And a young Latvian refugee (whose name I never learned to pronounce) that filled the air with dark, poetic laments over the post World War II loss of...his country.A truer conglomeration of mutually supportive, mixed levels of knowledge and expertise, couldn't be imagined.We'd gather, usually atGeorge's apartment (remember him?... he sold me Lucille), and we'd wail and flail deep into the night. Homer's bluegrass/folk music, Stoney's free-form jazz, Tom's magnificently extensive repertoire of. When that will be is anyone’s guess.I feel good today. I got up early for a run to the gym, got in a workout with Maria in her yoga pants, and an easy jog home. Showered and ready for the rest of the day I go downstairs, already hearing mine yapping just like old times.“Good morning, children,” I call out. “Who made the coffee today?”“I did, dad; you’re safe,” Erin replies. “We won’t need the defibrillator today.”“You guys might as well drink a nice chamomile tea if you can’t handle a. More

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