After we ate our fill of hotdogs and hamburgers, we waited for the sun to go down and for the fireworks to brighten the sky. I found myself in the company of two six-year-old cousins, Jack and Haven. Watching them run around in the yard, I had settled into a comfortable perch on the steps of the deck. Lightning bugs were just beginning to flicker in the growing dusk, and Jack and Haven were running like only kids can do.

After a few laps chasing each other around the yard, both dashed my way and excitedly asked, "Can you play with us?" I'm sure they could have found a better play partner, but everyone else was still inside, so here they were asking a 57-year-old to join their game.

"Sure," I said, "what do you want to play?"

"Let's play ambulance!" they said excitedly.

In my mind, I'm thinking this sounds like a complicated game for a couple of six-year-olds, but I felt I knew enough after 30 years of public service to be an asset to their game.

"How do we play ambulance?" I asked.

"You just run over there by the tree," they said in unison.

"Okay, what's wrong with me?" I asked. After all, I needed to prepare for my role. They just looked at me blankly. "Am I having a heart attack? Why do I need an ambulance? Should I lie down?" I had questions.

Finally, little six-year-old Haven says, "I'll go to the tree," and she takes off across the yard, little legs churning as fast as they can. "Okay!" she yells, reaching the tree.

Jack quickly takes my hand and says, "Come on," as he tugs me forward from the steps.

"What do we do now?" I asked. He looks at me a little incredulous that he must explain this to a grown-up.

"Put your finger over your head," he shows me as he twirls his in a circle, "and then say weee-ooooo, weee-ooooo," he demonstrates as he pulls me even harder.

Still not sure of my part, I follow, holding hands, finger twirling above my head, and making my best "weee-ooooo, weee-oooo" sound. He runs, I jog, and when we reach Haven, Jack yells, "To the hospital! Porch is the hospital!"

So, holding hands, we all run back yelling "wee-oooo, wee-oooo."

When we arrive at the "hospital," Jack yells, "My turn!" and takes off running for the tree. Haven grabs my hand and we take off again, running, yelling "wee-oooo, wee-oooo." We do this nine more times before I called for a break and announced this ambulance had a flat tire.  I really was out of air.

They both looked at me and shrugged, then took off again. Fingers twirling above their heads, yelling "wee-oooo, wee-oooo" the whole time.

As I sat there catching my breath, watching them continue their perfect game, something shifted in my understanding. I realized how growing up changes everything. We want rules, we want direction, we need tasks to complete and boundaries to keep us within the lines.

For two six-year-olds, it was just about holding hands and running with abandon and being together. No rules, no problems to solve, just playing. They taught me something very important that Fourth of July: sometimes the joy is simply in being present with someone else, not in understanding all the whys and hows.

I hope I can remember that when my adult brain tries to complicate the next special moment.  I hope I can remember to play more.  No reason, no conditions, no explanations needed.  You run, I follow.  I run, you follow.  Why?  Because we are friends and I like playing with you.

The rumble of thunder in the distance would bring no rain today.  That sound was not the low rumble of dark rain-laden clouds; it was the unmistakable sound of distant artillery.  A week ago, she could barely hear the rumbles; now the windows and glasses in the cabinet reverberated with each shell that pounded into the distant ground. 

Olena continued to place a few photos from the dresser in the bedroom into a small box.  She knew she would not be able to take it all, but she and the boys had been lucky.  She was thankful for these few precious hours to take some of life’s treasured pieces with them.  Many others had fled so fast on the front lines, they were not able to take anything.  At least her boys would have a few things from this family home where she grew up.  Where she and her brothers ran, fought, and played.  That happy home of her memories seemed unreal now, more like a story she read somewhere, some other time, some other place. 

As she walked into the next room, she saw her dad’s pipe on the bookcase.  She remembered the smell of tobacco and fresh air on his shirts.  Olena quickly picked it up and then hesitated. Was this something she should bring?  She dropped it in the box anyway and scolded herself for the hesitation.  Olena closed her eyes just to breathe it all in for a moment. 

In her mind, she saw a house full of memories, voices, smells, parties, and laughter.  But, sorrow, death, worry, and war crept into the long-ago picture of her mind. 

