The steam from my coffee mingles with the morning mist rising from the lake, both carrying the scent of pine and the faint diesel exhaust from boats already heading out for their final summer adventures.

My uncovered legs prickle with goosebumps — a faithful companion during these last days in shorts before autumn stakes its claim. The metallic taste of cool air hints at change, while the sweet aroma of lake water and sunscreen still clings to the dock chairs around me.

The joy-filled screams of children on tubes behind speedboats pierce the morning quiet, their laughter echoing off the water as the wakes break the mirror-like surface. They’re grabbing one more ride, maybe two, before this holiday weekend draws summer to its inevitable close. This is the sound of a perfect summer. 

Later today, friends we’ve known for decades — some for every summer of their lives since they were children — will gather for our traditional lake-wide farewell ceremony, awarding sailing trophies and sharing hugs that must sustain us until next June, knowing some embraces may be our last after all these years together.

The Rhythm of Tradition

While the holiday weekend signals departure for most — back to schools and jobs and the urgent pull of ordinary life — we’ll linger a bit longer, held by responsibilities that call us away slowly rather than all at once. But there’s something profoundly moving about being part of a lake tradition that spans 120 years and multiple generations, like adding another ring to an ancient tree.

A Rite of Passage

My father didn’t just create family memories, he built a rite of passage that flows through me to my children, and perhaps someday to theirs. It’s a legacy measured not in dollars but in compass readings, not in certificates but in the steady hands that learn to dock in any weather.

Storm-Forged Lessons

From my earliest memories, we learned the sacred knowledge: how to untie ropes in a brisk wind, proper boating techniques, how to read water and weather. Each of us had roles when Dad took us on adventures, starting with that small OMC tri-hull — about 15 feet of fiberglass optimism whose innovative hull promised stability in rough seas (a tall order for such a modest vessel). I remember Dad’s pride when we got it, likely used but never diminished in our eyes.

The Worst Day of My Life at Age 10

One stormy day stands etched in memory. Dad, my brothers, and I set out from Port Huron, Ohio, into what seemed like hurricane-force winds. The boat rocked like a carnival ride designed by someone with a cruel sense of humor, while swells towered taller than our small craft. Foolish? Perhaps. But it was training disguised as terror.

We followed a charted course set by the Power Squadron, navigating by compass and charts while rain slammed the canvas top and stressed its aluminum struts. Water hammered the windshield in sheets as the boat pitched violently. “Stay on course,” Dad commanded. “Keep the compass on that spot no matter what.” Each of us took turns at the helm during what ranks among the most terrifying experiences of my life.

The fury of the Great Lakes is the same force that claimed the Edmund Fitzgerald, immortalized in song and maritime legend. Our adventure stretched from morning till evening — an eternity of soaked clothes, chattering teeth, and the profound relief that comes when you finally reach stable ground.

Compass Philosophy

But Dad had given us training for life: Keep your eye on the compass. Set your course, and stay on course no matter what storms arise. When giant waves push you off track, get back on course. Head straight into the waves and navigate through them with balance and purpose.

As Violet Fane wrote, “All things come to those who wait,” though the complete quote offers deeper wisdom: “All things come to those who wait … they come, but often come too late.” Dad understood timing. He knew that patience paired with persistence creates the perfect moment for growth.

Measured Success

Dad’s success was indeed measured in boats — a progression that told the story of hard work and dreams fulfilled. From canoe to rowboat with motor, from the tri-hull to a small cabin cruiser dubbed the Dusty Five — an all-aluminum 28-footer that graduated us from sleeping in the Airstream to cramped but magical quarters aboard the boat itself. (The name? People always referred to us as “Dusty Rhoads” … and there were five of us.)

Those tight quarters housed some of the richest memories of my life. Years led to a 32-foot version, then a 38-foot trawler, eventually a 56-footer, and finally, when we discovered the mountain lakes of the Adirondacks, a classic wooden boat — polished like floating furniture and treated with the reverence it deserved.

The Sacred Vessel

The wooden boat represented the ultimate rite of passage. We could drive any boat solo — except that one. Its high-polish finish and classical lines demanded respect that bordered on worship. Dad would let us drive it with him beside us, even help us dock it (a delicate operation requiring surgical precision), but solo voyages remained forbidden.

The wisdom of this restriction became clear when someone eventually took it out alone, returning with a docking gash that required complete restoration. They don’t patch these vessels; they strip twelve coats of varnish, sand to bare wood, replace damaged sections, and rebuild before applying fresh finish. This explains Dad’s reluctance to grant independence too soon.

