"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. Ecclesiastes 3:1" Despite my 6’2 160 pound frame I have the athletic prowess of an octogenarian. My mathematical skill is limited to adding and subtracting two digit numbers and I am easily confused by science. Philosophy, law, theology and politics are beyond my menial comprehension. I was raised by Disney characters so I lack the twisted and layered soul of a poet. I was not born with magic fingers capable of musical harmony or transcribing fascinating images onto canvas and clay. Despite my modest abilities in many areas I do have a single extraordinary ability, what I revere to as my “saving grace”. Words are my thing: the ability to bend them to my liking, use them to describe seemingly ineffable things and use them to express my every thought. I have the imagination of a six year old, the wit of someone with sixteen years of formal education, a health air of sarcasm and the cynicism of one so desperately trying to shed his childish naiveté. I am city boy through and through and I would not change that for all the pastorals in every one of Shakespeare’s comedies.