She had been living here since last year.  Olena’s husband Andriy, had been killed in the first days of the war, and she had taken her two sons and moved in with her mother.  It seemed like things could not get worse for Olena, but a missile attack on the local market had killed twenty-one people, including Olena’s mother.  Starting last October, Olena had sold off a lot of the furniture and contents in the house, just trying to keep food on the table and over-priced gasoline in the faded green 1997 ZAZ Slavuta.  But now the guns of war were booming ever closer.  The distant rumbles announced the approach of their destructive path.  The boom of another shell and the rattle of glass in the old windows brought Olena from her thoughts.

She looked around.  “Is this the last time?” She said to no one in particular.

As she began towards the front door, she glanced into the sitting room and stopped in her tracks.  There, all alone, was her mother’s Grand piano.  There was no way to save it now.

That Grand piano was her mother’s pride and joy.  Maple wood waxed deeply for decades still caught the sun and reflected it through the dust.  The bench was tucked neatly up under the keyboard, just like her mother had left it almost a year ago.  Olena had spent many afternoons, side by side on that bench, admiring her mother and listening as she filled the house with the sounds of Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, and Prokofiev. 

Walking over to the piano, Olena reached down and hit a strong middle C.  The clean sound reverberated through the empty house, and deep inside, Olena felt the single note stir something she had forgotten. 

It was a happy note.  She enjoyed the sound, and she hit the key again.

She could hear another shell in the distance as a little dust fell from the mantle nearby, but Olena pulled the piano bench out and sat at the Grand piano of her mother’s.  She had not played in years, but she could remember one song, one of her favorites. 

Clumsily at first, her body quickly remembered the practiced movements and began to play Beautiful Minka.  As she played, Olena remembered the story of beautiful Minka and her soldier who said goodbye as he left for war.  Olena felt the heartache as the haunting melody slowly rose.  Rhythmatic notes perfectly timed like a march were broken each time the melody reached higher on the keys.  Olena played perfectly and was swept into memories from the music.

As she played, her eyes closed again.  Olena pictured Andriy silhouetted in the doorway for the last time as he left for his own war.  How many wives, mothers, and lovers had been through this same nightmare?  How many more would suffer again before it would stop?

As I stand before an International Business class in Alcalá de Henares, Spain, speaking about leadership to English-speaking students from Canada, Sweden, and the United States, I realize I'm about to learn more than I'm about to teach. While I've spent years as a correctional officer and law enforcement instructor mastering what I thought was effective communication, Spain is about to show me what genuine human connection truly means.

My first lesson comes unexpectedly, from a flight attendant on our way to Spain. When she addresses me, I respond without looking up—a typical American habit. Her silence prompts me to raise my eyes, and I'm startled to find her gazing directly into mine from what I consider an uncommonly close proximity. This moment, though brief, marks my first encounter with a fundamentally different approach to human interaction.

My American brain scrambles to make sense of this unexpected intimacy. Is she hard of hearing? I find myself thinking of that Seinfeld episode where Elaine's friend was a "close-talker," invading everyone's personal space. It reminds me of how young children demand attention, sometimes literally holding their parents' faces in their tiny hands to ensure eye contact. Even our pets, I realize, instinctively seek this direct eye connection when communicating. Despite these familiar references, something feels different about this interaction—more intentional, more meaningful. At the time, I dismissed it as a cultural quirk, not yet understanding the profound lesson it holds.

Breaking Down Barriers

At 6 feet tall and 275 pounds, with years of correctional officer training emphasizing the importance of maintaining an arm's length distance, I initially find myself challenged by Spanish social norms. The streets are filled with people comfortable in close proximity, grocery lines feel intimate rather than impersonal, and restaurant seating brings strangers shoulder to shoulder. What initially feels like an invasion of personal space gradually reveals itself as something far more meaningful.

It's in the local town square where the true beauty of Spanish communication unfolds before me. Here, I witness something I haven't seen since childhood—people engaging in what can only be described as pure, undistracted conversation. They lean in close, their eyes locked in genuine connection, their expressions dancing with shared emotions. What strikes me most is the simplicity of it all: no phones, no rushing, no next appointment looming over their heads.