Legacy in Motion

Dad wasn’t being stingy — he was cultivating something precious. Before he died, I bought that wooden boat from him, and now the rite of passage continues. I train my adult children in the ancient arts of handling and docking, preparing them for the day they’ll take her out alone and, hopefully, train future generations in turn.

I treasure this tradition he created: having something to anticipate, something special to earn. He reserved the privilege of the proper passing of the baton — not automatically granted at adulthood, but when wisdom and skill had properly matured.

The Value of Waiting

In our age of instant everything, there’s profound value in delayed gratification and earned privilege. Good things truly do come to those who wait, as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow expanded: “All things come to him who waits — provided he knows what he is waiting for.” Dad knew. He understood that keeping our eyes fixed on chosen goals, maintaining course through unpleasant storms, leads us through turbulence to calm seas and eventually to bigger, better opportunities that enrich our earthly experience.

Patience combined with persistence, steadfastness, and focus — these bring the treasures that matter most.

In a world drunk on TikTok’s 20-second promises, we’re seduced into believing treasures should arrive instantly — as if decades of dreams could be delivered through the magic of a marketing funnel. Yet I watched my father’s dreams unfold, one earned treasure at a time, through storms that tested both character and the patience that in turn forged wisdom. Each upgrade wasn’t just a bigger boat; it was proof that weathering life’s tempests makes success taste infinitely sweeter than anything handed to us on a silver platter.

The Bigger Boat

I remember Dad’s words as we passed giant yachts in our tiny fiberglass boat, marveling at their grandeur: “Son, no matter what you achieve in life, someone always has a bigger boat.”

At first, I heard only the caution: Be content where you are because someone always has more. But deeper wisdom lived in those words: Keep your eyes on the compass, keep moving forward, and your own bigger boat will come.

The real treasure wasn’t the boat itself — it was the compass Dad gave us, the one that points not north but toward purpose, patience, and the kind of legacy that spans generations.

As summer fades and another season of lessons draws to a close, I’m grateful for storm-tested wisdom and the compass that still guides us home. 

Eric Rhoads

Through the weathered screen of this old Adirondack porch, Lake Spitfire stretches before me like a mirror, its surface broken only by gentle lapping against a fallen pine that’s become part of the shoreline. The silence is so complete that the ringing in my ears becomes the loudest sound, competing only with the steady tick of the hand-wound clock that has marked time in this camp for 120 years.

I’m not the first to sit in this wicker chair with a warm cup of coffee, watching the lake’s morning ritual. Generations have found their way to this same spot, drawn by the magical escape these mountains offer. I’m not really an owner here — just a temporary caretaker until someone else takes their turn in this chair, continuing a tradition that predates me and will outlast me. Perhaps the only proof of my time here will be the painting hanging over the stone fireplace, slowly darkening with soot from countless fires.

I like it here because I can get lost in my thoughts and just disappear. Have you ever felt invisible? Like if you simply vanished, the world would barely register the absence?

I know that feeling intimately. Years ago, I went from being somebody to being nobody — a particularly brutal transition for men who tie their entire identity to their work. I had sold my three radio stations, put a couple bucks in my pocket, and told myself I was going to buy an RV and travel the U.S.A. visiting friends. There was no pressure to work for a couple of years.

Then came the defining moment that revealed the prison I’d unknowingly built for myself.

I remember walking into an industry convention right after the sale, feeling fairly smug because I had just cashed out. But no one knew, no one cared, and no one knew who I was. I may have been a somebody in my local market, but I wasn’t even a blip on the industry radar. I can still recall the lonely feeling of standing in the back of a cocktail party, not knowing anyone, not feeling confident enough to introduce myself, wishing I wasn’t there because back then I hated social situations. The irony wasn’t lost on me — I had a big bank account, yet it bought me no confidence whatsoever.

Do you have moments you remember feeling awkward or out of place? Standing in that room, I made myself a promise: “One year from today, everyone here will know my name and want my attention. One year from today, I’ll be so confident that I’ll be on stage in front of all these people, getting their attention as one of the best speakers they’ve ever seen.”

Being a “nobody” drove me to become a somebody. Again.

