“Young Thomas,” fumed teacher Douglas. “Would you mind explaining to the class why you insist on working so independently?"
     “Certainly,” said Tom. “In fact, I’ve taken the LIBERTY to list the very reasons.”
     Tom learned the power of his words that day: Mr. Douglas told him to pursue all the LIFE, LIBERTY, AND HAPPINESS he wanted. . .
                                                            from: John, Paul, George and Ben
                                                        written and illustrated by Lane Smith
                                                         Hyperion Books for Children, 2006

        Years and years ago my husband and I visited some American landmarks on a car trip. We started at Battery Park early in the morning and caught the ferry to Ellis Island. My grandfather came through Ellis Island on his way to Cleveland to reunite with family who had already made the trip. His told his Ellis Island story like this: A worker marked his overcoat with a chalk mark. Being as fastidious as he could be after that unimaginable ocean crossing, he brushed off the chalk mark. Grandpa didn’t know the language so didn’t know the mark meant he would be delayed or worse, sent back. He was allowed to stay.
       My mind can’t wrap around what he was moving from. His old country was a land of persecution and poverty, broken dreams and broken hearts, and knowing survival meant moving half a world away and not coming back.  
       My ferry ride from Ellis Island to the Statue of Liberty mimicked his trip from the Island to New York. I was awed, overwhelmed, nostalgic, excited, thrilled, and I did know the language. I found the plaque with Grandpa’s name and made the obligatory rubbing.
       Next stop, Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love. My husband and I are small-town people. Super highways intimidate me, but we found our way to Philadelphia and toured Independence Hall. Then we visited The Liberty Bell. It was not yet behind glass (or barricaded away for its own safety). We walked right up to it and even were allowed to touch it.
       Here are two interesting facts I found out from http://www.ushistory.org/libertybell/

• Abolitionists named The Liberty Bell. Before that it was just called the Statehouse Bell. William Lloyd Garrison's anti-slavery publication The Liberator reprinted a Boston abolitionist pamphlet containing a poem about the Bell, entitled, The Liberty Bell, which represents the first documented use of the name, "Liberty Bell."  
• On every Fourth of July, at 2pm Eastern time, children who are descendants of Declaration signers symbolically tap the Liberty Bell 13 times while bells across the nation also ring 13 times in honor of the patriots from the original 13 states.

       Today, the 26th of July, we aren’t tapping or ringing any bells, but the country’s eyes are again on Philadelphia. It seems fitting to do politics where history once shone its high hopes for democracy, liberty, and justice for all.
       Just like last week’s interesting speeches and activities in Cleveland drew some spectators who were more interested in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, I’m sure Philadelphia has attracted some people looking for a Cheesesteak sandwich.
       Grandpa realized his dreams and made a new life here. His children and his children’s children and his children’s children’s children and their children echo one of his favorite sayings, “Only in America!”
       And whatever happens this week and in the weeks and months to come, I’m betting we’ll all still be saying “Let freedom ring.”
 
                                                                   --stay curious!

       The President has to be polite to everyone. The President can’t go anywhere alone. The President has lots of homework.
     People get mad at the President. Someone once threw a cabbage at William Howard Taft. That didn’t bother Taft. He quipped, “I see that one of my adversaries has lost his head.”
                                                         . . .
       It’s said that people who run for President have swelled heads. It’s said that people who run for President are greedy. They want power. They want fame.
       But being President can be wanting to serve your country—like George Washington, who left the Virginia plantation he loved three times to lead the country he loved even more.
 
                                                                              from: So You Want to Be President?
                                                                                                  by Judith St. George
                                                                                             illustrated by David Small
                                                                                                 Philomel Books, 2000
                                                                                           (Caldecott Award Winner)

       My first daughter was born during the World Series, when I still loved baseball. I loved the cracking bat, the pop flies, and even all that spitting!  
       Back in 1967, my first crush loved baseball. He took me to the Cleveland Municipal Stadium several times to see the Indians play. The players’ names, positions, and whether they should be traded or not at the end of the season were as familiar to me as a hot dog with mustard. I followed baseball for years. Really until my first daughter was born (during the World Series).
       One day my mom came over to see the baby while the Game was on. The baby was sound asleep in her own bedroom. But my mom was appalled to see me watching baseball and not attending to my company, her. She came by herself. This was the only time I remember my mom calling herself company, ever. I turned off the game and never went back, to baseball or any sport, really. A short spate with basketball is hardly worth mentioning.
      But the summer of 1967 found baseball-loving 15-year-old me volunteering at a preschool in one of Cleveland’s roughest neighborhoods. Head Start was new then and I wanted to be a teacher. Why my mother thought it was a good idea to drive me to Hough every day and why my dad said okay will be questions I will never be able to answer. Cleveland was in the midst of race riots, Vietnam protests, and Bobby Kennedy’s War on Poverty. But my preschoolers were well-behaved and curious about me and about their world. The teacher I worked under was dedicated, knowledgeable and kind.
       In 1967, Cleveland elected its first African American mayor, Louis Stokes, maybe in an effort to heal itself. It would be decades before Cleveland regained its legendary reputation of a first class city.
       This week we’re all at the Quicken Loans Arena (The Q), right next to Progressive Field where the Indians play now. The whole area is called the Gateway and is very progressive, not in the insurance company way, but in the first class world city way.
       Important people have come to Cleveland this week: journalists, politicians, spectators, agitators, demonstrators of every stripe, and regular, curious people. We’ll hear lots of news, lots of promises, and lots of hype. Let’s hope that a little common sense, a little common courtesy and a little common decency are thrown in among the throng.
 
