Readers of this space – and I thank you both – may recall a couple of editions ago I wrote that most of my days begin in the Tedesco gym. What drives that is gluttony (my diet primarily consists of cheeseburgers, cookies, and peanut M&Ms); vanity (the only things that I might like better than cheeseburgers, cookies, and peanut M&Ms are suits from Barneys and Ralph Lauren – and I’m not fitting into them without doing time in the gym); and fear.

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I saw god.

Not Him. Not the God. A god. Lower-case g.

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My old Kentucky home?
Nope.
Sweet Home Alabama?
N/A.
Homer?
I am. (Without an Iliad or an Odyssey.)
And I totally agree with Dorothy: There’s no place like home.
My home is the North Shore.

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Generosity can be defined in many ways. Development professionals speak of gifts of “time, treasure, and talent.” To some, it’s about writing a check or dropping a twenty into the collection basket at Mass or sticking a buck into the coffee cup of the guy on the corner of Exeter and Boylston when he says, “Hey, nice suit.” (I appreciate a solid marketing strategy, so it works every time on me.)

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