Mr. Spencer was the last one to scamper across his yard, joining our neighbors in the cellar. But me and dad sat there on the back porch.

Drinking ice tea.

Watching the massive tornado suck up half our town and spit it out across the Ozark forest.

I learned by age three: life gets pretty good, if you got the guts to keep your eyes open.

Now I can name every kid’s favorite lunch at the East Harlem Tutorial Project.

I learned Navajo from the Navajo.

Every morning at the Alaska Zoo I'd pick fresh forest saplings for my camel.

You buy one steak for an old guy in Cuba and he's your friend for life.

Down in the Mississippi Delta a union rep whispered that my campaign boss was working for the enemy. But Miss Helen was mayor and she said it wasn't so. Then she taught me to fry chicken.

I scored the only-ever perfect score on Dr. Parish’s physics final and a 99th percentile on the LSAT.

I could drive a monster truck before I could lawfully drive.

And I can’t say if I’ve helped more people as an environmental campaigner, a youth group founder, or a bartender in the Chugach mountains.

But one day I had an epiphany that sure helped me.

The next morning I called Larry Asher at SVC and I got started in ad school.

That's how I got here now. Writing in New York City at 1:19 a.m..

Ads let me keep exploring, and make good use of every snapshot, scar and story I collected along the way.

You know I still love it.

And I still think you ought to keep your eyes open.