My name is Frank

 

My name’s Frank. I’m 64, a retired electrician.

Forty-two years I spent running wires through houses, fixing breakers, making sure people had light in their kitchens and heat in their winters. Never once did anyone ask me where I went to college. Mostly, they just wanted to know if I could get the power back on before their ice cream melted.

Last May, I was at my granddaughter Emily’s school career day. You know the drill —

doctors, lawyers, a software guy in a slick suit talking about “scaling startups.” I was the only one there with a tool belt and work boots.

When it was my turn, I told the kids, “I don’t have a degree. I’ve never sat in a lecture hall. But I’ve wired schools, hospitals, and your principal’s house. And when the hospital generator failed during a snowstorm in ’98, I was the one in the basement with a flashlight, keeping the lights on for newborn babies upstairs.”

The kids leaned forward. They had questions — real ones. “How do you fix stuff in the dark?” “Do you make a lot of money?” “Do you ever get zapped?” (Yes, once, and it’ll curl your hair.)

When the bell rang, one boy hung back. Small kid, freckles, hoodie too big for him. He mumbled, “My uncle’s a plumber. People laugh at him ’cause he didn’t finish high school. But… he’s the only one in the family who can fix anything.”

I looked that boy in the eye and said, “Kid, your uncle’s a hero. When your toilet overflows at midnight, Harvard ain’t sending anyone. A plumber is.”

Here’s the thing nobody told me when I was young — the world doesn’t run without tradespeople. You can have all the engineers you want, but if nobody builds the house, wires the power, or lays the pipes, those blueprints just sit in a drawer.

We’ve made it sound like trades are what you do if you can’t go to college, instead of a path you choose because you like working with your hands, solving problems, and seeing your work stand solid for decades.

Four years after high school, some kids walk away with diplomas. Others walk away with zero debt, a union card, and a skill they can take anywhere in the world. And guess what? When your furnace dies in January, it’s not the diploma that saves you.

A few weeks ago, that same freckled kid’s mom stopped me at the grocery store. She said, “You probably don’t remember, but you told my son trades are important. He’s shadowing his uncle this summer. First time I’ve seen him excited about anything in years.”

That’s the part we forget — for some kids, knowing their path is important and changes everything. It’s not about “just” fixing wires or pipes. It’s about pride. Purpose. The kind that sticks with you long after the job’s done.

So next time you meet a teenager, don’t just ask, “Where are you going to college?” Ask, “What’s your plan?” And if they say, “I’m learning to weld,” or “I’m starting an apprenticeship,” smile big and say, “That’s fantastic. We’re going to need you.”

Because we will. More than ever. And when the lights go out, you’ll be glad they showed up.”

"Where the Light Never Dies"

Where the Light Never Dies                                                                                                                 Inspired by Lewis Capaldi and Celine Dion.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yqef_2KNBdY

 

" Never Write Anybody Off, Ever "

 

“The Bus Stop Violin”

The wind cut through the high street as people rushed past the bus stop. Most hardly noticed the man sitting on an upturned crate, his violin resting on his knee. His coat was frayed at the cuffs, and his beard had gone white in patches.

Lena noticed him first because of the music. It wasn’t polished, but there was something raw and aching in the way he played Ave Maria. She slowed, fumbling for coins.

“Thank you,” the man murmured when she dropped a pound into the open case. His voice was soft, almost embarrassed.

“That was beautiful,” Lena said. “Did you study music?”

He hesitated. “Once. Long time ago. Before… everything.”

She almost walked on, but something in his eyes stopped her. “What’s your name?”

“David.”

“David,” she repeated. “Would you mind if I recorded a bit of your playing? People online should hear this.”

He shrugged. “If you like. Doesn’t matter.”

Lena took out her phone. David straightened, tucked the violin under his chin, and played again. This time the notes soared.

That night Lena posted the clip with a caption:

“Meet David. He’s homeless, but his music deserves a stage. Please share.”

Within hours it had thousands of views. By the next morning her inbox was full of messages: a retired music teacher offering free lessons, a local shelter offering a bed, a community orchestra wanting him to audition.

When Lena found David again at the bus stop, she held out her phone. “Look,” she said, showing him the messages.