The scene before me is a masterclass in what we've lost in American society. These aren't just conversations; they're moments of genuine human connection. Every person seems fully present, their attention undivided, their faces animated with authentic interest. They're not just hearing words; they're learning to listen with their whole being.

In my law enforcement career, I've attended countless communication training sessions—Verbal Judo, Confrontation Avoidance, De-escalation, and Emotional Intelligence. Yet here in Spain, I'm witnessing something that makes all that training seem superficial: the simple act of true face-to-face communication.

The Spanish approach to conversation challenges everything I thought I knew about effective communication. It's not just about exchanging information; it's about creating moments of genuine connection. When someone speaks to you here, they lean in, look you directly in the eyes, and make you feel like the only person in their world at that moment.

As I reflect on these observations, I can't help but wonder: When was the last time we truly looked someone in the eyes while they spoke? When did we last give someone our complete, undivided attention? In our rush to be efficient, we've sacrificed the very essence of human connection.

The lesson Spain teaches isn't just about communication—it's about presence. It's about the beauty of simplicity in human interaction. In a world where we're constantly connected digitally, perhaps it's time to rediscover the power of being truly present, face to face, heart to heart.

The intimacy of Spanish communication isn't invasive; it's inclusive. It's not just about closing physical distance—it's about closing the distance between hearts and minds through the simple act of genuine, present, and attentive listening.

I lean back and look upwards, feeling

the warmth of a coffee cup in my hands.

The flickering stars fade

as light fuses with the darkness.

The forest holds its breath,

with no breeze, no sounds,

and the earth stands still -

for just a moment.  I imagine

this is what death sounds like.  I gasp.

I catch myself not breathing, not wanting to

interrupt the beautiful silence

of the new day.  Nature’s reset button. 

The world looks fresh again.  The storms

of the night have passed.  I need a reset too.

A small rustle.  A squirrel breaks the quiet

jumping through the leaves. Time calls out,

interrupting my silence.  I refocus,

I hold my breath again trying to recapture

the moment, but it is gone.  The noise

of life calls out to me, no stopping –

this time.  I release my breath and

the world fills the silent void.  Dawn

will break again tomorrow and I will

try to find the silence again.

a forest of youth

simple hunger of our soul

time cannot suppress

Fall was the time he was drawn into the forest and along the creeks by the crispness in the morning air. His bow was dusty and his traps were rusty, but the dance had begun. Deer tags, doe piss, cans of Vienna sausages, trap wax, wool socks, fish head bait, and a bright orange cap. He was fourteen.

Running without a plan, get away from this place. Change the world, change yourself, and no change in your pocket. New job every six months, new bar every night. Time rushes too fast, no time for things that don’t change. The forest called him and on opening weekend he stopped for a moment. He was twenty-five.

Everyone needed something. Band recitals and soccer games, a house and lawn that strangle every hour from his weekends. He smiled at the PTA, to people who had never heard of the forest. He forgot to ask what he needed. The forest called him, but he couldn’t hear it over the sound of the lawnmower. He was thirty-six.

He awoke to find the woods gone, replaced by the improvements of man. Banks, churches, stores, and cars. Time becomes a series of hourly goals, with no finish line. No end in sight, no break, never enough. The forest called him, but his only break would be a bottle in the bottom desk drawer. He was forty-seven.

He stepped off the train to smell the crispness in the air. The forest called him, fall was here and he knew this was the last chance for his soul. He went back to the forest with nothing and found everything was still waiting for him. He could not leave again, the silence away had become too deafening. He was fifty-eight.

dancing through the forest

like ladies with orange and red dresses,

twirling, spinning, jumping

tendrils of smoke like hats

sucked upward from their heads

faster and faster, they swirl

drunken tornadoes of gray

rising, climbing, reaching,

until the sun is strangled

and the blackened trees explode

During summer vacation from school, I often spent time around Toll's Blacksmith Shop on the corner of Cherry Street and Barnes Avenue in Springfield Missouri.  My father worked part time for Bill Toll as a Blacksmith and was apprenticed/taught by Bill over the years. Toll's Blacksmith Shop was a big old barn left over from some earlier farm in the area.  It seems out of place in the middle of Springfield now, and so did the piles of metal in and around the old barn.