Here’s what’s fascinating about powerful motivation: When we have it, the universe seems to conspire to make things happen. I bailed on the RV dream, immediately started a new business, and ended up owning a struggling trade publication. I declared myself publisher, wrote a weekly column and, just like my bold prediction, found myself on stage a year later. Thanks to training and help from my friend Roy Williams, I delivered a fire-and-brimstone speech so strong that failure would have ruined my career. But I nailed it, got a standing ovation, and that became the moment I transformed from nobody back to somebody.

I’m sure any psychologist reading this would have a field day with my psychology. The healthy response would be not needing to be somebody, and just being myself. But that drive to be appreciated, rooted in some deep need for validation, was everything to me. It’s the same drive that makes people build great things, and that defining moment helped me understand what I thought I needed in life.

But here’s the uncomfortable truth I’m only now beginning to understand: That need to be somebody wasn’t really about professional success. It was about something much deeper.

Growing up, my father often pressured us to take over his metals business. It didn’t interest me — I was drawn to creative work, and the thought of a life buried in manufacturing felt like a death sentence. So I chose radio, telling myself I wanted to be my own man, control my own destiny. Yet even as I rejected his business, I spent my entire adult life desperately seeking his approval, measuring my success against his achievements, trying to prove I was worthy of his respect.

I once hired a woman who took a $150,000 pay cut to work for me in a $50,000 position she was passionate about. She’d become a lawyer because her parents expected it, earned her degree, and landed a position at a prestigious firm. Within two years, she was miserable, knowing she couldn’t imagine doing this work for the rest of her life. The job didn’t match who she was, but she told me the hardest part wasn’t leaving the money behind — it was telling her lawyer father she was quitting.

Her story is my story. It’s probably your story too.

The cruel irony is that in refusing to work for my father, I ended up working for his ghost my entire life. Every business decision, every public speaking engagement, every moment I needed to be “somebody” was really me trying to prove to a man who loved me unconditionally that I was worthy of that love.

I now suggest my kids might want to carry our business legacy forward, but I don’t push, because I want them to do what makes them feel genuinely special — not what makes them feel like they’re somebody in others’ eyes. I’ve learned the difference.

The question that haunts me from this old wicker chair, watching the morning light dance on Lake Spitfire, is this: How much of our drive to be somebody is really about being ourselves, and how much is about proving ourselves to people who probably already accepted us exactly as we were? My dad always told me he was proud of me and even told me he thought I had become more successful than he. Perhaps he sensed the competition and wanted to let me know everything was good.

The most successful people I know aren’t driven by the need to be somebody. They’re driven by the joy of being exactly who they are. The rest of us are just performing in a play written by our insecurities, hoping for applause from an audience that may not even be watching.

What play are you performing? And more importantly — who wrote the script?

Eric Rhoads

It’s peaceful, sitting lakeside in the Adirondacks, on the dock and staring aimlessly at the morning mist rising off the water and pondering what I’m grateful for as I think about some of the wonderful moments in my life. Today, before the sun started to think about painting the sky pink, the loons acted as my alarm, starting the day with their haunting loooooon call across the lake. It’s not just a sound — it’s a two-way conversation that’s been going on for thousands of years, since long before we humans showed up.

That call echoes off the mountains and settles right into my bones, making me realize that I’m just a guest here, and not even a particularly important one in the grand plan.

Like clockwork, as if someone said, “Cue the birds,” a giant bald eagle comes swooping in overhead like he owns the place — which, let’s be honest, he pretty much does. Wings spread wide as my mother’s old ’55 Buick, riding the thermals with the kind of effortless grace that makes you wonder why we humans work so hard at everything.

All summer long, we’ve been watching two baby loons ride around on their mama’s backs like tiny feathered passengers on the world’s most elegant water taxi. They started out as little puffballs that could barely keep their heads up, and now they’re almost ready to strike out on their own. Soon they’ll be practicing takeoffs and landings, and we pray the eagles don’t intercept them for a morning snack.

Reliving the ’80s
Though I’m not one to live in the past, I often think about some of the great moments in my lifetime, like the years between 1980-86, when I had my first radio station. The excitement was uncontrollable when we finally made the move. Our radio station had outgrown its Provo roots, and Salt Lake City — 45 minutes north — beckoned with its larger market and greater possibilities. Our signal now blanketed the Salt Lake Valley, but the ad agencies wouldn’t bite. To them, we were still outsiders, a Provo station playing dress-up in the big city. The daily commute to meet potential advertisers was becoming unsustainable. Something had to change.

