“Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.” – Albert Einstein, Physicist (1879 – 1955)
James Cagney
During the filming of the aquatic number in “Footlight Parade” (1933), a female dancer slipped under the water during a synchronized sequence. Dozens of dancers moved in unison in the large studio tank, but James Cagney, standing nearby in costume, noticed something off in her movement. Without a pause, he leapt into the water in full wardrobe and reached her before anyone else reacted. Crew members rushed in with towels, but it was Cagney who had already pulled her to the surface, gasping and pale. She later said, “If it weren’t for Jimmy, I’d be dead. He never blinked. Jumped in like a lifeguard.” Cagney brushed it off with a grin, saying anyone else would have done the same, but those who knew him disagreed.
James Cagney was known for playing gangsters and fast-talking tough guys, but in real life, he was quiet, gentle, and fiercely loyal. His longtime friend and frequent co-star Pat O’Brien once told a reporter, “Jim was the only man I knew who could talk down a bar brawl and then go home to read poetry.” That combination of steel and softness defined much of who Cagney was behind the camera.
During the shooting of “Yankee Doodle Dandy” (1942), a young extra on set slipped while coming down the soundstage steps. Cagney was already in costume, practicing lines alone on stage. When he saw her fall, he hurried over, helped her up, and spent twenty minutes sitting with her while a studio nurse arrived. The extra, decades later, recalled that Cagney stayed with her even after the nurse said she’d be fine. “He asked if I was embarrassed and told me not to be,” she remembered. “He said everyone stumbles in this town—what matters is how quick you get up.”
Born July 17, 1899, in New York City, James Francis Cagney Jr. grew up in a rough neighborhood on the Lower East Side. His father, a bartender and amateur boxer, died young. His mother supported the family by working as a cleaner and boarding house manager. Cagney’s early years were filled with hardship, but he often said his mother taught him compassion by action, not lecture. He recalled how she once brought home a beggar from the street and made him a full dinner. That memory stayed with him, shaping how he treated the people around him throughout his life.
Even at the height of his fame, he maintained friendships with grips, electricians, and drivers. On the set of “Each Dawn I Die” (1939), a gaffer lost his mother and couldn’t afford to travel back home for the funeral. Cagney overheard the conversation and quietly handed the man an envelope with train fare and extra cash. He never mentioned it again.
When a studio executive tried to replace a background dancer because she had fallen behind in rehearsal, Cagney stepped in. He had watched her push through an ankle injury and asked that she be given another chance. “She’s part of this picture too,” he reportedly told the director. “You don’t cut out family when they’re limping.”
His affection for dancers and the chorus crew was widely known, possibly because his own early career began in vaudeville. Before the suits and Tommy guns, Cagney tapped his way across stages, performing comedy and dance routines that earned him just enough for rent. He never forgot those beginnings.
In later years, when asked about his proudest moment in Hollywood, Cagney didn’t mention awards or critical acclaim. He quietly referred to the dancer he pulled from the water on “Footlight Parade.” “She had a family,” he said. “She went home that night. That’s all that mattered.”
Cagney’s instincts weren’t rehearsed. They came from a place deeper than performance—from the streets that raised him, from the mother who fed strangers, and from a lifetime of watching for people who needed a hand before they asked for it.
During the filming of the aquatic number in “Footlight Parade” (1933), a female dancer slipped under the water during a synchronized sequence. Dozens of dancers moved in unison in the large studio tank, but James Cagney, standing nearby in costume, noticed something off in her movement. Without a pause, he leapt into the water in full wardrobe and reached her before anyone else reacted. Crew members rushed in with towels, but it was Cagney who had already pulled her to the surface, gasping and pale.
She later said, “If it weren’t for Jimmy, I’d be dead. He never blinked. Jumped in like a lifeguard.” Cagney brushed it off with a grin, saying anyone else would have done the same, but those who knew him disagreed.
James Cagney was known for playing gangsters and fast-talking tough guys, but in real life, he was quiet, gentle, and fiercely loyal. His longtime friend and frequent co-star Pat O’Brien once told a reporter, “Jim was the only man I knew who could talk down a bar brawl and then go home to read poetry.” That combination of steel and softness defined much of who Cagney was behind the camera.
