"We choose to go to the moon...not because (it) is easy but because (it) is hard."

I'm jealous of my parent's generation. They were fortunate to experience something that we can only dream about. Forty years ago, they were able to sit in their living rooms with the television on and watch Walter Cronkite comment while the world watched and listened to the first men touch the surface of the moon. They witnessed history that cannot be described. And 30 years after the last Apollo mission, we haven't returned.

This may go against any political philosophy I supposedly subscribe to, but there is something devastating about humanity's failure to continue our curiosity of the universe. We haven't left orbit since the Apollo missions and have only now discussed the possibility of moving beyond the International Space Station. Where is the passion? Where is the dream? We've been waiting for it to come, only to be placated by Hollywood special effects and the literary imagination from the likes of Arthur C. Clarke and others.

When President John F. Kennedy declared that we would reach the moon by the end of the 1960's, he gave NASA, and America, a mission; reach the celestial body and prove to ourselves that we are still the explorers that define our heritage. It seems to have been the last time anyone pursued the unknown in this country. After we landed on the moon NASA lost a purpose and, consequentially, public funding. No longer did we have a dream to explore a new world. Now we had a dream to do something else. But that something else was never defined. And with Congress balking at space exploration in the name of bailouts for banks who took too much of a risk and buying companies that didn't know how to run a business there is little hope that the something else will ever be realized.

It's sad to think that Kennedy's speech at Rice University could be the last time anyone laid out an exploratory goal so moving that it captured all humanity. That moment, those words saying we will go to the moon, could not only be the birth of the mission to accomplish the impossible but also be the death of human's greatest distinction from animal life: the desire to explore.

Every place on this planets was discovered by someone who wanted to see what was out there first hand. Early history has people moving from Africa to Europe and Asia to find out if there was a better place. The Americas were inhabited by people for the same reason and then discovered by those who wanted to see if there was another route, another way. Lewis and Clark gave us a glimpse of what was beyond the Mississippi while Magellan made the world smaller in his circumnavigation nearly 300 years earlier. But each exploration, each discovery, was continued by someone else. Columbus' incidental landing in the Carribean gave new impetus to find out more about the New World. Lewis and Clark gave way for Zebulon Pike to find out what was in the southern part of the Louisiana Territory. Men and women continued to push the limits and discover new realities. But not any longer.

When the frontier was declared vanished by the U.S. Census bureau for the 1890 census, the idea of exploration seemed to start its death. There were advances in flight in the first half of the 20th Century, with Wiley Post, Amelia Earhart, and Charles Lindbergh, but even these explorers couldn't carry the excitement long after the fatal crashes of both Post in 1935 and Earhart in 1937.

But one thing held true out of all these explorers; their achievements led to future adventures for many people across the world. People now live virtually anywhere on Earth and flying is now a common occurance for millions daily. Our world changed dramatically because of the actions of these heroes. So why has space exploration died?

When men landed on the moon, it seemed only natural that we would soon expand our world to encompass our natural sattelite. But nothing came of it. Government deemed it too expensive and no private venture has taken its place. We are left without the imagination and are stuck grounded on Earth, doomed to stare at the brightest object of the night sky and wonder what could've been. If only we would make it back to the moon, travel to Mars, or try to see what else we can do in this great big universe.

"Good fences make good neighbors"

Everyone has a talent. There are those who are world-class doctors while others are legal masterminds waiting for their chance as a Supreme Court Justice. Some people become successful race-car drivers while what seem like too few become favorite elementary school teachers. Even those who think they have no talent, those who dreamed of being actors but cannot memorize lines or hoped to become an author but cannot put together two sentences, have a skill they can perform above all others.

We all take delight in having talents. It is our ability to excel in this one thing that gives us our individuality. Without our individuality, we become nothing more than average. Average has replaced failure in our world. Gone are the days when we strive to be like every other American; a house with a white picket fence, married with two kids and a dog. Now we must be the best at something. We dream of the days when we are superstars or political leaders. To be something other than a lead actor or a U.S. Senator is an utter failure.

And all this because we don't like the word average unless "above" is inserted in front of it.

---

I recently returned from a month-long trip to various places in the country. Between D.C., Tennessee, Oklahoma City and Dallas I had some good experiences. But this isn't about those experiences. That'll be for another day.

When I arrived back in the Chicagoland area, I was given a task; I need to build a fence for my dad. Here's the catch: the only time I knew what I was building was when I built an argument, and even then it's even money on whether it is a good one.