In the back corner of the shop was a large open fire forge that vented to the outside.  A switch on the wall ran a squirrel cage fan that replaced a need for a bellows.  There were drill presses, band saws, small forges, anvils, vises, and tools of every kind.  Above your head were pieces of unfinished projects, steel wheels, scythes of all types, forged hooks, and a plethora of other items that attested to the age of this barn.  During summer vacations, Bill (or Dad, I never knew who) would hire me to straighten up the piles of metal scrap.  Quite a heavy job, but in reality, I spent most of my time chasing rats and snakes with sharpened pieces of rebar.

Each afternoon, Dad would give me a couple of dollars, and I would run down the block to the Jiffy Mart and buy each of us a Mountain Dew.  Quite a treat after a long day's "work."

They say smells can bring about strong memories, and that is certainly true.  The acrid smell of coal-fired forges brings back a couple of memories for me.  One of course is a hot summer day at Toll's Blacksmith Shop, the other is the same smell mixed with the aroma of funnel cakes at Silver Dollar City.

On our trips to Silver Dollar City, we would always lose my father once the family reached Shad's Blacksmith Shop.  Shad Heller was the mayor and blacksmith for Silver Dollar City and was locally famous for his acting parts on the Beverly Hillbillies in the 1960's.  I remember Shad and my father talking for hours but mostly I remember the smells and the sounds.  The dirt and the rust, the coal and the steam from red-hot metal plunged into old green water, and the tink, tink, tink of the blacksmith's hammer striking the anvil.

The Blacksmith’s Song

Tink, tink, tink is the blacksmith’s song;

hammer, anvil, vise, and tong.

Sandpaper hands roughened by toil,

a farmer of metal, steel is his soil.

From a boy with a dream, grew a man now strong;

tink, tink, tink is the blacksmith’s song.

The steel yields to the design in his mind,

bend it, press it, hammer, and grind.

The color of straw is a blacksmith’s delight,

bringing down the hammer, sparks taking flight.

Tink, tink, tink is the blacksmith’s song;

the bellow keeps rhythm all day long.

From the heat of coals born of the abyss,

into the bucket - steam, splatter, and hiss.

The forge fire wanes, the day is now gone,

tink, tink, tink is the blacksmith’s song.

As the judge enters the courtroom, I can feel my pulse quicken and my throat tighten.  My lungs feel like they are underwater and starving for air.  I look at the judge with his stern face and his long, flowing robes, but he doesn’t seem to notice me--or doesn’t want to.

         “All rise.”

         Concentrating on making my leg muscles react and lift me upward from the hard, wooden chair.  I stand and notice that I must support myself against the old oak table in front of me.  I look over my shoulder, and there is my wife.

         “The honorable James P. Johnson presiding.”

         My wife looks so pretty standing there, dignified and delicate.  I can see that she is trembling.  I notice that she has her hair pulled back, and several strands have loosened and fallen lightly across her face.  I feel the muscles in my arms start to react, to reach over and brush the hair back, but resistance from the handcuffs quickly reminds me that I cannot.

         “The court will now come to session.”

         Why didn’t I just listen?  Why did I have to put everything into jeopardy?  Fourteen years of marriage, a good management job, two kids...the kids.  I haven’t been

able to see them in eight months.  Do they still remember me?  What will their life be like without a father?  How will my wife raise them by herself?

         “Have you reached a verdict?”

         My heart feels like it is going to jump out of my chest.  Am I shaking?  I hope that no one can see me shaking.  God, I feel so weak I can hardly stand.

         “We have your honor.”

         I think that I am going to fall.  Please, God, don’t let me fall here.  Not now.  Is that juror looking at me?  What is he thinking?  Is he feeling remorseful for the decision he just made?  Is he looking to see if he made the right decision?  No, don’t look away.

         “What say you?”

         My brother. My own flesh and blood caused this.  Stupid jealousy over an old rifle.  How could he have betrayed me like this?  He told them that I still had grandpa’s old .22 rifle.  Oh God, I'm going to pass out.  I can’t breathe.

         “On the charge of Ownership of a Gun.”

