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I don’t know what to write about.
Anytime I am in this situation, I always do the same thing.
I start with the time, and then I describe my surroundings, and then usually (hopefully) the words start to flow.
I will do that now, and we will see where it goes.
It’s 9:41 AM. I’m sitting in a Starbucks on the other side of the lake. The workers in the store are extra young and hipster, classic Starbucks. They have Frank Sinatra playing. A classy group, clearly.
I’m looking out the window across the lake at the Denver skyline. Someone is rowing a kayak. I can’t believe I live here.
Growing up, I knew I would be a construction worker. It was good work and a good living. I enjoyed building houses, I loved swinging my hammer and wearing my toolbelt.
I hope I can teach the little dude how to build houses. I hope he appreciates that the world around him doesn’t just appear, it is made. Hard working men build great big things with their minds and backs and callused hands with bloody fingernails.
I don’t think I want to pay for any of their stuff. I don’t want to pay for their colleges or their cars. I remember very specifically my dad telling me that he would pay for my car insurance but he thought it was important that I bought my car.
I bought my first car from my parents. It was an 86’ Ford Bronco. I felt so proud of it. I cut grass at the Sandy Run country club for 3 summers to buy that car. If my parents gave me the car, I don’t think I would have vacuumed it and installed the head unit so I could play CD’s. I don’t think I would have appreciated it as much.
Now I’m here, looking over this beautiful lake in this beautiful neighborhood.
How fortunate am I?