So I'm presented with a task. A monumental task. A why-would-anyone-think-I-could-possibly-do-this task. And like most seemingly frustrating challenges, I took it head on without thinking.

We're not talking about a small fence here. We're not even talking about the easy-to-do six-footers that barricade ourselves from the outside world. Instead, we have a four-foot, open-slat fence. The good news is that the fence will be a copy of the old one, just with new wood. The bad news is that I need to raise the bottom up two inches without raising the whole fence up. To make it worse, I need to do it solo.

The reason solo is bad is because a.) I don't know what I'm doing and b.) I don't know what I'm doing.

I have a little knowledge of carpentry gathered over the years. I learned how to use a saw from my maternal grandparents, where woodworking was a major hobby of theirs. My grandfather would plane and size wood out for my grandmother, who would then cut various figures out of them. Then she'd paint them and sell them for a decent sum. It was her craft and something she took pride in. I learned how to use various saws from them growing up, but not enough to build things.

Actually, the only time I ever "built" something was a beer pong table I crafted together when living in Fairfax, Virginia. It was/is a nice table, but really it was just two sheets of plywood painted to look like a football field with braces and saw horses keeping it up. I really liked it, but I can't say it is something I truly built.

That brings us to these past few days. With my dad, I went to the lumber yard and gathered the necessary wood (which I calculated based on some rough measurements.) Then we hauled the wood to the back and I set up my work station. Not only was I alone from that point on, but I was completely clueless.

I had some confidence that this was going to get done. Dad mentioned I should have the small fence on the side of the house, which has four six-foot sections and one small gate, in a few hours, so I thought this was going to be a good deal if I could get it done in an afternoon.

Five hours later, this is all I had done. And I wasn't taking a slow route by any means! I was measuring for accuracy, cutting with caution, and assembling to perfection. I made sure every piece of wood was level to the ground and standing straight up and down. It was just taking forever to put together each section. Especially when I would have to figure out how to hold up the wood in order to screw the wood screw in properly to make it not only two inches above the ground, but conforming to the pattern and equidistant from each other slat. I didn't know what I as doing wrong.

Then came Sunday. Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest. Apparently this was waived for the devoted sons who promised to build fences. It didn't hurt that I had the house to myself since everyone was out on the boat or downtown or who knows where. I knew I couldn't build the gate the same way as I did the sections because gates aren't permanent fixtures on a fence. They swing back and forth. So I had to assemble the gate on the ground and the install hinges to the fence and the gate.

The gate, which is half the size of any section and uses much less wood, took longer than the rest of the fence! I spent most of the day trying to get the thing to fit. And when it was done, on Monday, I mentioned to my dad that I was thinking about assembling each section of the fence the same way, by building it on the ground and then installing it to the posts. His response, "I would've done that in the first place."

At what point of "I have no idea what I'm doing" did I somehow subconsciously turned down any advice? I'm still lost on that one. However, fast forward to today, the alternative method is working fine. The fence is half finished and I am winning the fight. It isn't easy work. It isn't fun work (for me.) I'm not even close to being good at this work. But there is on thing the fence taught me; I didn't get a degree in architecture or anything that involves building physical objects for a reason.

I just don't have the talent for it.

"Where the Wind Comes Sweeping Down the Plains"

I think my friends Chris and Ally said it best when they declared me a vagabond. In my short life, I have lived in many different places for many different reasons. Starting off as a Navy Brat and later as a young adult jumping ship only to escape what could happen, my nomadic lifestyle has been booth a hindrance and a blessing.

The hindrance since I have yet to establish myself at any location. The constant uprooting and resettling creates a revolving door of friendships and contacts. While some friends last, many others unfortunately fall to the wayside.

The blessing, however, is the unpredictable. The opportunity to hit the reset button in life, immerse in new societies and discover what a city has to offer outside of the tourist attractions.

The month of April can best be described as an accelerated version of my nomadic life. Between Oklahoma City, Washington, D.C., Chattanooga, TN, and Dallas, I've logged more than 5,000 miles in my truck. I visited old friends and spent time with family along the way. And through it all, I learned two important things.

Firstly, I need to settle down. I need to stop moving around all the time and start living a "normal" life. The constant uprooting does nothing but wreak havoc on my wallet, my sanity and, frankly, my ability to grow up. It's a lot of fun to travel around and to live in many different cities. However, something should also be said for living in one town and traveling the world on vacation.

