I had to fill out a waiver form at the Red Cross before I was allowed to donate my blood. There was a question about my gender. Was I male, female or would I rather not say? If I had the option not to say, then why ask it in the first place? When will we get over this silly interpersonal questioning? I was also asked about my choice of preposition. I wonder if this inspired Hamlet's "To be or not to be?" retrospective. These questions opened the rabbit hole to the fascinating world of names.

Last week I shared how I banged my head when the chair I attempted to step on slipped due to the puddle of water on the floor. People encouraged me to get a head scan to make sure there was no internal bleeding but the pain subsided after a few days and I didn’t think it was necessary. But my aunt reminded me that my great great grandfather fell off his horse and hit his head. He neglected going to the doctor and in a short while he became completely blind. That was the scare I needed so I did go for a checkup. The doctor doesn’t think I need it but I’m scheduled for a CT Head scan (whatever that is) early next month.

Early this morning the smoke alarm went off. In my dreamy state I fumbled in the dark and picked up a chair so I could reach the alarm to turn it off. I didn’t know there was a puddle of water on the floor and, halfway up the chair, my weight caused the chair to slip underneath me. I hit my head on the wall and landed on my back and my right wrist. I eventually turned off the alarm but my body was mangled and sore. The last time I felt that kind of concussion was when I was a kid. Going back to sleep was difficult because I had to contort my body every which way to a position that gave the least pain.

Bob was my Math classmate in my freshman year in college in the University of the Philippines. Two years later, I was crossing the street in Washington DC and I see this familiar face headed towards the opposite direction.

Meanwhile, an Atlantic ocean away, George Washington and patriotic Americans were struggling for independence from England. The English empire believed they had every right to siphon off the wealth of these low life colonials in order for the British elites to continue to languor in early retirement mode. "How dare these Americans complain? We are the mother land. They serve us. Don’t they realize we have our own class struggles at home? Why break the status quo?"

Dog-sitting Tinker was going to take hours so I decided to watch Youtube on TV while I prepared dinner. Somehow, a 3.5 hour documentary of The Boring Life of George Washington popped up. I realized that I didn’t really know that much about US history or Washington. I’ve heard bits and pieces about him like his chopping down the cherry tree and his wooden teeth … but I didn’t grow up in an American Grade School; so I let the video play --- and boy was I blown away! No joke. I am so so amazed at President Washington.

It is caricature week for me at my church during our Annual Summer Adventure Week where I am stationed at the Parent’s Lounge.I don’t know why but when I’m drawing people's faces, I am transformed into their Father Confessor. They open up their lives to me. Couples share how they met and what they do.

Too bad. If she had cared to listen, I would have shared my own experience. Before smart pads and touch screens became a fad, I used to awkwardly draw with my computer mouse (ergonomically a bad idea). It wasn’t long until I started to feel sharp pain … as if a vein or two had fallen out of place. I asked a nurse friend what to do. She said take pain-killers and get one of those adjustable wrist braces. It wasn’t a cure. It only covered the problem. It was either that or I would need an operation. Worry occupied my thoughts.

My wife and I waited for our grandson to be dismissed from his last day of Middle School. Earlier, his older brother celebrated his Promotion Day (from Middle School to High School) with several academic medals hanging from his neck. It was a proud morning.

A dear friend of mine sends me verses every day. This morning, he sent me a poem he wrote about grace and peace which created an image in my mind of a shell in a calm sandy beach. I was transported to my carefree childhood summer vacation --- lying down on my stomach along the sandy beach, surrounded by an assortment of smoothly eroded, broken, white and pink, perforated, corals and shells. As the lapping waves pushed one shell to shore, I wondered what happened to the creature that lived in that shell. Was it eaten by some sea monster? Did it die of old age? Now, nothing's left of the soft slimy muscle tissue of this mollusk … only the beautiful fossilized home of the snail remains as a testament that it once slithered on the ocean floor. To think that each of these other shells has a story to tell.