The weather was perfect, not too cold, not too hot, as we cruised on the houseboat on Lake Dunmore. As we picked up speed, the wind blended into the water of the lake, creating a misty spray on us. I could feel that we were in this in-between space, with the water below us, with its own watery world of fish swimming, and the sky above us with birds flying. Cruising on that thin membrane between two ecosystems.

“Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.”
A. A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

“And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow.”
W. B. Yeats, The Lake Isle of Innisfree

“Sometimes we just need to leave our worries on the waves and enjoy the ride.”
Shawn O’Neil

The other feeling that came upon me was a sense of freedom and serenity. We left all our worries and stresses on the waves as we cruised. It was almost impossible to have any stress as we skimmed across the surface.

I bumped into my friends, the Collins, at Shaw’s, and they invited me to this wonderful experience. It was one of those serendipity moments. I was free to join them, and the dock was only 15 mins from my house. So, I joined the Collins’ Cruise.

We passed others enjoying the lake. There was this communal sense of peace, harmony, and enjoyment, which made sense because it would have been hard to have anything but that on this beautiful early summer evening.

We came to a calm part of the lake and dropped anchor. I could tell that this was a common occurrence, and everyone knew what to do without directions, as the Collins set up for an evening dinner of grilled hot dogs, crackers and cheese, watermelon slices, and water.

After eating our meal, we began sharing our experiences from our separate trips to Ireland.

My friend brought pictures up on his phone as we gathered around on one side of the boat to look at them. His wife, another friend, would pipe in with some details that she remembered. The interesting thing was that it had been years since our trips, but it seemed like it was yesterday, and we all felt a calling to go back to the homeland of our ancestors.

We talked until dusk, then pulled up the anchor and started cruising back as the moon began ascending into the early evening sky. It was time to head back into our lives again. However, I am sure we returned with uplifted hearts and calmer demeanors.

A serendipitous moment turned into a pleasant cruise with the Collins. For a little while, we left our worries on the waves.

“We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once.”
— Friedrich Nietzsche

“A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”
— Ecclesiastes 3:4, KJV

“Sometimes you need to throw caution to the wind and just dance.”-Shawn O’Neil

This Friday I went for two reasons. First, to support my friend Joe, the owner of Gene’s Chili Hut, who was serving that evening. I’d written about Gene’s Chili Hut before and promised Joe I’d stop by. But before I even got there, I’d been in Lincoln with my church family waiting for our friend to come home. He was coming home to spend what would likely be his last days. None of us knew how much time he had. Days, hours? We simply did not know. I carried that with me as I drove to Lincoln Peak Vineyard.

I brought my beat-up lawn folding chair and set up on the side and in the front row, then walked up to get food at Gene’s Chili Hut. The music started playing as I was waiting for my food.

I walked back over to my chair to eat my food and listen to the blues band “Hard Scrabble.”

Shortly after that, I noticed a beautiful, blue-eyed woman heading my way. She walked past me and started talking to the people behind me. While talking, she accidentally whacked me with her bag. She squeezed my shoulder and apologized. I said it was okay.

Before long, that woman asked me if I’d like to dance. Her friend joined us, too. She was quieter, with a beautiful German Shepherd sitting nearby.

The blue-eyed woman had those kind blue eyes and an easy way about her.

So, we danced. For a while, the music carried us. We laughed; we talked and shared a simple summer evening.

Towards the end of the evening, when the band was done and people were starting to pack up and leave, I said, “I don’t mean to be a downer, but I just came from Lincoln where a friend from church is coming home to pass on.” And then I added, “Thank you for asking me to dance.”

Being there reminded me that while we’re here, we need to live.

At the end of the night, the blue-eyed woman asked for my number. She said she’d text. No message came, but maybe a digit was off. Maybe our paths will cross again another way. She smiled and said something about the universe bringing people together again.

Before leaving, I thanked the band. The lead singer, an elementary school teacher when she’s not on stage, was the first to speak up. Then I said goodnight to Joe at the food truck.

Driving home through the Vermont night, I realized I’d spent the evening holding both sorrow and joy. Waiting with my friend... dancing with new faces. The two were not opposites; they were side by side. And maybe that’s what life quietly calls us to do. Not to choose between grief or joy, but to let them sit together. To say yes when someone asks us to dance. And to keep saying yes for ourselves, while we still have the chance.

