Writing - It's My Thing

Tell Them: Take the Time to Listen to Extraordinary Lives

noreply@blogger.com (Amy Talcott) — Sun, 21 Sep 2025 18:42:00 +0000

“As we age, our stories become the threads that stitch generations together — reminders that a life well-lived is never lost if it is told and heard.”

Life isn’t fair. But no one ever said it would be. However, as I sit here in the hospital with my ailing father, surrounded by other patients around his age in varying states of decline, I am profoundly reminded of that simple fact. Life is just not fair.

As my father has aged, I’ve noticed people talk to him differently. Not as an elder or a peer, but as more of a child.

2x heart attack survivor

I’m sure I am guilty of doing that too, back in the day with my grandmas.

I first noticed this change in tone with my mom, who, after an aneurysm and two brain surgeries plus cancer, slowly became “not all there.” And I understand when someone’s mental and physical state is in decline, the conversation has to be simpler. But I remember at one point looking into my mom’s eyes and I could tell she knew – she knew – how they were talking to her. And I could tell she didn't like it one bit.

wild and crazy guy

Personally, I try to use humor, which my dad has a lot of. He can’t hear worth shit, so the whole hospital floor might hear me yell, “You wanna go raise hell in the halls and flirt with the nurses?” when he’s getting antsy and needs to get up and walk. He seems to respond better to humor and sarcasm (and I am my father’s daughter.) Again, I don’t necessarily fault people who talk to him like a child – I know at times it’s necessary and it’s kind of the default when you’re talking to someone who may not quite be 100% there for whatever reason. It’s just an observation.

I do think though, that sometimes, even often, we unintentionally forget that these humans, living in their battered and war-torn bodies – reflect a LIFETIME of experiences. Adventures. Challenges. Accomplishments. Heartbreak. They’ve seen and done things we can’t even imagine. And as they age, and struggle with technology or have trouble remembering things, we FORGET – WE forget – that THEY are the OGs. THEY are the GOATS. They drive too slowly. Welp, they lived in an age when they didn’t have cars. They have trouble using a mobile phone. Hell, they would call the operator who would patch them through to whomever then needed to talk to. They’re always reminiscing about “the good old days.” Well, now can you blame them????

My grandpa, Reo, and my dad

It's FASCINATING to sit down with someone who has seen and done things we will never see or do. Who has lived what we may call “a simple life," when in fact they have most likely worked harder and longer than we ever have. Who have stories that, when you look at someone in their later years, seem implausible and you suddenly realize that at one time, they were in fact young. That everything you have seen, they have seen tenfold. Wars. National tragedies. Hard financial times. Major historic moments. New technologies. (Hell, my kids can’t believe we didn’t have a microwave until I was 13.)

And if you do take the time to listen, you’ll realize that the individual in front of you with this aging brain many times has the most amazing memory.

1st Lt. USAF, 1954.

My dad still knows his service number from the Air Force back in the 50s. He can rattle it off like his address. Can he tell me his current address? Sometimes. Not often. But that seven-digit number? Ask him anytime, anywhere.

He knows his childhood dog’s name (Brownie) and the calf they kept in the back yard (Senator.) If he notices you’re left-handed, he’ll tell you about the time his teacher repeatedly made him switch to his right hand to write (the Palmer method), and how his mom (my grandma) went to the school to tell her to knock it off, he’s left-handed.

My dad's behind the cow.

He loves telling the story of how the milkman got in trouble for delivering milk without the cream on top, when it was my dad who was siphoning the cream from the bottles as they sat on the porch. He talks about how his dad, Reo, struggled with his health after being gassed in WW1.

Honeymoon hunk.

I love hearing how he met my mom at a single’s dance and fell asleep on their first date. That the lullaby he sang to me when I was a baby was, in fact, a fraternity song. (I thought it was about a kitty, but it was about a Kappa Alpha Theta.)

50+ years of marriage.

I was lamenting to a dear friend and coworker that what I hated the most about my dad being in the hospital was that no one knew who he REALLY was. Like, there’s so much more to him than they see lying in that bed or chair. SO MUCH MORE. His reply to me was, “Well, tell them.”

So I did.

And in sharing short tidbits about things my dad has seen and done, I feel like those who were caring for him saw him in a new light, a new respect, perhaps. And between his 94 years and their 20 or 30, they found commonalities.

