I googled “success” and most of the images that popped up were people in business suits climbing or running and definitely winning.
I don’t think success is achieved in a business suit.
I think success is not giving up on:
Learning.
Growing.
Evolving.
Living.
Choosing difficult paths.
Failing mostly.
Winning sometimes.
Success is only achieved when you have struggled, tried your best and changed for the better.
Thank you for reading.
Yes. Every book. Every page. Every word.
Here are my most recent.
I was trying to narrow down my favorites and it was too hard.
Here are a few of my favorites..
Thank you for reading.
I cannot go back in my family tree and tell you the names of my long passed family members. I can tell you that my father’s family came over from Germany after World War I. They settled in Wisconsin and changed the family name from Künzt to Kuntz. They did not opt for the cool double o’s like Dean Koontz.
Nope, I’m not related to Dean Koontz.
Several years ago, my Uncle Butch gave me a bunch of pictures on a hard drive that he had restored from a family album. He labeled the pictures with obscure names that did not really help me understand my family tree. There was a picture of “Uncle Morris,” whom no one ever mentioned or spoke of.
My favorite was this picture, labeled, some baby, some guy.
The baby may be my Grandmother, Louise Kuntz. She served as nurse in the 4th Air Force based in California during World War II. They were responsible for supporting the troops in Japan.
She met my Grandfather while serving. He was in the Coast Guard fighting in Japan and was shot. He ended up under my Grandmother’s care.
They were married for over forty years and they had five kids, including my father, who called her “Shorty.”
I called her Grandma Kuntz and she would make me tomato soup. She was very kind and funny.
Thank you for reading.
Susan walked quickly down the sidewalk. The rain was picking up. Her destination, a small brown cafe awning, was only about 100 meters ahead of her.
She wasn’t the type of person to wince when the first few drops started. She loved this weather, dark and mysterious. She slowed her pace.
“Well, I’m already wet,” she mused.
It was early enough that the street lights were still on and there was no one else around. Sauntering now, she took in as much as she could of the facades of the buildings. She had lived here for only a few weeks and hadn’t had time to notice the quaintness of her new town. It was adorable.
Most buildings were darkened and quiet but a bakery was at full speed. Lights on and people clad in white whipped around behind a tall counter. It was a humorous site.
She turned her attention to the cafe which she had discovered on her first day. She was so relieved to find good coffee so close to her flat.
The cafe was a dimly lit little storefront with two small tables and chairs under a petite cover. Nestled between a bank and a post office it would be easy to miss if not for the aroma of coffee emanating from it.
If possible, the dark morning became darker and the sprinkle turned into a shower. She sped her saunter but not too much; there was no way to avoid being soaked.
She reached the end of the sidewalk at the corner of an intersection, the cafe beckoning from across the street. The do not walk sign was lit. She laughed. Water was now swelling at the street drains and flowing heavily along the curb and the rain had moved into torrential territory. She was completely saturated. The sign shifted to the image of a walking man. She did not move.
“Are you going to cross?” said a calm resonant voice from behind. It startled her but it wasn’t scary. Just one of those moments when you think you are alone but are not. She turned toward the voice.
A man stood almost next to her. Equally as soaked. He grinned politely.
“Are you?” she grinned back.
Now with an apparent French accent, “I am a gentleman, Mademoiselle, I always put ladies first.”
“Are you French now?” she chided.
“No, I’m sorry, I thought it would be romantic, heavy rain, dim lighting, a cafe.” the man shrugged. “I’m Tom.” He extended his hand.
Taking his hand and returning an equally bad French accent,”Hello Tom, I am Susan.” followed by a very small curtsy.
The two stood still for a moment, still holding hands.
“Well, Mademoiselle Susan, may I buy you a coffee?” He gestured to the cafe.
“Oui, Tom. Oui.”
Thank you for reading.
Sometimes, I write when I’ve got nothing better to do.
I actually have a lot to do today so I feel like I’m getting away with something. A little rush of endorphins when I do something I shouldn’t be doing. Like speeding. Like pulling a fast one. It’s bad, I know it and I don’t care. So, I’m writing.