The second lesson, and probably the more interesting one, is how much of an Okie I really am. In high school, I always talked about taking the first plane out of Oklahoma as soon as I graduated. I wasn't going to look back. Chicago was the focus of attention and I didn't want to shy away from it. By the time I started college, at the University of Oklahoma, I proclaimed to be from Illinois. I admitted to going to high school in Oklahoma City but left it at that. And it was true. I was born in Illinois and I did go to school in Oklahoma City, but aside from visiting family in the Land of Lincoln, I hadn't lived in the state in years.

But the reality hit a bit when I finally left Oklahoma, six months after college. I had finished a campaign and was heading to DC to try out the political life. I wanted to be a congressional staffer and was determined to make it. Little did realize how many other kids my age shared the same dream, and how few positions were truly available to fulfil the dream. In the course of ekeing out a living, before I finally landed a job as a government analyst, I still mentioned that I was originally from Illinois but started mentioning Oklahoma more often. Of course, being an insane OU football fan helps bring out the Okie in me.

When I arrived in Chicago, however, being from Illinois became an afterthought. I would always talk about Oklahoma, bringing up the politics, the Oklahoma City Thunder, and Oklahoma football. I was beginning to take pride in my Sooner upbringing, and not just from the university. Returning to Oklahoma in April really brought out how much Oklahoma truly is where I am from. I may have lived in several other places, and have been born in another state, but Oklahoma is my home state. And I take great pride in that.

I'm sure many people, especially those in Chicago, will say Oklahoma has always been my home, but it usually takes longer for people to see the obvious. For me, it seemed to have taken a little over ten years, maybe longer. It doesn't matter how long the realization took, however, just that it happened.

That appears true for many people. We, as humans, are so consumed with the world around us that we ignore the truth in front of us. Even those who are consumed with themselves, the vain members of our society, cannot notice what is truly staring back at them in the mirror. And usually it is those conceited few who never discover the truth.

Sad, really, to think someone will live their entire life and never realize the lessons they are to learn and discover who they are meant to be. Or maybe it is they who always knew who they were to be but refuse to acknowledge it out of fear of failure?

"Do What Makes You Happy"

I remember sitting in the living room of my apartment a couple years back. I wasn't happy and didn't know what to do about it. I was talking to my roommate and pretty much decided on the spot to move to Chicago. It was purely based on me enjoying Chicago while being frustrated in DC.

After I made that decision my roommate's mother came to visit. She wanted to say goodbye since we had been fairly close while I was in DC. It was a sad parting, but an exciting one at the same time. What she said, however, reveals so much about her and about her impact with whomever she encountered. She told me that I need to do what makes me happy. This wasn't the first time she said that, nor the last. I can say that I took those words to heart and have tried to live them every day.

Do what makes you happy. It's a simple sentence with a complex order. We often hear people complain about their jobs, their homes, the city they live in, the friends they have. If we did what makes us happy, would we still be working? Would we move to the countryside to escape the trappings of the big city? Would we start a new life in a strange place?

What makes me happy is taking risks. That's why I like what I've been doing. Granted, the risks don't always pay out, but that's part of the fun.

What makes me happy is close friends. That's why I always make it a point to visit them when I come into town.

What makes me happy is going to new places That may be why I seem to move all the time and come up with new locations to check out.

That wasn't the only thing I took with me when I left DC, it wasn't even the only thing I took from my roommate's mother. As I mentioned earlier, we had been fairly close while I was out there. Some of the greatest memories involve her; a birthday gift (which I will always cherish) wrapped in box after box with each individual box wrapped, a trip to Monticello so I could indulge in my history addiction, trying new wines just because the label looked fun.

When I lived out there, I could see why everyone gravitated towards her. She cared for everyone who came into her home. Anyone who was friends with her daughter was treated with such great respect, and usually a great meal, that it was hard not to think of her as another mother, which is why many ended up calling her Mom. I knew a truly special woman while I was out there, and felt better off for it.

I haven't been back to DC since I made that decision and moved to the Midwest. I did talk to her a few times, letting her know how I was doing and that I was doing what made me happy. She always said she was glad to hear that and could tell just by my voice.

With friends getting married in October, I had planned to return to DC and see her again. But that wasn't meant to be. When I return to Virginia in a couple weeks, I'll be going to say goodbye to an amazing woman. It's surreal to think of it all, and I'm not sure if it has really sunk in completely.

I can only hope to keep her memory alive by doing what makes me happy. It seems like the right thing to do.