Real estate prices in downtown Salt Lake hit me like a cold mountain wind. The prime locations were laughably out of reach. So I did what desperate entrepreneurs do — I got creative. I found a forgotten corner of the city, a neighborhood where most people quickened their pace and avoided eye contact. The old Crain plumbing warehouse stood there like a monument to better days, its upper 8th floor mostly vacant because tenants felt the area was too dangerous. It was all we could afford.

Being a Pioneer?
We transformed that empty space into vibrant studios, and when construction was complete, we threw a party that shook the rafters. With audacious confidence, we declared this forgotten district would become the city’s new media hub. Amazingly, people believed us. Within months, a celebrated restaurant opened on our ground floor. A major advertising agency relocated down the street. Like dominoes falling in reverse — building up instead of knocking down — the neighborhood transformed. Creative agencies, media companies, and art galleries flourished where decay once reigned. We had unknowingly wielded the cultural influence of a popular radio station to resurrect an entire district. Sometimes being first isn’t about being brave; it’s about having no other choice.

But the greatest treasure wasn’t the real estate transformation — it was the people I discovered in that old warehouse.

Three Guys and a New Tenant
Three guys shared a cramped office down the hall, fellow pioneers in our urban frontier. Henry was bootstrapping a direct mail company with more ambition than capital. Brent worked as a freelance TV and radio engineer, his desk perpetually buried under circuit boards and cable spools. And then there was Jackson, a former television news anchor who’d traded the teleprompter for entrepreneurship.

We became inseparable, our after-work conversations stretching long into the evening. Henry eventually vanished into the entrepreneurial ether — we lost touch years ago. Brent came to work for me, met his future wife at our station, then moved away. He’s since passed on, leaving memories of laughter and late-night technical miracles. But Jackson — Jackson remains a lifelong friend, one of those rare connections where months of silence dissolve instantly into hours of conversation.

The King of Conversation
Everyone who left Jackson’s office said the same thing: “What an incredible conversationalist! I feel so energized after talking with him.” This universal reaction made me pay attention. I studied Jackson like an anthropologist observing a master craftsman. Here’s what I discovered: Jackson wasn’t a conversationalist at all — he was an excavator of stories. He asked questions with genuine curiosity. He listened with his whole being. He reflected back what he heard, making people feel truly seen. In a world full of broadcasters, Jackson was a receiver, and that made all the difference.

The Art We’ve Lost
We all hunger to be heard. It’s a fundamental human need, as basic as shelter or warmth. Yet somewhere along the way, many of us — myself painfully included — become addicted to transmitting instead of receiving. Just last week at Boathouse Yoga, I met a woman and immediately found common ground. But instead of exploring her story, I hijacked the conversation with my own tales. The awareness hit me like cold water: I was so desperate to be understood that I’d forgotten to understand. I could tell by her eyes I’d lost her. But it was too late. 

The Bible speaks to this ancient wisdom: “Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak” (James 1:19), and “A fool finds no pleasure in understanding but delights in airing their own opinions” (Proverbs 18:2). These aren’t just religious platitudes — they’re blueprints for human connection.

I’ve catalogued some conversation killers over the years:

The Jumper interrupts mid-sentence, unable to contain their own thoughts. I worked with one who would cut me off 30 times in a single hour, talking 95% of the time while actively not listening the other 5%. They’re so busy formulating their next statement that your words bounce off them like rain off a windshield.

The Droner delivers monologues without pause, without breath, without mercy. One colleague was so committed to his soliloquies that I’d put him on speakerphone, offer an occasional “uh-huh,” and complete entire projects while he talked. The tragedy? He never noticed.

The Judge weaponizes every conversation into a tribunal. “That’s a terrible idea.” “You shouldn’t do that.” “What you’re doing is wrong.” They distribute unsolicited verdicts like a court clerk handing out subpoenas. After encounters with Judges, I find myself taking alternate routes at parties, treating them like social land mines.

The Negative finds fault in everything you say, never encourages, always looks for problems.

Tony Robbins once observed that “We’re all just scared little boys and girls,” and that truth reverberates through every failed conversation. I started life painfully shy, avoiding eye contact out of fear, inadvertently signaling lack of interest when I desperately craved connection. My father’s only communication training came when I was 8: “Firm handshake, look ’em in the eye, say hello with confidence.” Yet he was a master — making instant friends, remembering details from conversations years past, making everyone feel like the most important person in the room.