CAT exec

The nurse who used to work at Caterpillar (my dad was career CAT – 40 years) and listened to him tell stories of how CAT used to be.

Someone who had relatives Shelbyville, where he was born and raised on a farm.

Restore's unofficial electrician

A CNA who had experience with the agencies where he volunteered daily – Habitat for Humanity ReStore and Midwest Food Bank.

I am grateful to that friend who sensed my despair and presented me with a simple solution: tell them. And I am grateful for the healthcare workers who took the time out of their incredibly busy shifts to listen, ask questions, and see him not as a sick, old man, but as an extraordinary human being whose current state of body and mind reflects 94 years of an extraordinary life.

So, I’m telling you, as my wise friend told me, “Tell them.” It matters. We all matter, but especially those who have been here much, much longer than us.

“To sit with an elder and listen is to honor a life well-lived and a lesson still being given.”

P.S. Dad is now home and resting comfortably. He's still funny, sarcastic and extraordinary.

Why July 2 is the Sweet Spot of Summer

noreply@blogger.com (Amy Talcott) — Fri, 01 Jul 2022 18:15:00 +0000

I have decided that tomorrow, Saturday, July 2, is the unofficial best day of summer.

I'll tell you why, but it may take a minute to get there. Hang with me.

Recently, I came to a personal realization about weekends. The best part of the weekend is, in my opinion, from about 7 pm on Friday until 7 pm on Saturday.

Why, you ask? Here's my reasoning, based on a regular, 8-5, M-F work schedule.

So at 7 pm on Friday, I have a whole evening plus two days of weekend ahead of me. By 7 pm, I'm doing whatever it is I'm going to do on a Friday night, celebrating the end of a work week in any fashion I see fit. I'm looking forward to Saturday, and not even thinking about Monday.

On Saturday, I have the promise of a whole day ahead of me - this is the weekend sweet spot. It's not until about 7 pm on Saturday that the weekend vibe starts to wane ever-so-slightly. The next day is Sunday, which means at some point during that day I'll have to start planning for the work week, whether that's doing laundry or grocery shopping or thinking about weeknight dinners or checking my schedule of upcoming meetings and to-dos. It's still a nice day, but by 7 pm that night, the initial thrill of the weekend, my friends, is gone.

It's the same thing when it comes to summer. June, to me, is like a month of Thursdays. I'm kind of still getting used to the fact that the days are longer and warmer and that I'm able to come out of hibernation and spend more time doing outdoor things rather than sitting around wishing the weather would f*cking warm up already.

July is the weekend of summer - well, most of it, anyway. July USED to be the weekend, before they moved the start of school up to the middle of August, sometimes earlier. That's a load of crap in my opinion. Kids should have their summer and not start school until after Labor Day. I know there are a zillion reasons why this isn't the way anymore, but there's something about three months of summer that just feels, well, deserved.

Now, July is my absolute favoritest month in the world because both my sons were born in July. Early July means Wimbledon and that means my oldest son's birthday, which was exactly what I was watching in the hospital while waiting to give birth to him. Late July is my younger son's birthday, so it's like a Sunday when you don't have to work on Monday, if that makes sense.

But I digress.

July is like being right smack in the middle of the weekend. In July, you're not even thinking about it being cold, or having to go back to school, or Christmas. There's a change in attitude. People are just a little more laid back; a little more casual. We're taking an extra few minutes to have coffee on the patio in the morning, or taking walks at 8:00 at night when it's still light out. We're getting on bikes, hopping into kayaks, jumping in pools and running through sprinklers. July is the sweet, smoky smell of the neighbor's grill, a whiff of freshly-mowed grass and the ever-present scent of sunscreen on your children. It's BLTs with fresh tomatoes from your garden and an inevitable loaf of zucchini bread from a neighbor's too-bountiful harvest.

But if I'm going to drill down July, there is a sweet spot, in my opinion - and it's July 2. Here's why.

So if June is Thursdays, July is the weekend, but after July 4, even though it's technically the height of summer, I still feel like I'm on the downside of it. Back-to-school sales start ridiculously early. Most vacations are in July since August is such a transitional month nowadays. We're always looking forward just a little too far once July appears on the calendar.

July 2 is when summer seems like it will last forever, and grocery stores are yelling at you to buy their hot dogs and hamburgers and watermelon and potato salad and everyone's flying their flags and nobody's tired of going to the pool and even though it's hot we're all not saying the stuff we say in August like, "Boy, I can't wait for fall!"