Sometimes, I write when I’m sad.
It’s terrible, my “sad” writing. Awful. Burn it now.
Sometimes, I write when I’m feeling cocky.
Sometimes, I write when I can’t talk to someone.
Sometimes, I just look at the cursor flashing | | | | | | | | | | .
Mostly, I write to get it out there.
Not my words, thoughts or feelings. I don’t feel compelled to express myself like that. I need to get it out there because it often isn’t doing me any good in here. It has to go somewhere else. I don’t necessarily share all that.
Thank you for reading.
The obvious. My wife, my children, my pets, my home bring me joy every day in so many ways.
The unexpected. I get immense joy when the world presents a casual dog leaning out his car window at a traffic light in my town.
Anything I don’t expect that makes me laugh.
Thank you for reading.
When I was in my twenties working in Florida, I met a man who claimed to be a treasure hunter. He also claimed to be a novelist. He was a security guard at the attraction I was installing.
He would sit in his chair, leaning back on two legs with his hands folded across his belly, intense gaze and moustache bristling, while regaling me with all the treasures he was seeking and adventures he had had. Mostly involving the wrecks of Spanish ships from the 1600s off the coast of Florida.
I would listen in wonder but also wonder if any of it was true.
Was he really a treasure hunter? Novelist? Did it matter? He did have a certain gravitas.
I saw him telling one his tales to the man I was working for. I could see by my boss’s expression. He was barely paying attention and his body was turned three-quarters away while slowly inching away from the storyteller.
Literal lost treasure only has value because we care about it. The real lost treasure is the time we spend not paying attention. The treasure hunting, novelist, security guard in this anecdote was a small moment in my life but I remember him. I can still see him sitting there leaning back with a look of, “I’m going to tell you a secret.” across his face.
Thank you for reading.
My father was a police officer.
He made a lot of enemies in that job.
When I was three years old. One of his enemies burned our house down.
I have a very vague recollection of the fire. I was very small. But I remember King.
He saved our lives that night. He got me out of the house and then my parents.
Thank you for reading.
When I was in Kindergarten, we had an album in our classroom that our teacher Ms. Blank would play. As a kid, I loved that album so much. It was a rough time for me and the lyrics on this album felt as if they were speaking to me directly.
“There’s a land that I see where the children are free
And I say it ain’t far to this land from where we are
Take my hand, come with me, where the children are free
Come with me, take my hand, and we’ll live” — Marlo Thomas
I felt compelled to run away. I wrote a note. I packed a small bag. I made a plan.
I was going to go to school that day, then I’d come home, eat a snack (of course) and get out. I was a latchkey kid so I would have time to finalize preparations and leave my note.
When I got home, though, my mom was there. I came in confused which quickly turned to panic when I realized she was holding my note. My aunt had come over during the day and I had left my note on the counter.
My mom was angry. Really angry. She yelled, “You are not going anywhere, you are staying right here!”
When you find out your kid wants to run away from you, your reaction shouldn’t be anger.
I was grounded for my thoughts. I was grounded for writing.
I’m not comfortable talking about how I am brave.
I’m comfortable staying right here.
Thank you for reading.
I started counseling recently. It was very difficult just getting in the door for the first visit. I didn’t want to go. I was holding on to beliefs that didn’t make any sense. Simultaneously, I knew that I needed to go.
Podcasts. I joked that I don’t listen to podcasts but I do. A lot of them. Mostly dealing with psychology and therapy and brain chemistry and the list goes on. They all said the same thing. Do the work. Get the counseling or therapy, or get on meds if you need them. Do. The. Work.
My counselor gave me this.
It came with a series of pages that I have to fill out. That was three weeks ago. I haven’t done it. I’m doing it today. What would I like to achieve in 2023? I would like to fill out these pages and quit holding on to the past. As the title suggests. Forgiving is for quitters.
Thanks for reading.
Happy New Year.
Jesse Kuntz 