This morning I was sitting on my porch in my rocking chair, drinking my coffee, while my dog was running around the yard.

Suddenly, a hummingbird came up and hovered maybe an arm’s length away from me. It just stayed there for a few seconds, moving back and forth, almost like it was looking at me.

Then it went over to the feeder, took one drink, and zoomed off.

It was just a little moment, but it stayed with me.

“Dragonflies are reminders that we are light, and we can reflect light in powerful ways if we choose to do so.” — Robyn Nola

“As long as the hummingbird had not abandoned the land, somewhere there were still flowers, and they still go on.” — Leslie Marmon Silko

“Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.”
— From an Irish headstone

“The little things remind me of the people I have loved, but they also remind me to love the people who are still here.” — Shawn A O’Neil

Maybe that hummingbird was simply stopping by for breakfast, or maybe, at least in my heart, it was a little messenger saying, “I’m here. Enjoy this moment. Enjoy this time. I’m okay.”

That little encounter got me thinking about the people I have loved and how the smallest things can bring back memories of them.

I can walk down a city street and smell someone smoking a cigar and immediately think of my dad and the White Owl cigars he used to smoke.

I can hear the song, “We Belong” by Pat Benatar, and think of my mom.

A smell, a song, a dragonfly, a bird, or even a hummingbird can bring back a memory of someone I loved.

Losing someone can bring profound sadness, but thinking about the times we had together can also bring profound happiness.

For me, those little memories make me appreciate life and the people who are still here.

Those memories make me want to give someone a hug. Tell someone I haven’t seen in a while that it’s good to see them. Spend a little more time with family or friends.

And you don’t always have to say the words, “I love you.”

It can be a hand on someone’s shoulder, a look, taking a walk together or just sitting quietly with someone. Just being there can say enough.

Those memories also make me think about forgiveness.

There are times when someone we truly love, whether a friend or family member, hurts us. We hold onto that hurt. We may hold a grudge or feel there is no way to resolve what happened.

But when I think about the people I have lost, it makes me look at those things a little differently.

I ask myself:

Is this worth losing them?

I may need to swallow my pride. I may need to forgive. That doesn’t mean I have to forget what happened or pretend I wasn’t hurt. It comes down to me and what I want to carry with me as I move on.

Because someday I may wish I could make that phone call, take that walk, give that hug or just sit quietly beside them one more time.

And when I think about the people I have already lost, I ask myself, what would they want for me?

Would they want me to spend my life being sad because they are gone?

I don’t think so.

I think they would want me to enjoy life. To laugh. To love. To forgive when I can. To spend time with the people I still have and enjoy the little moments while they are here.

And I believe that one of these days, when my time comes, those loved ones will be there to give me a hug and welcome me.

Until then, I have some living to do.

I think that is what these little moments and memories are reminding me.

Enjoy the people in my life.

Enjoy the little things.

Love while I can.

And every once in a while, a little hummingbird stops by with a reminder:

“I’m here. Enjoy this moment. Enjoy this time. I’m okay.”

You would never know it, but there is a rodeo way up in the little mountain village of Lincoln, Vermont. This will be the fifth year that this not-so-little event has happened. It was an invitation-only event that required registration and a signed waiver. For the most part, word about it spread by word of mouth.

“We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men.”
— Herman Melville

“The greatness of a community is most accurately measured by the compassionate actions of its members.”
— Coretta Scott King

“Open your heart and love to embrace the community that you live in.”
— Shawn O’Neil

I had a friend with me, and we were following her grandson, his friend and her husband in a big red truck. We drove up the typical mountain dirt road that seemed to go further into the wilderness. The reason you knew something was going on was because of the line of cars, some out of state and fancy. There were cardboard signs pointing you up the road, and as you got closer, guides stood on the road to guide you forward to the parking field past the road to the event. A Rutland County sheriff sat in his car across from the road. As we followed the cars up, we started seeing groups of people walking down the road and shuttles full of people bringing others down and onto the road that led to the event.

We stepped out of the shuttle and joined the people waiting in four lines at the entrance and sign-in tables. You could hear an announcer on a loudspeaker across from the tables. This is where the rodeo took place. However, that was just a small part of this whole experience.

I soon walked down the gravel road, passing a pond with people swimming. To the left were food trucks of all kinds. There must have been 30 or more food trucks. A big white pavilion with a stage and dance floor stood in front of me. Tables spread out from there. A bench with several bartenders was off to the side. It was only canned drinks. Tubs of mineral and canned water were scattered throughout the grounds.