We're still infatuated with summer on July 2. Just like we're infatuated with the weekend on Saturday morning.

So tomorrow, I hope you'll take full advantage of what is, in my opinion, the sweet spot of summer. While we still have a lot of the season left, from here on out it will all go by in the blink of a weekend.

The Warrior

noreply@blogger.com (Amy Talcott) — Sun, 25 Mar 2018 01:24:00 +0000

Have you ever known that one person who seemingly has it all? Great looks, winning smile, hilarious, talented, always positive, tons of friends, awesome husband, adorable kids ..... ugggghhh.

I first admired her from afar. She was that crazy mom who came sprinting up to the elementary school to pick up her kid just as the bell rang - usually wearing spandex workout capris, a tank top with some inspirational workout saying on it and a brightly colored bandana covering her vibrant auburn hair - yes, always the bandana. Her constant smile and laugh was infectious, and when her son ran up to meet her, it was apparent that this was probably the best moment of her whole day.

I was intimidated and envious - and I wished I could be her friend.

I discovered that as a fitness instructor, she was vigilant about having a healthy body - not a skinny body - but a healthy, strong body, and wanted nothing more than to wrangle others into jumping on the exercise bandwagon with her. I saw friends and admirers flood her Facebook page with comments when she announced the next time she'd be teaching, and her after-class selfies dripped with genuine praise for her students for "crushing it" once again.

She chose a vegetarian lifestyle, which may have been somewhat of a point of contention with her husband, who is maybe not quite as health-conscious as she. But in a style that is true to them as a couple, they poked fun at it by creating a hilarious video called, "My Wife's a Vegetarian" - her husband on guitar and both of them on vocals - it's probably out there on YouTube somewhere.

As I got to know her better, I realized that this woman has a HUGE circle of friends - and not just fair-weather friends. Real friends - like from childhood, high school, college ... all over the United States - and they all adore her. She is quick to love them back; in fact, I've never met anyone who is so filled with love for her husband, her children, her family and her friends. Her gift is her love, which is evident for anyone close to her. She will tear up talking about her magnificent husband, her kids who are growing up way too fast, her incredibly supportive parents and her veritable treasure trove of friends.

All that said, somehow, some way, I got this amazing woman to be my friend - and finally realized what all the fuss was about. She DOES have it all. Great looks, winning smile, hilarious, talented, always positive, tons of friends, awesome husband, adorable kids ...

And cancer. She also has cancer.

It was no secret she was a survivor of breast cancer - every year she celebrated her cancerversary - the fifth year being the big one - and she was an avid participant in Race for the Cure - the running part, of course - did I mention she's a runner? Surviving cancer got her into fitness. Surviving cancer caused her to change her eating habits. Surviving cancer made her realize even moreso what was really important. Surviving cancer made her outlook on life such that she considered every single day a gift.

She was told years ago that she was at her one child max. Ten years after her son was born, she went to CVS and bought a six pack of beer and a pregnancy test - and eight months later, a beautiful, free-spirited replica of her came into this world. In my mind, it was because the universe realized that the world needs more people like her - so they made one.

We laughed at the fact that she was "starting over" - having kids 10-plus years apart. We adored the spunkiness of her daughter - "just like her", her mother proclaimed - and the baby pictures prove it. We were envious at how she so quickly reclaimed her post-baby body. True to form, the woman went through pregnancy and those baby years like it was a walk in the park - now, we all know it wasn't, but you know what I mean. She did it all like a warrior.

A warrior.

She did everything like a warrior.

She does everything like a warrior.

The cancer is back, and she's a motherf*cking warrior.

She continued to teach the fitness classes despite the chemotherapy. She lost her hair and dyed it red. She takes bets on how much fluid will be drained from her swollen tummy. Her posts about her progress are blunt and full of her unique humor: "My liver is being an asshole but if I can get it to cooperate I'll be the mayor of healthytown!" She is fighting, reminding me of one of her favorite phrases of recent years - "Nevertheless, she persisted."

Never in my life have I known someone as inspirational, as vigilant, as strong and as superhumanly powerful as this woman I am so incredibly humbled to call my friend. She is the epitome of a true warrior - and as her friend, I am so privileged to be a part of her extensive, worldwide army that has been assembling itself since the day she was born. I have never seen a more supportive, generous, caring "tribe" - as she calls us all - who I honestly think would do ANYTHING for her. I know I would, and I do not have the longevity that most of her friends have with her.

