26 January 2012


When I was 14 I was awarded a book prize for creative writing, Modern Library’s, Great Tales of Terror and the Supernatural. It was presented in front of the entire school. I'm educated and I've had some training. I’ve been told over the years,
You write well, or
You should write your stories down, or
Have you ever thought of writing for teenagers? or
You have something to say.
I think, Really? Not what I've got to say. 
OK. I got nothin’ but time. I give myself permission, and I start to write, test it out. I posted on blogspot.com’s platform; it’s easy and public. I presumed there’d be a reader. I thought, It’self-selecting; that was liberating because I thought, Nobody’s going to read what I've got to say. I gave myself permission. William Accorsi told me, 
The hardest part is to give yourself permission.
Blogspot aggregates SweetWilliamNow’s hits into “audience” and “ranks” my posts in real time; daily, weekly, monthly, and annual numbers. Now I know there are readers.

22 January 2012

13 January 2012


I hope my children feel they’re loved. I need to know I've made the effort to tell them I’m happy with them and happy for them. I don't see them nearly as much as I'd want or need. So I tell them, text them, write them, email them, phone them, whatever, from time to time, “You're my daughter. I'm your father. I'm well pleased with you.” It's my way of turning my heart to each child.
I rarely get a reaction or response; but one time one texted me, “I love you too, Dad.” Another time, when I needed a response, and for a reality check, I asked if he received my text,
“Yes, he said, I don't know what to say.
“Good; that’s OK; I love you son.
“It’s embarrassing.
“Yes, I know; its all right; Im fine, were fine, and I rub his head and we move on. I hope, in his heart and mind, he likes it. I sense he does. He responds.
I remember how I felt when my father told me he loved me; embarrassed. I was unable believe it. How could he love? He was such a drunk and prick. He enabled me to avoid owning my emotions, my sense of inadequacy in the face of my embarrassment and his expression. Now, if my Dad were to tell me he loved me, even if he was drunk and a prick, I'd hope I’d say,
“Thank you. I love you too.”

10 January 2012


One 1 Man/1 Mower goal is to provide a service that gives added value to the final result. I'm a visual person. I bring a natural sense of design and style. It's a small gift. I don't announce it; I just do it.
I know from experience 99% will not consciously notice. So it's a joy to know one customer did notice. It's a greater joy to know one customer makes time & effort to tell me and thank me with a hand written card.
I received this some time ago.

Dear Bill,
As I drove up White Oak Lane this afternoon and glanced over at my property, I was struck by how good the yard looks! Thank you for your decorative mowing. You made me a proud owner.

02 January 2012


I wear glasses; worn ‘em since I was 15. I couldn't see without ‘em. I could read without ‘em but I couldn't learn without ‘em. I like my glasses and I like clarity. I learned to express and assert myself with glasses. I trained to look, to observe, and to see. I earned a living with my eyes and my glasses as a photographer; attention to technical and visual detail was premium. I’d separate disparate details to build a set, unify them into a visual set in a camera, and make an image in a photograph. I don’t make images now. My glasses, my sight, my mind, and me? We’re still symbiotic.
I sometimes remove my glasses to rest. I don’t mean to sleep. I always take them off to sleep, respectfully place them in reach; it’s a ritual. I do mean to see blurring, deliberately smearing my vision. I get bored, at times, with visual details. I see detail; it’s cluttering. 
Monet painted what he saw; he painted blurring detail and shimmery color. Brilliant! I like to see blurring detail and shimmery color. It's a relief.