During the shooting of “Yankee Doodle Dandy” (1942), a young extra on set slipped while coming down the soundstage steps. Cagney was already in costume, practicing lines alone on stage. When he saw her fall, he hurried over, helped her up, and spent twenty minutes sitting with her while a studio nurse arrived. The extra, decades later, recalled that Cagney stayed with her even after the nurse said she’d be fine. “He asked if I was embarrassed and told me not to be,” she remembered. “He said everyone stumbles in this town—what matters is how quick you get up.”
Born July 17, 1899, in New York City, James Francis Cagney Jr. grew up in a rough neighborhood on the Lower East Side. His father, a bartender and amateur boxer, died young. His mother supported the family by working as a cleaner and boarding house manager. Cagney’s early years were filled with hardship, but he often said his mother taught him compassion by action, not lecture. He recalled how she once brought home a beggar from the street and made him a full dinner.
That memory stayed with him, shaping how he treated the people around him throughout his life.
Even at the height of his fame, he maintained friendships with grips, electricians, and drivers. On the set of “Each Dawn I Die” (1939), a gaffer lost his mother and couldn’t afford to travel back home for the funeral. Cagney overheard the conversation and quietly handed the man an envelope with train fare and extra cash.
He never mentioned it again.
When a studio executive tried to replace a background dancer because she had fallen behind in rehearsal, Cagney stepped in. He had watched her push through an ankle injury and asked that she be given another chance. “She’s part of this picture too,” he reportedly told the director. “You don’t cut out family when they’re limping.”
His affection for dancers and the chorus crew was widely known, possibly because his own early career began in vaudeville. Before the suits and Tommy guns, Cagney tapped his way across stages, performing comedy and dance routines that earned him just enough for rent. He never forgot those beginnings.
In later years, when asked about his proudest moment in Hollywood, Cagney didn’t mention awards or critical acclaim. He quietly referred to the dancer he pulled from the water on “Footlight Parade.” “She had a family,” he said. “She went home that night. That’s all that mattered.”
Cagney’s instincts weren’t rehearsed. They came from a place deeper than performance—from the streets that raised him, from the mother who fed strangers, and from a lifetime of watching for people who needed a hand before they asked for it.
Quote of the Day
“There are three classes of people: those who see, those who see when they are shown, those who do not see.”
Leonardo da Vinci (1452 – 1519)
The Man Who Planted Trees
I found “The Man Who Planted Trees” three days after the diagnosis. Terminal, they said. Six months, maybe less. I hurled books across my hospital room, cursing the universe for its cruelty, until a thin volume slipped from the pile, landing open-faced on the sterile floor. A nurse picked it up, glanced at the first page, and against protocol, left it on my bedside table instead of reshelving it.
“You might need this one,” she whispered.
She was right. But not for the reasons either of us could have imagined.
Let me tell you about resurrection.
Not the biblical kind—though what Jean Giono created in his slender 4,000-word masterpiece borders on the miraculous—but the kind that begins with dirt under fingernails and an obstinate refusal to accept desolation as the final word.
Most readers encounter “The Man Who Planted Trees” as ecological parable or gentle inspiration. They admire its message of environmental stewardship, nod appreciatively at its humanistic optimism, perhaps feel momentarily better about our species’ potential. Then they return it to the shelf and continue their lives fundamentally unchanged.
I couldn’t return it to the shelf. Because Elzéard Bouffier wouldn’t let me go.
The story’s premise is deceptively simple: In 1913, a young hiker traverses the barren, wind-scoured highlands of Provence, a landscape so bleak it drives inhabitants to madness or exodus. There he encounters a silent shepherd methodically planting oak trees—one hundred perfect acorns daily, year after year, asking nothing in return. The narrator returns after both world wars to discover this solitary man’s quiet, relentless labor has miraculously transformed thousands of acres of wasteland into a vibrant, water-rich forest ecosystem where communities once again thrive.
A simple summary that betrays nothing of the story’s devastating power.
I began reading in that antiseptic hospital room, my body already betraying me at thirty-six, the scan results still burning in my mind. By page three, something shifted. Giono’s sparse prose—devoid of sentimentality yet pulsing with life—bypassed my intellectual defenses and struck directly at something primal within me.
His description of that initial landscape—”everything was barren and colorless, a desert without even the drama of traditional deserts”—mirrored my interior state with such precision that I gasped audibly. The nurse looked up, concerned, but I waved her away, already descending deeper into Giono’s world.
When the narrator first meets Bouffier, the shepherd is described with haunting simplicity: “His beard was black, and his shoulders slightly hunched, but his figure was tall and straight, more suggestive of an athlete than an old man.” Something in this portrait of contained power, of vitality harnessed for purpose rather than display, seized me. I read the entire story without moving, the hospital machinery beeping in counterpoint to my racing heart.
