Good Monday morning, SBMS Alumni,

I’ve written a lot of Monday, Monday letters to your parents over the years.

All of them about you.

All of them for you.

This is my first to you.

Because all day yesterday, angels . . . fairies . . . good witches . . . and bad witches . . . had me thinking about you.

First it was this article in Noozhawk, asking for high schoolers to be poll workers. To sub in for long ago high schoolers like me who usually run the voting places. To sub for us because if we wanted to stay healthy for more sunrises, we best stay home and let the next generation person those stations.

Then as I was writing postcards to South Carolina and Texas and Kentucky encouraging folks there to vote,

I heard Lynn listening to Kamala echoing the words on my postcard as she spoke on a chilly afternoon in Detroit:

And I thought of you all again and what you all might tell your kids and your grandkids should you be blessed to tell them stories decades from now.

And finally, as I left Lazy Acres with some rare potato chips (Kettle, Krinkle-cut Classic BBQ!)for last night’s World Series game, I was approached by two masked alumni.

“Hey John, what’s up?”

We stepped outside for a distant visit. Almost didn’t recognize those bandits. Taller one’s voice had been octaves higher when he once sang Glory at Songfest.

And his little brother . . .

well, he used to be littler.

Big brother said he had just rewatched his Teen Press visit with John Lewis. Said he was writing his college essay and hoped some good trouble might find its way to Columbia.

And so I thought of you all again, as I rode my coffee bike home.

Long before you all were born, when I was an 18-yr.-old afro-ed freshman at USC, I was broke. Not to mention in debt. USC was expensive.

On weekends (when no meals were served), I used to swipe stale bread and peanut butter and jelly from the pantry of our fraternity house. While my more entitled brothers were off on dates in Beverly Hills or the Valley or Westwood, I was breaking into the kitchen.

I remember someone said they were offering minimum wage on election day for anyone who wanted to make phone calls to get people to the polls. $1.60 an hour! Foochies!!!

Thinking I might be able to put some gas in my 63 VW and perhaps treat myself to a 32 St. Market sandwich on the weekend, I jumped at the chance. I just hoped there was enough gas in Dork to make it downtown to hop on the phones.

Didn’t tell people who to vote for. Just reminded them to vote. And offered them rides if they needed a way to get to the polls.

They’re offering $16 an hour next Tuesday and a chance for you to pinch hit for the some of the giants responsible for many of your freedoms.

Click here to find out how.

$16 dollars an hour to give you an answer for your kids and grandkids when they ask you:

“Hey Mom . . . Hey Dad . . . Hey Pop-Pop . . . Hey Nana . . .

what did you say back in November of 2020?

. . . what did you do?”

Just a thought.

Carpe Diem,

PS. As a bonus. If you want, I got t-shirts you can wear next Tuesday. Don’t say vote for anyone. Just say:

BElieve

THEre is

GOOD

in the world.

Seize the day.

Be well.

And let me know what size you’re wearing these days.