I know at times she feels weak. At times she's so tired. If she only knew that even when she feels tired and weak, she is still stronger than so many of us. I KNOW she knows that when she feels tired and weak, she still has us - her army - her tribe - supporting her, loving her and STILL being inspired by her every single day.

Here's the thing. You cannot have someone like her walking this earth without acknowledging her amazingness - in fact, we should be shouting it from the rooftops. She should be on a poster somewhere with an arrow pointing to her that says, "WE NEED MORE PEOPLE LIKE THIS." There needs to be a "How to be a Warrior" class - and she needs to teach it.

Make no mistake, here - she was a warrior before cancer, but she's in the fight of her life right now, and I think every member of her tribe feels helpless. We can stand by her side with our arrows and swords, but in the end it is the lead warrior who does the most fighting - it is her battle. If forming a circle around her to shelter her from the blows of this disease would keep her safe, we'd do it. If finding some way to defeat this enemy for her was within our powers, we'd have done it yesterday. If there was a way to bottle her strength, spirit and determination and give it out as a cure, we'd do it tomorrow.

We'd do it - for our warrior.

Update: Our Warrior, Amy Poirier Bjornstad, passed peacefully at home surrounded by her loved ones on Tuesday, March 27th, three days after this post was written. Rest now, my love.

Help a warrior; be a warrior. Give to the Jimmy V Foundation and let's get a victory over cancer.

What Will Matter

noreply@blogger.com (Amy Talcott) — Sat, 08 Mar 2014 01:02:00 +0000

Today was my mom's funeral.

I don't have the wherewithal to write anything prolific at this time, but wanted to share the words that she requested be read by a family member today during the Mass. That family member was me, and it was hard to get through it, but I think it's profound enough and important enough to share.

Hug your families tight tonight. Don't let petty grievances get in the way of your love and loyalty toward each other. In the end, it's your family who will matter, as well what you give of yourself to this world while you're here. This Mom knew.

What Will Matter

Ready or not, some day it will all come to an end.
There will be no more sunrises, no minutes, hours or days.
The things you collected, whether treasures or forgotten,

will pass to someone else.

Your wealth, fame and temporal power will shrivel to irrelevance.

It will not matter what you owned or what you were owed.

Your grudges, resentments, frustrations and jealousies will finally disappear.

So too, your hopes, ambitions, plans and to-do lists will expire.
The wins and losses that once seemed so important will fade away.
It won’t matter where you came from

or what side of the tracks you lived on at the end.

It won’t matter whether you were beautiful or brilliant.
Even your gender and skin color will be irrelevant.

So what will matter? How will the value of your days be measured?

What will matter is not what you bought but what you built,
Not what you got but what you gave.

What will matter is not your success but your significance.
What will matter is not what you learned but what you taught.

What will matter is every act of integrity, compassion, courage or sacrifice that enriched, empowered or encouraged others to emulate your example.

What will matter is not your competence but your character.

What will matter is not how many people you knew,
But how many will feel a lasting loss when you’re gone.

What will matter is not your memories,

but the memories of those who loved you.
What will matter is how long you will be remembered,

by whom and for what.

Living a life that matters doesn’t happen by accident.

It’s not a matter of circumstances but of choice.
Choose to live a life that matters.

-Michael Josephson

The Cross

noreply@blogger.com (Amy Talcott) — Wed, 07 Aug 2013 02:31:00 +0000

My dad is, among many wonderful things, a woodworker. He’s created some pretty amazing pieces in his time. Specifically for my boys and me, a large wooden toy box that can later convert to a coffee table, a replica of an ice chest with custom brass latches, an oak mantle clock, and a Noah’s Ark, complete with intricately-carved animals. “Two of each,” he explained, “except the rabbits – because they multiply.”

And that’s just stuff for me. The entire list is endless – duck decoys, banks made from old post office boxes that he gives to grandkids for 8^th grade graduation – complete with an embedded penny from their birth year, a china hutch for my sister, a grandfather clock for my brother, a scaled replica of a house for Habitat for Humanity (that was about 300 labor hours.) And I’m sure I’m forgetting many, many others.

