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History was one of my favorite classes in high school.  Not because I loved history but because I loved to draw.  I would sit in history class and sketch out comic strips with characters I created based on the teacher and my classmates.  The class was easy and I found that I could listen and draw and never drop a grade point.  One day, however, the teacher caught me.  He walked by and snatched my comic strip right out of my hand.  “Hey,” I protested rather weakly.  He just stood there and read my paper as I sat and waited for my punishment to be pronounced. After what seemed to be an eternity he just laughed and tossed the paper onto my desk. All he said was, “Good work.”  This encouraged me. I continued creating comic strips that he would sometimes read out loud at the end of class.

I also started drawing comic strips in my computer lab class.  Another easy class where there always seemed to be something funny to write about.  I would leave the finished comic strips on my lab teacher’s desk at the end of class.  He enjoyed them and would ask when the next one was coming if I went more than a week without turning one in.

Later on, I worked for a doctor’s office and you guessed it, I started a comic strip for them as well.  I would draw them between making appointments and during my lunch break.  I would hurriedly finish them and pass them around the office.  The doctor’s office was always chock full of hilarious stories to write about.

I don’t draw comic strips anymore although I still enjoy drawing and doodling if I’m not writing something.  For me, I suppose it was always more about the creation of the story itself. 

Someone once said that we take care of what we love.  I think that is true. If we enjoy doing something, if it brings a smile to our face and it makes us truly happy, we should take care of it.  We should believe in it and pursue it.

It is essential to do the things in life that bring us joy.  Regardless of what others may think. Regardless of whether or not it will generate income.  Regardless of how much time we have or even how old we are.  We need to do the things that we love for the simple pleasure it brings us in doing them. When we take care of what we love we ultimately take care of ourselves.

Hershey’s sells more than $500 million worth of Reese’s peanut butter cups annually.  I like to think that I am at least partly responsible for helping to boost their sales and make them the chocolate giant that they are today.

You see, it all started in middle school with a fundraiser that involved selling Reese’s peanut butter cups.  I was not the least bit interested in selling them until I found out that the top prize was a Schwinn Varsity 10 speed road bike.  There were some other prizes as well but I didn’t care about those.  I was totally and completely fixated on the bicycle.

I remember racing home from school that first day with a case of Reese’s peanut butter cups and a flyer. The flyer had a picture of the bike at the top.  I ran to my room and taped the flyer to my wall so I could see it every day. Then I went out after dinner and sold every single peanut butter cup in the box that very night.

I told my parents that I intended to sell enough candy to win the bicycle.  They looked at me dubiously.  The next day, I came home with two cases of peanut butter cups and once again, after dinner, I started my candy campaign.  Slowly and methodically I walked up and down each street in our neighborhood.  I was careful to keep track of who was not home so I could go back later, not wanting to miss a single sale.

This process went on for a while until I had exhausted all the homes within walking distance.  This did not dissuade me, however, as I lugged home even more cases of peanut butter cups and begged my mother to drive me around so I could sell them.

Case after case of peanut butter cups entered our home.  My mother implored me to stop.  “Haven’t you sold enough?” she would grumble as we loaded the candy into the car.  How could I possibly know?   I needed to be sure that the bicycle would be mine.  I had to sell as many candy bars as I possibly could.

Each night, I coerced my mother into trekking me across town. I begged.  I pleaded.  I offered her free Reece’s cups.   We went to every neighborhood we could find.  We even stopped at a local retirement community.  I figured all the sweet grandparents would be happy to see me.  What I didn’t figure was that many of them were on strict diets that did not allow sweets.  Actually, many of them were rather grumpy.  I assumed this was because of the no-sugar thing. 

A few of them, however, looked greedily at my box of candy when they opened their doors.  Their eyes would grow wide at first and then narrow, shifting from side to side, finally landing suspiciously on me.  They would quickly lick their lips and ask for a half dozen or so.  “You aren’t going to tell anyone about this, are you?” they would inquire ominously.  I wasn’t even sure who I would tell but I would nod discreetly to let them know that their secret was safe with me.   

We were quickly approaching the contest deadline when I had the grand idea to sell candy in Indiana.  This is when my mother finally drew the line.  Apparently that line was at the state line!  By that time though I had sold quite a few cases of peanut butter cups.  I had peddled them all over Ohio.  Heck, we had probably eaten a whole case ourselves as they sat stacked en masse on the kitchen counter. 

In those last couple of days, I lay in bed wondering if I had done enough, sold enough, tried hard enough.  What if I came close but lost by one case?  I was in agony waiting to find out who had won.  I would envision myself riding my new bicycle.  Then I would envision someone else riding the bicycle that should have been mine. 

A few days later at school, the announcement finally came.  I fidgeted at my desk as the usual announcements about milk money and bus changes droned over the loudspeaker.   And then it was time. 

“We want to thank everyone who participated in the fundraiser.  The winner of the 10 lb. Hershey bar is…..”  And then they announced my name. Everyone in my homeroom class exploded into cheers of excitement.   I was completely deflated.  I had totally forgotten that the extra-large Hershey bar was a prize in the contest. I mean, a 10 lb. Hershey bar is pretty cool, but it’s not as cool as a bike.

I barely heard the second announcement over the ruckus of the classroom. “And the grand prize winner of the Schwinn 10 speed is…..” Once again, they announced my name.  I was shocked and overwhelmed with excitement.

I rode my new bike home from school that day.  My parents were pretty excited too, but I think they were just glad that the whole event was finally over.  I ended up selling 13 cases of candy that year. It was considerably more than I needed to win. The runner up sold 7 cases.   I guess I could have stopped selling sooner but, of course, there was no way to know that. I think it was a pretty good life lesson.