         Ownership of a gun.  I can’t believe that I am being charged with ownership of a gun.  It wasn’t an assault rifle or a pistol; it was Grandpa’s old squirrel gun.  They don’t have the right to take away Grandpa’s old squirrel gun. He gave it to me the first time he took me hunting.  My brother was so jealous.  Why didn’t I just give it to them?  It wasn’t worth all this.  I didn’t think that it would end up like this.

         “We find the defendant guilty.”

         Guilty!  This can’t be happening!  She’s crying.  My wife is crying.  I need to go to her.  I’m her protector, I always have been.  I can’t even protect myself from this. How can I protect her?  How can they do this to me?  I’m not a criminal.  I didn’t buy a gun from one of the corner street dealers.  It wasn’t displayed as an act of defiance.  It was in the closet, hidden.  It’s been hidden since the World Safety Act was passed.  I didn’t even show it to anyone.

         “You are sentenced to ten years in prison.”

         Ten years!  Oh God, I’m going to be sick.  Ten years for what?  I didn’t shoot anyone.  I’m not a criminal.  What about my wife and kids?  Somebody do something. This can’t be right—ten years for Grandpa’s old squirrel gun.

         “You are to be remanded to the Nation States of North America's prison system.”

         But I’m not a criminal.  I didn’t hurt anyone.  Let go of me.  Let me see my wife first.  I’m sorry, sweetheart.  I’m so sorry.  I love you.  I never knew it would come to this.  It was just Grandpa’s old squirrel gun.

Every seat was taken.  As he glanced around, he noticed even a few guys and gals standing in the back of the room near the door.  He looked around the room and saw three decades of faces he knew and loved.  Some of the faces had aged like his own; others were new and still had the youthful sparkle of anticipation in their eyes.  He had long since lost any sparkle that was in his eyes.  He was very much changed from the new kid that walked in naïve, full of piss, and ready to change the system.  The system had changed him.

In his hand was a key.  Not any key, but a hand-sized brass key that fit his hand comfortably.  And why shouldn’t it?  He had carried keys like this every day for thirty years.  They were part of him, they reassured him, and he felt naked without them hanging on his side.  As he walked, the steady tink… tink… tink… of the swinging keys on his hip was a calming sound.  When he couldn’t hear keys at all or the rapid jangling of the keys was mixed with the running of booted feet, he knew something bad was about to happen.

This key was a tangible symbol of the world he belonged to.  Everyone recognized it.  Some protect it, and some would kill for it.  He was one of those who protected the keys.  They would call him “Turn Key,” a slur that inferred all he was good for was turning a key.  You could teach a monkey to do that.  Others called him a “HACK,” which stood for Hard Ass Carrying Keys.  Others wouldn’t even use his name; they would yell out “Key!” when they needed something opened.

He thought back to his first post as a rookie officer.  He was handed a set of keys that contained three large brass keys and a hand-held radio.  He was nervous; he had not worked on this post before.  He could tell the officer he was relieving was in a hurry, “Anything I should know?” 

The officer quickly turned and scrutinized him.  “Oh shit, you are a rookie,” he said. “Uh…yeah.  Give me that key ring.  This key here goes to Food Service…this one here goes to the Gym…but this is the one you need to worry about.  This key goes to the main yard.  If a riot kicks off, you decide who goes out and who comes in.  You are the only thing standing between the yard and the housing units.  If it looks like you are going to get overran…throw the keys inside that vent.  They may kick your ass, but they won’t be able to get the keys,” he said, tossing the key ring back as he headed down the long corridor.

If a riot kicks off?  So many moments he was scared, and so many times he was unsure, but that was all behind him now.  Years of turning the right key at the right time.  Decisions that sometimes could mean life or death.  But he had made it.

He opened his hand to reveal the brass key in it.  Like most prison keys, this one read “Folger Adams” across the top.  But, as he looked closer, he saw something more etched along the spine of the key, “The Key to Retirement.” 

They clapped for him, shook his hand, and patted him on the back.  The whole time, he held the key tightly.  It might not be the key to the main yard, but it comforted him.  This key was the last tangible piece of who he was.  They took his ID card, uniform, badge, and even his job, but as long as he had that key to hold, he was still a prison officer.