birthdays are this week. It’s just something I do. Perhaps I get a little carried away (according to my partner), as I’m always mailing cards. I’ve been asked why not just send an e-card? But that’s not the same, especially to older folks who appreciate thoughtful traditions.

In turn, when the mail arrived on Saturday, I found a very nice hand-written card from one of my friends who I had coached for his citizenship test. In carefully written English, he expressed his thanks. The thoughtful words and the card brought tears to my eyes.

At the grocery store where I bring my aunt and some of her friends shopping regularly on Saturdays, someone asked me where she could find some product. I pointed out the location and said, “this week, this brand is on sale.” She beamed.

Leaving the store, escorting three old women across a busy parking lot with a cart full of groceries, someone stopped traffic for us so we could get across safely. Thanks! I need the help! Herding old ladies is worse than herding cats!

As I was returning the cart to the store, I dragged two other carts that had been abandoned in a handicapped parking space back with me. Note to dumb-dumbs: handicapped parking spaces are not cart carrels! If the store is nice enough to let you take the cart out to the lot, then please have the courtesy to return it! Sheesh… that really bugs me. Of course, as I’m going along, I’m picking up trash…. that bugs me too, the trashing of America.

Saturday night, my partner and I were having a little fun in boots & leather while relaxing on our more private outdoor deck. I noted that water from an earlier rainfall was dripping over the gutter instead of going down the downspout… note to self: clean the debris off the gutter-guards. (Remember this for later.)

Sunday, my partner had some photos that he had taken of his Mom but didn’t know how to download them from his camera or send them to be printed. Sure, I can help. Just a little thing, but was appreciated.

I was looking out the window and saw a neighbor walking a dog. She was having to dodge under some branches of some trees around the sidewalk. I got out my trimmers and cut off low branches on trees over the sidewalk. Beats hiring a tree trimming service (for which we haven’t budgeted from the HOA funds!)

I went to get my hair buzzed in advance of going to a major conference later this week. At the shop where my favorite stylist works (and to whom I have been going for 25 years!), I held the door for someone else as she was going in. She smiled and said, “gracias.” I had a pleasant conversation with her in Spanish as we were both waiting for the same stylist. Though my Spanish isn’t all that good, she was very courteous in not correcting me.

Sunday afternoon, I picked up a newspaper on a neighbor’s driveway. The neighbor is out of town, and I didn’t want the paper to be left there advertising, “no one is home.” He has done the same for me. A neighborly thing to do.

About an hour later, I saw a guy on the roof of that neighbor’s house cleaning out his gutters. I spoke with the guy, and he told me that a company he works for has a contract and that he does this work twice a year. I noticed that when he climbed the ladder to the roof, he had dropped the hose. I just picked it up and pushed it toward him, so he wouldn’t have to come back down to get it. He thanked me.

While speaking with him, I asked him if he had time to clean that back gutter of mine that I can’t reach because my ladder is too short. Quick as a flash, he cleaned mine, too… for a very reasonable price. (He was great to watch, too, in his wet shirt with his abs showing through, well-worn work boots… but I digress….:-))

This morning at the Metro, someone was staring dumbfounded at the farecard machine. Instead of laughing at “another lost tourist,” I just explained how to get a farecard. He smiled, said thanks, and was on his way.

While on the Metro, I gave a stern look to the jerk who always leaves his newspapers on the train. I have warned him before to pick up his garbage. Whenever I’m around and he knows I’m watching, he takes his papers with him when he leaves the train and puts them in a recycling bin. I figure he’s just lazy, but laziness drives me bats.

When I arrived at my office, I found a hand-written thank-you note (not an email!) from a colleague who said that she appreciated the information I had given her about navigating the maze of my (home) county’s bureaucracy. She finally got her sidewalk fixed. She had been trying to get it fixed for a year on her own without success, and got it fixed two weeks after speaking with me. (Actually, I referred her to her local elected official district office staff who interceded. That’s among the reasons why we have locally elected representatives — to help us in matters like this. While something small like a sidewalk repair probably won’t get the elected official’s attention, knowing whom on the official’s staff to talk to and who can provide constituent service is the magic knowledge here. Now you know.)

Little things mean a lot. Saying “thank you,” picking up trash, holding doors open, and smiling. If you see something you can do or needs to be done or should have been done… DO IT! The world needs more courtesy and civility, especially when times are so rough.

And there are some men with whom I have formed bonds of friendship through “BOL” who do this too, and have noticed that I try to be a nice guy… I want to give them a special shout-out of thanks for being the courteous, thoughtful, gentlemen that they are: my friends “AZ”, “UTBR”, Clay, David (Bamaboy), Maf, “StephenNC” … you guys know who you are, and you mean a great deal to me because you are such thoughtful and kind men. You make things special in your respective parts of the world. Thanks! (See me smile!)

H. Jackson Brown Jr. said, “Today, give a stranger one of your smiles. It might be the only sunshine he sees all day.”