That night, I dreamed of acorns—hundreds of them, cool and smooth in my palms.
What makes “The Man Who Planted Trees” truly dangerous isn’t its ecological message but its fundamental challenge to our understanding of time, purpose, and what constitutes a meaningful life.
Bouffier plants trees he will never sit beneath. He creates forests without recognition or reward. He persists through two world wars, through personal tragedy, through complete societal collapse and reconstruction, doing exactly one thing: planting perfectly selected seeds in precisely the right places, then letting nature and time do what they will.
This radical patience—this refusal of instant gratification, external validation, or even measurable short-term progress—represents a direct assault on everything our culture holds sacred. Bouffier’s calm, methodical labor exposes the poverty of our addictions to immediacy, recognition, and tangible results.
And yet, the miracle happens. The wasteland transforms. Life returns. Not through dramatic intervention or technological salvation, but through one man’s stubborn, daily choice to believe in a future he personally will barely glimpse.
By day three in the hospital, something unprecedented occurred. I found myself examining my own wasteland with different eyes. What if my diagnosis wasn’t an ending but a clarification? What if the time I had—whether six months or six years—could be measured not in duration but in seeds planted?
I began making calls. Family members I’d avoided for decades. Former colleagues I’d betrayed climbing corporate ladders. My estranged son, now eighteen, who’d stopped taking my calls five years earlier.
Many rejected my overtures. Some responded with suspicious caution. A few engaged more openly. I didn’t explain the diagnosis—this wasn’t about extracting forgiveness or pity. It was about planting whatever seeds I could in the time remaining.
I started volunteering at a youth center near my apartment, teaching chess to kids with life circumstances far more challenging than my privileged trajectory. I allocated my savings to establish a small foundation focused on reforesting a degraded watershed in my grandfather’s rural hometown.
The doctors were baffled by my sudden shift from rage to focused engagement. My oncologist suggested the medication might be affecting my cognition. I smiled and told her I’d simply found a better way to measure what remained of my life.
One acorn at a time.
The true power of Giono’s story isn’t its gentle hopefulness but its ruthless rejection of excuses. Bouffier begins his work as an old man, already sixty-five when the narrator first meets him. He has suffered devastating personal loss. The landscape itself actively resists regeneration. The broader society remains oblivious to his efforts for decades.
None of this matters to him. None of it interrupts the steady rhythm of his planting.
When I returned to the hospital for treatment six weeks after that first reading, I brought my own dog-eared copy of the book. As chemicals designed to kill rapidly dividing cells dripped into my veins, I read aloud to two other patients receiving treatment. One wept silently by the end. The other asked to borrow it when I finished.
We formed an unlikely book group in that chemo ward—discussing Bouffier’s methods, his solitude, his monastic patience. The oncology nurses began calling us “the forest people,” not understanding our private reference but sensing the strange energy our discussions generated amid the clinical despair.
Seven months later—already longer than my initial prognosis—a second scan showed something unexpected. Not remission, not yet, but a significant slowing of the disease’s progression. My oncologist called it “unusual but not unprecedented.” I had a different explanation.
I’d begun to dream regularly of Bouffier—not as Giono described him but as a presence beside me, teaching me to distinguish promising acorns from those that would never germinate. In these dreams, we worked together in comfortable silence, filling pockets with seeds, walking barren ridgelines, kneeling in dust and stone.
During my waking hours, I continued my own planting—reconciliations where possible, new connections where not, small contributions to strangers’ lives, seeds of possibility in whatever soil would receive them.
Inexplicably, improbably, I was still alive.
What “The Man Who Planted Trees” offers isn’t gentle inspiration but a radical alternative to despair. Giono doesn’t just tell a pretty story about environmentalism—he demonstrates that meaning exists precisely in the face of apparent futility, that purpose transcends outcome, that transformative power often lies in the humblest, most repetitive actions.
The story’s most devastating passage describes Bouffier’s work during World War I: “The war of 1914 had taken away all his sons, all three of them… He resumed his planting.” This breathtaking understatement contains volumes—both the immensity of Bouffier’s personal tragedy and the immensity of his refusal to surrender to it.