He stared at the screen. “All… this… for me?” His hands trembled.

“Yes,” Lena said. “People want to help. They want you to play.”

He wiped his eyes. “I thought the world forgot me.”

“No,” she said softly. “Never write anybody off, David. Not even yourself.”

Months later, David stood on a small stage at a community concert hall. He wore a borrowed tuxedo, his beard neatly trimmed. In the front row sat Lena, grinning.

“Before I play,” David told the audience, “I want to thank the young woman who stopped at a bus stop and didn’t just walk by. She reminded me — and all of you — that no life is too far gone. Thank you.”

He lifted the violin. The first note rang out, clear and sure, and for the first time in years, David played not to survive but to be heard.

A Sack of Stones

 

A Sack of Stones…

 

Once upon a time, in a quiet village nestled among hills, there lived a wise grandfather named Esteban and his curious but stubborn grandson, Martín.

Martín hated homework. Every day it turned into a battle at home. One afternoon, after his mother reached her breaking point, she left him with Grandpa Esteban to cool off.

— “What’s wrong, Martín?”

— “Homework, Grandpa! It’s boring, it’s hard, and I don’t want to do it!”

Esteban didn’t argue. He simply walked over to the corner and brought back an old sack full of rocks.

— “Help me carry this to the other side of the field,” he said.

Martín stared at it.

— “But it’s heavy! Why should I?”

— “I’ll explain on the way.”

Grumbling, Martín picked up the sack. Step by step, it grew heavier. After a while, Esteban spoke:

— “Homework is like this sack. It feels pointless and hard. But guess what happens if someone carries a sack like this every day?”

— “What?” Martín gasped.

— “Their arms grow stronger.”

— “Homework isn’t to bother you—it’s to make your mind strong. So when real problems come, you’re ready.”

Martín frowned, quietly absorbing the message.

— “And if I just don’t do it?”

Esteban paused and smiled gently.

— “Then someone else will always have to carry your weight. But do you want to rely on others forever?”

Martín didn’t answer. But his steps grew more determined. At the end of the field, they set the sack down and sat beneath a tree.

— “I hated carrying sacks as a boy too,” Esteban said.

— “But now, each one I lift reminds me of the strength I’ve built.”

That night, for the first time, Martín asked his mother to sit with him while he did his homework. It wasn’t perfect, but he didn’t give up.

Sometimes, what feels heavy isn’t a punishment—

it’s preparation.

And all we need is someone like Esteban to remind us:

the weight we carry today can become the strength we rely on tomorrow.

"Hope" in Story and Song.

 

The Lantern on the Hill

In a quiet village nestled between mountains, an old man named Arun climbed the same hill every evening at sunset carrying a small lantern. The villagers often teased him. “Why do you waste your time, old man? No one goes up that hill at night.”

Arun would just smile and keep climbing.

One winter night, a fierce storm rolled in. The path from the next village was washed out, and a group of travellers lost their way. In the darkness, they spotted a faint glow on the hill. Drawn to the light, they followed it safely into the village.

When they reached the top, they found Arun standing there with his lantern. “I light it every evening,” he said, “because I don’t know who might need to see it.”

The villagers never mocked him again. Many of them even began to carry lanterns of their own, lining the hill with little flames. From then on, the hill became known as The Path of Hope.

Message:
Sometimes our small, consistent acts — even when no one notices — can become the very thing someone else needs to find their way.

 

 

 The Broken Violin

A street musician found an old, cracked violin in a rubbish bin. Everyone told him it was worthless. Instead of throwing it out, he patched it gently and played it every evening. The sound was rough at first but became more and more beautiful. Passers-by stopped, listened, and began to drop coins, enough to rent a tiny apartment. Years later, a little girl approached him and said, “I started learning music because of your violin.”
Message: Even broken things — and broken people — can produce beauty if handled with care.

 

 

I Hope you Dance

This song Encourages taking chances, remaining hopeful,                                                                         believing that doors will open when others close.