I do know that my younger sister wanted to sell Reece’s cups the next year.  If I remember correctly, my parents just bought her a bike instead. 

Hey, what can I say, some endings have life lessons, some don’t.

I was checking the stats on my webpage the other day.  There are all kinds of numbers there but one, in particular, caught my eye.  17,539.   Turns out that is the total number of words I have written since I started this site three months ago.  That number surprised me.

What really surprised me, however, was not listed on my statistics page.  It was the first person who told me that my words touched them and changed their way of thinking about something.  This made me wonder how many words we need to make an impact on someone’s life. How many to bring a smile to someone’s face?  How many to lift someone up? 

I don’t think there is a magic number.  I think that a few well-chosen words will do the trick. 

Words are compelling.  Written or spoken.  And we all have the power to use them to pull someone up or propel them forward.  You don’t have to have a website to do it.  You don’t need a degree to do it.   And you certainly don’t need 17,539 words to do it.

In 2016, an artist in San Francisco started hanging up compliment posters.   The project has spread around the world and has turned into a “marketing campaign for kindness.” What a fabulous idea!  Just grab a compliment from the poster for yourself or to share with someone else.

Think about the last time someone gave you a compliment or said something nice to you.  No matter who it was, or what the occasion, it probably inspired a shift in the way you were feeling.  Maybe it made you smile and changed the course of your day.  Positive words have a way of doing that.

It feels good to be acknowledged and to have someone pay attention to you.  We all have the same capacity to inspire that feeling in others too.  And, it turns out that complimenting others gives us a sense of satisfaction and happiness as well. 

I can’t give you any numbers or provide statistics to back up any of my claims here. The best I can do is to tell you to go out and field test it for yourselves. I think you’ll be surprised at the results.

He was sitting at an outdoor table on High Street in a relaxed manner that I remember so well.   My breath caught in my chest at the first sight of him.  His legs were casually outstretched with no regard for the crowd of people bustling to make their way down the sidewalk.  He too was enjoying the win. I noticed that his wavy, grey hair was a tad too long as usual.  

“Maybe you can cut it for me when I come for a visit?”

 He was wearing the scarlet and gray jersey that I had bought him several Christmases ago.  A large yellow mustard stain was splayed across the crisp white number forty-five on his chest. 

“Do you have anything that will get this out?” he would say with a sheepish grin each time something like this happened.

The broad grin on his face crept into the corners of his eyes when he looked up at me from underneath his OSU ball cap.  And then he was gone, instantly replaced by a stranger who just happened to look remarkably like my father. 

The stranger held my gaze for a moment and nodded in my direction.  I smiled back taking notice of the obvious differences now.  The missing square jawline. The slightly wider set eyes.  I quickly searched his face for the familiarity I had seen seconds before but the moment had passed. 

I continued down High Street being jostled along by the masses and thought about my Dad.  He would have loved this day.  The crisp air, the sunshine, the crowd and the stadium.  And the win.  Oh yes, most certainly, the win.

He used to call me after every Ohio State game.  Win or lose. 

He would ask, “Did you see that play?” or “Can you believe what happened?” or any other series of questions that were launched at me that I really wasn’t expected to answer.  “Yes, Dad” and “Uh, no, I can’t believe it” were my responses whether or not I knew what he was talking about.   I found it easy to converse in a language that I barely understood.

The language of football has always been lost on me.  My interest in the game was never about yards or downs.  It was simply a connection to my father.  As a small girl, I would snuggle up on his lap on game days excited because he was excited.  And surprised when a play went wrong and I toppled to the floor as he jumped up in eager anticipation.  He would quickly scoop me up, encircle me in his strong arms, and then settle back down with a big grin, “Did you see that play?” 

I would listen as he clamored on about players and statistics, never really taking stock, yet nodding my head in agreement. Happy to find common ground to share with him. 

People are around for only a short time.  The ones you really love seem to be around even shorter.  It’s good to find some common ground with them,  even if that common ground is 100 yards long with goalposts at the end.

Have you heard of the Crypt of Civilization?  It sounds like something really creepy, right?  Actually, it’s a time capsule that was sealed in 1940 at Oglethorpe University in Atlanta, GA.   It is an entire room filled with documents and artifacts slated to be opened in the year 8113.

I have always been fascinated by time capsules.  The idea of placing objects into a container to be opened by someone in the future is intriguing to me.  I wanted to create one of my own when I was a kid.  I remember gathering items that I thought were important and storing them in a shoebox that I planned to bury somewhere in the backyard.  Eventually, I stuffed it under my bed and simply forgot about it.  

When I think about time capsules I think about our human potential. I think about how we tend to put off chasing our dreams.  How we convince ourselves that we don’t have the time or talent to pursue them.  We create an inner time capsule where we stuff our creativity and our ambition and the very essence of who we are.   We tell ourselves that we will work on our big ideas and dreams later.  When we have the time.  When we have the money.

Instead, we fill our days with tasks and commitments and argue that the obstacles we face in achieving our dreams are just too great.

There are a couple of things to point out about time capsules though.  First, once they are filled, we must schedule an opening date. This is especially true of our inner time capsules.  Start by scheduling an appointment with yourself.  Set aside time each day that is for you only!  Write it down if you have to and keep this commitment to yourself.

Second, start digging! Get in touch with old hopes and dreams by journaling, hiking or meditating.  Our inner time capsules are full of things with significance and value.  Things that are worth excavating and discovering again.  Digging down and finding those qualities within us will help us define who we are.

Every single one of us was created with greatness inside of us.  It is already there just waiting to be unearthed.  There are no extra people on the planet.  Every single one of us has a fantastic destiny and it’s up to each of us to discover it.