Three years after my diagnosis, against all medical predictions, I remain. The disease and I have reached a standoff of sorts—it advances more slowly than expected; I live more fully than I ever did in health. I’ve since learned that Giono wrote this story for an American magazine that requested “the most extraordinary character I’ve encountered.” He invented Bouffier entirely, later explaining: “My goal was to make trees likeable, or more specifically, to make planting trees likeable.”
But here’s what Giono himself may not have fully understood: he didn’t create a character; he created a template for living meaningfully in the face of apparent hopelessness. He didn’t make trees likeable; he made perseverance without guarantee of personal reward not just likeable but essential.
Last week, I visited the youth center where I still teach chess. One of my first students—now heading to college on scholarship—asked why I never seem afraid despite my illness. I showed him my worn copy of Giono’s book.
“The man in this story,” I explained, “plants trees knowing three things for certain: many will fail to grow, he won’t live to see most that do succeed, and he has no guarantee the world won’t destroy his work through war or greed or simple indifference.”
“Then why bother?” the young man asked.
“Because the planting itself matters,” I said. “Because transformation always begins in apparent futility. Because life, ultimately, is measured not in what we harvest but in what we plant.”
I don’t know if he understood. But later that day, I saw him reading the book in a corner, his expression intense with discovery.
Another acorn planted.
If you value comfort over transformation, avoid “The Man Who Planted Trees.” This isn’t inspirational literature; it’s a literary detonation device disguised as a simple tale. Once you truly absorb Bouffier’s example, you lose all excuses for inaction. You forfeit the luxury of despair. You find yourself, against all reason, planting seeds in whatever barren landscape you’ve been given—with no guarantee except that the planting itself may be the most profound expression of being fully alive.
And somewhere in your dreams, a forest is already rising.
BOOK: https://amzn.to/44n6UHh
Make A Difference
Peyton Manning was waiting for his coffee — when he heard a teen boy being bullied at the next table… and silenced it with one sentence.
It was a quiet afternoon in a small-town café just outside Louisville.
Nothing fancy.
Locals. Regulars. A bit of small talk, the smell of cinnamon rolls.
Peyton Manning had stopped in during a road trip — hoodie on, sunglasses tucked into his shirt collar.
He ordered coffee and sat by the window, alone.
At the next table, a group of high school boys were laughing loudly.
One of them — Daniel — wasn’t laughing.
He was sitting small, hunched, shoulders tight.
He had a stutter.
And every time he tried to speak, one of the other boys interrupted, mimicked him, laughed.
“S-s-s-so what do you think, D-D-Daniel?”
“He’s buffering again! Somebody reboot him!”
More laughter.
Daniel went silent.
His eyes dropped.
His hand slowly moved to tear the paper sleeve off his cup. Over and over.
Peyton watched.
Didn’t say a word.
Until the loudest boy leaned over and said:
“You should just shut up if you can’t even finish a sentence.”
That’s when Peyton stood up.
Walked over.
And with calm, measured clarity, looked right at the group and said:
“I’d pick Daniel for my team every time.
And not one of you would make the bench.”
Silence.
The boys froze.
One stammered something. Another looked away.
Daniel just blinked.
Then… smiled.
Peyton turned to him.
Held out his hand.
“You’ve got more courage than they’ll understand for a long, long time.
And by the way… I stuttered when I was a kid too.”
Then he sat with Daniel.
Drank his coffee.
Talked football. Family. Life.
Before leaving, Peyton scribbled something on a napkin and handed it to him.
“For when you forget who you are.”
It said:
*“You don’t need to speak perfectly.
You just need to speak honestly.
And people who matter will always wait for the end of your sentence.
Proud to know you. — Peyton.”*
Years later, Daniel still keeps that napkin.
Framed.
Above his desk.
He’s now a youth counselor — helping kids find their voices.
Peyton Manning didn’t just shut down a group of bullies.
He lifted one boy up — and gave him the kind of voice no one could laugh away again.
(I had to look up who Peyton Williams Manning was – an American former professional football quarterback who played in the National Football League (NFL) for 18 seasons. Nicknamed “the Sheriff”, he spent 14 seasons with the Indianapolis Colts and four with the Denver Broncos. Manning is considered one of the greatest quarterbacks of all time.)
Don’t Let It Replace Family
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Start Eating Healthy!
Quote of the Day
“The spirit is the true self. The spirit, the will to win, and the will to excel are the things that endure.” – Marcus Tullius Cicero, Roman Statesman (106 BC- 43 BC)
Quote of the Day
“An investment in knowledge pays the best interest.” – Benjamin Franklin, (1706 -1790)