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.

I saw god.

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

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.

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.)