Each project has its own story, its own amazing features, and its own labor of love by a man known for his perfection, patience, skill and talent. But perhaps the most touching – the most powerful wooden treasure he’s created – is a small, wooden cross.

We’re not quite sure of the inspiration. We think it was Mom, who is of course the source of many of his brainstorms (aka “I want you to make this for me.”) Story has it she either saw a small cross or wanted a small cross that would fit in her hand. So he got to work, finding just the right wood for just the right-sized cross, sanding it down and staining it with a rustic hue – just for her.

At some point, one of their friends became ill, and Mom thought she might benefit from having the comfort of one of Dad’s crosses. In turn, she found a poem to go along with the token, and typed it up on a small card to accompany it.

The Weaver

My Life is but a weaving
between my Lord and me;
I cannot choose the colors
He worketh steadily.

Oft times He weaveth sorrow
And I, in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper,
And I the under side.

Not til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly,
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needful
In the Weaver's skillful hand,

As the threads of gold and silver

in the pattern He has planned.

He knows, He loves, He cares,
Nothing this truth can dim.
He gives His very best to those
Who leave the choice with Him.

Over time, the small wooden cross and poem became a symbol of comfort for select friends in need, and Dad carved an assortment of woods and styles. At one point, I requested a cross for myself during a difficult time in my life. Mom brought out the box and said, “You have to pick the one that feels the most comfortable in your hand.” I chose a dark wood with a beautiful grain – “the expensive wood,” my dad said. I carry it in my purse, and have been known to sleep with it in my hand, only to find it buried somewhere in the sheets the next morning.

In the past few years, I’ve requested maybe three or four crosses for friends. I gave my friend Norma a cross during one of her first rounds of chemotherapy, and while at her house following her visitation noticed it sitting in a dish on her countertop.

Before Mom got sick, Dad would turn down the bed at night and place the cross on her pillow. Every night. She has held tight to it going into every surgery she’s had over the past two years, and has had it in hand in recovery. I sometimes wonder if the surgeons realize its importance and allow it to remain in her possession in the operating room.

When she was getting ready to go in for her first surgery in March of 2011, I made a comment about her cross. “You know,” she said with tears in her eyes, “I don’t ask God to take away my burden. I just ask Him to help me carry my cross.”

“Help me carry my cross.” That phrase resounded with me and still does. What an astounding request to God – not to take away the bad, but to help her deal with it. Just like that. And I remember that during the hard times. As much as I want to tell Him to “take it all away,” I simply ask Him to help me carry my cross.

A rare moment with the cross in her right hand.

Mom held fast to that cross after her last brain surgery. Always in her left hand. One day I held it in my own hands and noticed how smooth and worn in places it was, right where her fingers curved around its corners. I placed it in her right hand and even in her post surgery-induced fog, she transferred it slowly to her left hand.

A couple of weeks ago, while still in the ICU, we couldn’t locate her cross. A few times she had dropped it in her sleep and it had fallen in the crevices of the hospital bed, but this time it wasn’t there. They had changed the bed sheets, and we could only surmise that it had gone out with the laundry. My dad called someone within the hospital to find out where the linens were taken, only to be told they were sent to an outside service. He tracked down the company and left messages, but no one ever called back. I’m sure they find many an items in their piles of laundry, and I was hoping they had some kind of depository for them. But I have a feeling that a small, worn wooden cross would perhaps not be viewed as having any value and promptly discarded.

Upon realizing she had lost the cross, I offered her mine which I carried in my purse. It was a bit thicker and darker than hers, and not as worn. She looked at it and said slowly, “I want the cross Dad made.” Of courses, he HAD made my cross, but it was not HER cross.

At home, Dad and I combed through the box of crosses trying to find one similar in size, shape and wood grain. When we settled on one we both agreed was “close”, he took it in to her and placed it in her hand. She looked at it and held it for a bit before setting it on the tray next to her bed.

For the most part, that’s where it remains. Occasionally if we tuck it in her hand she’ll hold it for awhile, but it’s as if she senses it’s not “her cross”, the one she’s clasped for comfort, prayed with and worn down to fit the curvature of her hand. She knows that cross has carried her through more tough times than most people can imagine, and the new one just doesn’t have that history.

I know my mom doesn’t need a cross to validate her faith, but it seemed such a comfort for her. I know it is for me. Maybe she’ll take to the new cross, maybe she won’t. Someday I’m sure, I’ll wear mine down like she did hers, but I have a long time to go before I’ve carried near as many crosses as Mom has. I’d give anything to find her old one, if for nothing else but to bring her – and my dad - some comfort and peace.