I checked out the food trucks along with other people. There were several groups sitting at the tables, enjoying each other’s company and eating.

I walked up to the noodle truck and waited behind two women who had just ordered. While I was looking at the menu, one of the women told me that the chicken wasn’t quite ready, so I ended up with the fish and ginger noodles. After I received my food, I realized that it was free. The hard cider I ordered at the bar was free too.

There were so many choices of food, from burgers and fries to smoothies and ice cream. I wandered over to the axe-throwing booth but could not stick an axe on the target. After several tries and guidance from the host, still no luck. I was determined to get at least one axe to stick before I left. I was, however, more successful on the mechanical bull. Before the evening was over, I went back and finally managed to stick an axe in the target.

Later, I was in line with my daughter to sign up for a genuine tattoo. It would be my first one. Unfortunately (or fortunately), we signed up too late, and by the time it got to our turn, the tattooist was done.

Most people seemed to have some form of cowboy attire on. It was a hot day, but shortly after dusk, a light rain came up and cooled things down. At this point, a country band was playing under the pavilion, and people were on the dance floor.

There was a barn with a smaller stage across from the white pavilion. A smaller band was playing in there. The barn had lounge chairs and couches off to the sides where people lounged, while a good crowd stood on the floor in front of the stage listening to the band.

What caught my attention was the fact that the staff, security, and other organizers blended in with the crowd. The area was clean, and there was hardly any trash.

Everyone was happy and festive. Complete strangers were talking to each other as though they were long-lost friends. There seemed to be a general understanding that we were all here to enjoy the activities and each other’s company. People put their trash and recycling in the appropriate containers, which were scattered around the grounds.

All this feel-good, communal gathering was due to the owners of the Lincoln General Store, who also own BETA Technologies, a Vermont company developing electric aircraft.

I can’t speak about their reasons for putting on such an event, but from my point of view, it felt like giving back to the community and building relationships with the people who live there.

All this was evident in the general feeling and atmosphere of this unusual event way up in the small Vermont mountain village of Lincoln.

He stopped by before this trip, since we are only 15 minutes away. I gave him his birthday present early, knowing he could use it on his trip. It was a portable lightweight camp chair; he will now be the envy of campers and staff alike.

“Children are not things to be molded, but are people to be unfolded.”
— Jess Lair

“Making the decision to have a child... is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.”
— Elizabeth Stone

“We hold our children’s hands for their first steps, guide them as they grow, and then one day we have to let go and watch them find their own paths.”
— Shawn O’Neil

It was a beautiful, warm morning on the day of his birthday. My thoughts and heart were warm with memories of not only my boy, now a man, but of all three of my children, as I sat on the front porch watching my dog run around.

As the warm sun settled on my face, I remembered each of my kids’ births and the first time I held those tiny bodies and smelled that baby smell, my heart swelling with emotions. I promised right there and then, for every one of my children, that I would be there for them all their lives and that I would be the best dad I could be for them.

I then had like a montage of images of my kids growing up: my eldest daughter walking around barefoot everywhere. We had to make sure she had shoes or boots in the winter. My middle girl, with two little pigtails sticking right up from her blonde hair, as she followed her older sister around like a shadow. Then the boy who is a man now, with a bright little smile as he jumped up and down, up and down in one of those jumpy chairs that you attached to a doorway. He is still jumping as an adult, just without the chair.

The scene flashed of us driving down the coast of Maine on a family vacation, each of us singing to the music playlist my eldest put together for the trip. Windows rolled down and not caring who was listening. In fact, the kids would wave at people passing by to see their reactions. That was a summer that remains in my heart and soul.

I could write pages and pages of these cherished images and memories. Their lives seemed to flash through my mind that morning. But all these memories made me realize that just like my children becoming young adults and living this new stage in their lives, I too am entering a new stage. In a way, I feel like I am becoming an adult again. I know that sounds strange for a man almost 60 who has raised three children, but retirement and this new life have put me on a new path too.

I know our times together dwindle as we are all busy being adults. But in the times we do get together, I sit back and watch these beautiful, smart, talented young adults interact with each other as though they were still those young kids sitting in a car, singing at the tops of their voices and waving at people as we drove by.

Maybe it is fitting that my son turned 21 while out in the wilderness. In a way, we are all entering our own wilderness, my children into adulthood and me into the unknown world of retirement and a new life.