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty-handed

I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens
Promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance

I hope you dance (dance)
I hope you dance (dance)

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance
Never settle for the path of least resistance
Livin' might mean takin' chances, but they're worth takin'
Lovin' might be a mistake, but it's worth makin'

Don't let some hell bent heart leave you bitter
When you come close to sellin' out, reconsider
Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance

I hope you dance (time is a wheel in constant motion)
I hope you dance (always rolling us along)
I hope you dance (tell me who wants to look back on their years)
I hope you dance (and wonder where those years have gone)

I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens
Promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance

Dance, I hope you dance (dance)
I hope you dance (time is a wheel in constant motion)
I hope you dance (always rolling us along)
I hope you dance (tell me who wants to look back on their years)
I hope you dance (and wonder where those years have gone)

Tell me who wants to look back on their years (dance)
And wonder where those years have gone (dance)

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F44nrK0MxEQ

"Someone to Believe in"

 

Every Tuesday I found a boy’s crumpled homework in my trash. One night, he told me farmers were worthless—like me.

I’ve lived seventy-two years on this patch of dirt. My name’s Ray. Folks around here call me “the old farmer with the broken barn,” and that’s fair enough. My wife’s gone, my kids grown, and most days it’s just me, the cows, and this stubborn land that refuses to quit.

What people don’t know is that, for months, I’ve been finding someone else’s life tossed into my feed sacks and trash barrel. Crumpled notebooks. Torn math worksheets. English essays with red F’s bleeding across the page. At first I thought it was just the wind carrying scraps from the school down the road. Then I noticed the same handwriting, always scrawled in anger:

“I’m dumb.”

“Nobody cares.”

“School is useless.”

It punched a hole in my chest every time. Because once upon a time, I was that kid. Teachers said my hands were good for milking cows, not holding pencils. My father said, “Brains don’t grow corn.” And I believed him, until it was too late.

One night, I caught him. The boy. Standing by my shed under the security light, clutching another ripped page. His name was Tommy, a neighbour's kid, twelve years old, freckles and too-big sneakers.

“What are you doing with my trash?” I barked, trying not to scare him.

He flinched but snapped back: “It’s not trash, it’s my homework. Dad says I’ll end up like you anyway—digging dirt, nothing to show for it.”

I froze. Like me. Worthless. Dirt.

I didn’t yell. I didn’t chase him off. I just let him run, his voice echoing long after he was gone.

That night I sat at the table with an old seed bag beside me. Pulled out a pencil. Wrote on the back:

“This seed looks useless. But give it sun, water, time—it feeds the world. Don’t throw yourself away.”

I tucked the note and a handful of kernels into the barrel where he always left his papers. Felt foolish, like a farmer writing fairy tales to the night.

Next day, it was gone.

The following week, there was another sheet in the barrel. Math problems, half-wrong. At the bottom, written in shaky pencil: “How can a seed be smart?”

I grinned. Wrote back: “Fractions are seeds too. Slice a pie into 4. Eat 1, that’s 1/4. Even a farmer knows that.”

And so it began. A secret exchange. Him throwing broken pieces of himself into my trash. Me sending them back stitched with hope.

He confessed he couldn’t spell “because.” I circled it and wrote: “You spelled it right this time. Keep going.”

He said his dad called farmers dumb. I scribbled: “My dirt puts food on his table. Dumb don’t do that.”

Week by week, his words softened. He started signing them: “Tommy.” And one day, tucked beside the page, was a candy wrapper folded into the shape of a star.

But secrets don’t stay buried long in small towns.

His father stormed over one Saturday, red-faced, fists like hammers. “You stay the hell out of my boy’s head! He don’t need farmer nonsense. School’s already enough of a joke without you filling him with lies.”

I didn’t raise my voice. Just said: “Your boy’s not broken. He just needs someone to believe it.”

That was enough. He spat at the dirt and left.

It should’ve ended there. But the next week, another note showed up in the barrel. Shakier handwriting, but determined:

“He says you’re wrong. But I think seeds are smart. Because they don’t give up, even in bad soil.”

My throat burned. The boy was fighting for himself now.

Months passed. Then, in spring, the school held a parent night. I wasn’t planning to go—farmers don’t belong in classrooms—but one of the teachers, Mrs. Carter, stopped by my gate.

“You should come,” she said gently. “There’s something you’ll want to hear.”