It's a bird! It's a plane!

noreply@blogger.com (Amy Talcott) — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 20:59:00 +0000

Nah... it's just my dad.

Eleven years ago, my dad had a heart attack while weeding in the small lake that served as the "backyard" of the house where he and my mom live. It was the first time I have ever seen him vulnerable, hooked up to tubes, wearing an unflattering gown in a dreary hospital room.

At first it was a shock to me. Even in my 30's I still truly believed that my father was invincible. But as I saw him struggle and subsequently recover, he became a stronger figure in my eyes than ever before.

That's when I got him the Superman doll.

It was a cheesy plush figure about 18 inches tall that said a variety of "Superman-ish" sayings when you punched it in the chest. It was silly, I know, but I wanted him to know how much I looked up to him as my hero, my "Superman" - even in the shadows of illness.

I still try to remind him of his star status every once in awhile, whether it be a greeting card with a blazing "S" on the front or most recently, a silver "S" keychain that he promised to put on his golf bag for good luck.

There is not a blog long enough to list all the reasons why my father is what he is to me. For one thing, I can count on him for anything. If he says he'll do something, he will. If I had a nickel for every time he dropped everything to come to my aid - from science fair projects in grade school, to a tearful college freshman dropout needing a ride home, to a multitude of home improvement and fix-it projects today... well, let's just say I'd be a rich woman.

He's also the smartest man I know - and if he doesn't know the answer, by God he'll find it out. In fact, he's so smart that occasionally I will fall victim to his dry sense of humor. Case in point:

Dad: "You know how birds fly in a 'V'?"
Me: "Yes, of course."
Dad: "Ever notice that one side of the 'V' is longer than the other?"
Me: "Yes, I guess I have."
Dad: "Know why?"
Me: (thinking of the complicated physics lesson I'm probably about to learn) "No."
Dad: "Cuz there's more birds on that side."

He's also incredibly talented - in many ways, but the most impressive is his woodworking. Again, the list is too long to name all the amazing pieces he has created: a playhouse for me when I was growing up, a wooden toy chest for my son (that can convert to a coffee table when he goes to college), grandfather clocks, a Noah's Ark complete with two of every animal (except the rabbits - there are three - since as he put it "the suckers multiply"), and not to mention the scale model replica of a Habitat for Humanity house he just spent over 300 hours constructing.

But the quality that has impressed me the most over the years - possibly because it is a quality I don't necessarily possess - is his quiet strength. I'm not sure that my dad has an enemy in this world, though I think he's intimidated many. I know he makes many a car dealer squirm as he sits there in silence, slowly removing his pad of paper and mechanical pencil from his pocket and quietly writing his best offer. It's quite a sight.

My father is a man of few words, and we don't have the deep conversations that my mother and I share. But he serves the role in my life as the quiet patriarch... the faithful rock... the Man of Steel (even though I know he has his Kryptonite).

I once dated a rather ostentatious guy who seemed to think he had to relate to me every wonderful thing he did. At one point I flat out told him, "There are great people who know they're great and have to tell everyone (that would be you...), and there are those who are great just because they are."

That would be my dad. He doesn't need to say it. He IS it.

My mom and dad have been married for more than 50 years. After my divorce, I kiddingly told them it was their fault for setting the bar so high. And perhaps my father has done just that - set the bar so high that no man will ever quite measure up.

Disclaimer here: Just so I don't get too much flack from my mother, yes, I know he does have his faults. And I know she had to be the "bad guy" when my siblings and I were growing up - I see that now that I have children more than I ever had before. And yes, my mother is my hero as well - in a completely different way that I will save for another time. But I know if my dad reads this blog, he will be embarrassed, so I'm writing it while they are on vacation and hopefully without internet access.

We all need "Supermans" in our lives. For some of us, it's our spouse, a sibling or a best friend. For others, it's a teacher or business associate. No matter who it is, think about who your hero is in your life, and why. Take a moment to reflect on all the qualities that make he or she that way in your eyes, and how you can emulate those qualities to make yourself a better person.

And while you're at it, let that person know that they are your "Superman". They may not be faster than a speeding bullet or able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but they do have extraordinary powers that make them deserve that "S" you bestow upon them.