                                                                   --stay curious!
 

Today would have been my father’s 99th birthday. Here are some things he loved, in no particular order:

• His family (family always came first)
• His home
• Chocolate anything, especially
  • chocolate covered raisins
  • Hostess cupcakes
• Coffee, strong with one spoon of sugar and just a very, very, tiny bit of milk
  • Once I used an eyedropper to get it right.
• Well-done hamburgers
• Collecting stamps
  • and pennies
• A good joke or even a not-so-good one, even when it was on him
  • Once, on his birthday, our good neighbor and good friend “Uncle” Frank brought over a birthday cake, complete with candles. Daddy blew out the candles and began to saw into the cake (chocolate, he presumed). Even the sharp replacement knife didn’t work on the Styrofoam cake that “Aunt” Daisy decorated so beautifully. Daddy laughed about that cake for years. It would have been decades if he had lived that long.
• John Kennedy
• Portulaca
• A green lawn with no weeds, neatly edged at the driveway and sidewalk
• Brown
• Red Skelton
• Ed Sullivan
• Fedoras (until President Kennedy whooshed them out of fashion)
• Good manners
• Bing Crosby
• Spam (the kind in a can)
• The Smothers Brothers
• Camel cigarettes, no filters
• Predictability
•  
              Daddy valued honesty and an honest day’s work. He wore a shirt and tie with his suit coat. His shirts were always short-sleeved, though. He didn’t like to be hot.        
  He came home right after work the same time every day.
              My dad was great at spelling and great at math. I remember my brother racing him with columns of addition. Dad won. When my mother told me to look up a difficult word in the dictionary, I just asked my dad how to spell it. He was always right.
              He taught all three of us kids how to play chess and tap out Morse Code.
              Daddy could recite anyone’s phone number by heart. My sister and brother and I all shared that talent until cell phones and caller ID made it irrelevant.
              He had a great sense of humor and a great temper. He was fun-loving and disciplined. He was meticulous in his work and neat in his habits.
              He expected us kids to be polite, well-groomed and hard-workers. I think we three did just fine making him proud.
              Daddy may not have been the best, but he tried his best. He may not have been able to give us everything he wanted to, but we never lacked for any material thing. I’m sure he loved us all, even when we disappointed him.
  My dad loved to laugh. I hope he was happy.
              Happy Birthday, Daddy.
  
• 
                                                                 --stay curious!
   
  

       ​My home town does The Fourth of July in a big way. Festivities began this year on Saturday night with fireworks. Then yesterday morning, the Village Green came alive with a foot race for the kids. Everyone wins a participation “medal.” My eight-year-old grandson lead the pack!
       Most of my family (including out of town grandkids) runs in the races while I set out blueberry donuts from the local farm grocery store, and put up the coffee. Friends, relatives and neighbors start setting up their lawn chairs early (and bringing goodies to share) around 8:00 a.m. The parade always begins at 10:10. I think the odd time allows the kids to finish their race.
     The Police block the streets to traffic while the paraders line up in the county fairgrounds two doors down from my home.
By 9:30, people jam both sides of the street with lawn chairs, wagons and strollers. Most everyone is wearing some combination of red, white and blue. Stars are everywhere, too, especially in the eyes of the youngest kids when the Grand Master’s car appears and the sirens wail.
     Local politicians and businesses send representatives to toss candy along the route. Local charities, churches and non-profits build floats. Kids on their decorated bikes. We have miniature ponies, bagpipers and clowns. The High School Band performs their best numbers. Dance schools, Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts and Kiwanis, 4-H, local antique car clubs all march, roll, or cartwheel past.
     Lest we all forget the parade’s purpose, veterans groups file past in formation, reminding us to hold our flags and our heads high and proud. Proud of our accomplishments, proud of our potential, and proud of our children.
     As I get older, I realize more and more that our crazy world is full of paradoxes. I’m thankful for my home town where I can feel its smallness and its greatness at the same time.
                                                                  --stay curious!