My children are finding their own paths, and I am finding mine. But no matter where those paths take us, I will always be their dad, loving them, supporting them, and being there for them whenever they need me.

“The highest good is like water. Water gives life to the ten thousand things and does not strive.”
Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching

“People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”
1 Samuel 16:7

“Sometimes the most sacred moments in life aren’t found in the places we expect. They’re found wherever people come together with compassion, hope, and love.”
Shawn O’Neil

This past Sunday, the New Haven River became one of those sacred places. It was the annual United Church of Lincoln’s baptism service, held each summer, usually in July or August.

I have helped with and attended some of these sacred services over the years. As I walked down the road from the church on that warm, sunny Sunday, I sensed almost immediately that this baptism would be something special.

It wasn’t because I was serving as a deacon and would be actively involved in the service. Nor was it because we were celebrating our minister’s third anniversary with our church. Yes, the weather was perfect for such an occasion, but it was more than a beautiful summer day. There was a quiet sense of sacredness in the air, as if the Holy Spirit had already arrived and was waiting for us by the river.

I watched the six people, all dressed in white, standing together in a circle slightly apart from everyone else as Pastor Co’Releous spoke quietly with them. In just a few moments, they would be stepping into the river, each having made the deeply personal and sacred choice to be baptized.

When it was time for the baptisms, we formed a human chain stretching out into the deeper part of the river. I was the third person in the line, standing just before the riverbed dropped off into deeper water. Together, we helped provide a steady and safe path for those entering the river.

One by one, each person was slowly and carefully guided out to the deeper water where Pastor Co’Releous, dressed in a flowing white robe, waited for them. After sharing a few words and asking if they accepted the sacred step they were about to take, he turned to the congregation and declared that they had answered, “Yes.”

Then, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, he gently lowered them beneath the water as they held their noses. A moment later, he lifted them back up again to the joyful applause of the congregation, a community of witnesses celebrating their new beginning.

After the last person stepped out of the river, Pastor Co’Releous followed a tradition he observes at every baptism. He asked if anyone else felt called to step into the river and publicly commit their life to Christ.

Then something unexpected happened.

The first person to step forward was a young man named Ian, who attended the church with his mother. Co’Releous looked over at Ian’s mother, who gave her approval.

After Ian was baptized, others began stepping forward, including several residents of Zeno Farm, a nearby community that supports adults with intellectual and developmental disabilities.

They were all memorable and special, but the one that touched my heart the most was the last person to be baptized. She was a young woman in a wheelchair. We were prepared to come closer to her, but she insisted on coming out to Co’Releous.

Without hesitation, two staff members from Zeno Farm stepped forward to help. Together, the rest of us carefully guided her through the water to Co’Releous. We formed a circle around her, gently supporting her as he performed the final baptism.

It was a beautiful reminder of what a caring church family can accomplish together.

The Holy Spirit was indeed present at the New Haven River in the tiny mountain town of Lincoln, Vermont. Before the day was over, fifteen people had been baptized. It was a beautiful and sacred Sunday.

There’s more being served from that little trailer than chili. It’s a love story that spans three generations of an Italian American family.

“In every conceivable manner, the family is a link to our past and a bridge to our future.”
Alex Haley

“La famiglia è la patria del cuore.”
“The family is the home of the heart.”

“Many thanks... for allowing me to re-experience a childhood memory... I now proudly lay claim to being the only customer served by three generations of your family!”
– Jim Gleason, recalling the original Gene’s Chili Hut

Decades before Vermont ever tasted Gene’s chili, two brothers in Utica, New York, began a family business called Gene’s Chili Hut. Life has a way of setting family legacies aside for a while, but some are never really lost. They simply find new hands to carry them from one generation to the next.

This is one Italian American family’s story.

I’ve known Joe for years. We’ve shared a lot of conversations at work. The first time he showed me the trailer he and his youngest son, Tristan, were bringing back to life as Gene’s Chili Hut, I could see the pride, excitement, and passion in his eyes before I heard the story behind it.

As Joe told the story, I could almost picture those two brothers opening Gene’s Chili Hut in Utica back in the early 1950s. It was a family business built around a chili recipe that people came to know. Joe told me the recipe itself had been purchased for $5,000, a considerable sum at the time. Then life took an unexpected turn. Uncle Gene died at just thirty-seven years old. Joe’s father kept the business going with his mother for several more years, but the world around them was changing, and eventually Gene’s Chili Hut closed its doors.