So I went. Sat in the back with dirt still under my nails, trying to disappear into the folding chair.

They had the kids read essays aloud. When Tommy’s turn came, he walked to the front, clutching a paper. His voice shook but carried across the gym:

“My hero is Farmer Ray. He taught me that seeds look small, but they feed the world. He taught me that being smart isn’t just about grades—it’s about not giving up. He taught me farmers aren’t dumb. They’re the reason we eat. When I grow up, I want to be both: a student, and a man who works the land.”

The room went silent. His father stared at the floor. The teacher wiped her eyes. And me? I sat in the back, fists pressed to my knees, trying not to break apart.

Afterward, Tommy slipped me a folded page. Inside was a drawing: a stalk of corn with roots tangled deep, and next to it a boy holding a book. Underneath, one line: “Thank you for seeing me.”

I walked home under the stars, his words heavier than any sack of feed I’d ever carried.

People think changing the world takes money, degrees, or power. Truth is, sometimes it takes nothing more than a stubborn farmer and a few scribbled notes in the trash.

Tommy doesn’t know everything yet. Neither do I. But we both know this: seeds grow when someone bothers to plant them.

And kids? They’re the most important crop we’ll ever tend.

So before you dismiss a farmer, or a caretaker, motor mechanic, electrician , or anyone who works with their hands—remember: without us, the world starves. And before you dismiss a kid struggling with fractions—remember: they just need one person to believe in them.

I believed. And now he believes.

That’s how you grow a future. One seed. One boy. One note at a time.

 

Learn from Bees

 

My dad has bees. Today I went to his house, and he showed me all the honey he had from the hives. He took the lid off of a 5-gallon bucket full of honey and on top of the honey there were 3 little bees, struggling. They were covered in sticky honey and drowning. I asked him if we could help them and he said he was sure they wouldn't survive. Casualties of honey collection I suppose.

I asked him again if we could at least get them out and kill them quickly, after all he was the one who taught me to put a suffering animal (or bug) out of its misery. He finally conceded and scooped the bees out of the bucket. He put them in an empty yogurt container and put the plastic container outside.

Because he had disrupted the hive with the earlier honey collection, there were bees flying all over outside.

We put the 3 little bees in the container on a bench and left them to their fate. My dad called me out a little while later to show me what was happening. These three little bees were surrounded by all of their sisters (all of the bees are females) and they were cleaning the sticky nearly dead bees, helping them to get all of the honey off of their bodies. We came back a short time later and there was only one little bee left in the container. She was still being tended to by her sisters.

When it was time for me to leave, we checked one last time and all three of the bees had been cleaned off enough to fly away and the container was empty.

Those three little bees lived because they were surrounded by family and friends who would not give up on them, family and friends who refused to let them drown in their own stickiness and resolved to help until the last little bee could be set free.

Bee Sisters. Bee Peers. Bee Teammates.

We could all learn a thing or two from these bees.

Bee kind always.

 

Absolutely—profound is the perfect word. 

Bees don’t rescue out of ego.

They don’t ask what happened or why.

They just help—instinctively, communally, lovingly.

In a world where so much human behaviour is driven by judgment or delay, the honeybee reminds us:

True compassion requires no explanation.

Just presence. Just action.

It’s humbling to realize that in the quiet chambers of a hive,

a deeper form of empathy thrives—one that doesn’t need language, only connection.

Yes—we have much to learn from the bees.

About service. About unity.

About the sacred art of not giving up on each other.

 

 

“I Am the Last to Leave the Hive”

Hello, my human friend,

This morning, I was the last to leave the hive. The others are gone—some lost, some never returned. It’s quieter now. Too quiet.

I am a bee.

And though the world calls me small, I carry forests in my feet. I carry hope in my hum. I carry the future with every flower I touch.

But I am afraid.

What happens when the last bloom dies?

What happens when the last bee fades?

Who will tell the trees to bear fruit? Who will whisper to the blossoms to rise?

You.

You are the only one left who can turn this tide.

Scatter seeds like you’re sowing stars.

Let nature come back to your doorstep.

Let this Earth breathe again.

I may be small. But my fall is not.

Don’t let me be the last.