A decade later, when Joe was a teenager, he and his father, now affectionately known as Big Joe, took the family chili legacy off the shelf and brought Gene’s Chili Hut back to life. Joe’s mother even designed a new logo featuring a running hot dog. About three years later, Big Joe became ill. Once again, the family recipe was put back on the shelf. Time passed, but the family’s story wasn’t finished yet.

As Joe talked about this new venture, I could still see that pride in his eyes. I couldn’t help but think that although the family recipe had been put on the shelf more than once, the family legacy never really had. It had quietly waited all those years until Tristan sparked an idea to bring Gene’s Chili Hut into a new generation, in a new place. Sebastian, the oldest son, added his own touch by redesigning the logo while keeping its retro look. He also continues to do much of the behind-the-scenes work as the web designer. I like to think Uncle Gene and Big Joe would be smiling, watching a third generation carry their family’s story forward.

So, if you happen to be at a Vermont event and see the white trailer with the running hot dog, stop by the window and order a bowl of chili, or have some of the original chili sauce on a hot dog, burger, or fries. You’re getting more than a meal. You’re taking part in a family story that has been carried through three generations and, with a little luck, will continue for many more. Oh, and be sure to say hi to Joe and Tristan.

https://geneschilihut.com/

“Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.”
Simone Weil

“In a dream, in a vision of the night... then he opens the ears of men.”
Job 33:15-16

“The things that truly matter have a way of finding us again.”
Shawn O’Neil

It’s easy to notice the big moments. The milestones. The breathtaking views. The unexpected adventures.

But I’ve found the quieter moments often have the most to say. A conversation with a stranger. An unexpected invitation. A place that stirs something deep inside you.

Somewhere along the way, I realized life speaks in more than one language. Sometimes through the people we meet and the places we visit. Sometimes through the quiet landscape within us.

The more I paid attention, the more I realized those quiet moments weren’t limited to my waking hours. They often followed me into my dreams and my morning meditations.

I usually remember my dreams. Some are strange. Some disappear before I fully wake up. Recently, I’ve started writing them down, along with a few notes after my morning meditations.

Not because I think every dream has a hidden meaning.

But because every now and then, a place returns. A person appears more than once. A single word or picture lingers long after I wake up.

I’ve also noticed another kind of dream growing quietly over the past few years. A pilgrimage. More storytelling. A life that seems to be gently calling me in a new direction.

I’m still not sure what it all means, and I’m okay with that.

I’ve learned that paying attention doesn’t always lead to answers. Sometimes it simply helps us notice the whispers.

Whether they come from a stranger on the road, a quiet moment of meditation, a dream before dawn, or a dream we’re slowly living while wide awake.

Sometimes the story isn’t trying to get our attention.

But it almost always leads to a story that’s authentically yours.

The rest... has a way of unfolding in its own time.

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This is my story.

This is your story.

This is our story.

Welcome to The Wayfarer’s Shelf...

where stories live...

And where we tell them.

My dad was a proud Irishman who loved to tell stories. When I became a dad, I discovered I loved making up bedtime stories for my own children. Somewhere along the way, I also inherited what the Irish call “the gift of the gab.” I’d happily tell a story to just about anyone willing to listen.

As the years passed, I began to realize that the best stories weren’t always the dramatic ones. More often, they were quietly unfolding in ordinary moments that many of us walk past without noticing.

Years ago, I began writing a weekly feature called Happy Punday. It started simply enough: a playful pun paired with a short story. Over time, those stories grew into reflections on faith, travel, community, family, and the unexpected encounters that remind us life is richer than we often realize.

Eventually, those stories needed a home.

That home became The Wayfarer’s Shelf.

Every Friday you’ll find a new Happy Punday waiting on these shelves.

Every other week, you’ll also find The Wayfarer’s Shelf Podcast, where selected stories are shared in audio and are also broadcast on WVVT Community Radio.

Here on these shelves, you’ll find stories from Vermont, Ireland, and Arizona. Stories about libraries, pilgrimages, coffee shops, small towns, ordinary people, and the extraordinary moments that often change us forever.

Most of all, I hope these stories encourage you to slow down, pay attention, and discover the extraordinary hidden within the ordinary. Because I believe every story is worth telling, especially the one that is authentically yours.

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