The Transformation
I’m rewriting my conversational DNA as we speak. Though my ego craves the spotlight, I’m learning to dim my own lights so others can shine. My new practice: Listen fully, regardless of duration. Probe deeper. Resist the urge to redirect toward my favorite subject — myself. Approach each conversation with love, recognizing that if someone needs to speak, I need to listen.

This isn’t about self-denial; it’s about discovering that real connection happens in the space between words, in the questions we ask rather than the stories we tell. When my mind races ahead to solutions, seeing the answer 10 steps before the speaker arrives there, I’m learning to guide rather than rescue, to walk alongside rather than charge ahead.

Can a bird change its markings? We’re about to find out.

My new mantra: Become a gentle spirit — more loving, understanding, supportive. At work, I’m painfully practicing silence, letting others speak first, resisting the gravitational pull toward conversational dominance and the need to solve every problem. What if we all listened more, interrupted less, avoided monologues, and cared more about hearing than being heard? The paradox is beautiful: By creating space for others, we often find ourselves truly heard for the first time.

The Best Speaker I Ever Saw

I once saw a speaker on stage and said, “I want to be like him. Brave, confident, and in control on stage.” I approached him after and asked him how to learn what he knew, which resulted in my spending five life-changing days in New York and writing a very big check I could not afford to write. The end result was remarkable, as I came to understand many of my issues and made directional changes, along with challenging myself and putting myself in situations that made me uncomfortable. I only wish I had discovered it sooner. If only we could be taught these skills in school.

I changed then, and I can change now. But it’s never easy. Being comfortable and not changing is easy.

How are you doing in the listening department? 

Are you listening, jumping to conclusions, judging, dominating the conversation, being negative, or over-talking? 

I’ve been guilty of them all, and I”m going to try to train my brain to be less of what I was and more of what I should be. Won’t you join me?

Sometimes the most profound journeys begin not with speaking, but with finally learning to listen.

Eric Rhoads

The morning air carries the sound of an aluminum motorboat that moves slowly across the lake with a slight, muffled hum as it penetrates the remaining fog resting on the water. Steam rises from my coffee cup, resting on the arm of my 100-year-old Adirondack chair on the dock. There’s something about Sunday mornings that makes the world feel full of possibility.

The Dream That Wouldn’t Die

At 14, I fell desperately in love with an impossible dream: becoming a radio DJ. Not just any DJ — a star. I wanted it with the kind of burning intensity that only teenagers can muster. While other kids played Pong, I practiced my craft with religious devotion. When songs came on the radio, I’d talk up the intros like I was broadcasting to millions: “This is Eric Rhoads, your favorite DJ, and here’s a brand new record from the O’Jays.”

My secret weapon was a K-Tel record album — one of those compilations that crammed 20 shortened hit songs onto a single disc. Perfect for practice. I could rehearse talking at the start and end of records, 20 songs in a row, pretending I was the voice that connected people to the music they loved. I did it for hours on end, day after day, week after week.

Breaking Through the “Impossible”

I managed to land a volunteer spot at a college radio station while still in high school. They gave me the Saturday-morning shift — the graveyard slot when college kids wanted to sleep off their Friday-night adventures. I didn’t care. I would have worked any shift, any time, for the chance to be on the air.

But breaking into commercial radio? That was the real mountain to climb. I was young, inexperienced, and competing against 150 other applicants for every job. The industry veterans all said the same thing: “Kid, you’ve got to pay your dues. Don’t expect this to happen fast.”

I refused to accept that timeline. While everyone insisted I had to spend years climbing the ladder, rung by rung, I was determined to find a different way up.

When Your Kids Echo the Old Wisdom

The other day, one of my children said something that stopped me cold: “Dad, I have to pay my dues first.”

Watching my kids navigate the job market has been both fascinating and frustrating. Two have just graduated college, while the third chose the school of hard knocks — and we’re proud that he’s working and surviving. The college graduates constantly remind us that the job market is “different than it was when you were young.” They roll their eyes when we offer advice, convinced we’re digital dinosaurs who couldn’t possibly understand their world of online applications and radio silence.

“Dad, all applications are online and you get ghosted. You don’t even hear from them,” they tell me with the weary resignation of defeated warriors.

The Tests You Don’t Know You’re Taking

Here’s what might surprise my kids: I lay traps for job applicants. Deliberate ones.

I’ll set appointments and then cancel them, just to see who reaches out again. Most never do. During interviews, I give project assignments: “Send me a one-page PDF outlining how you’d excel in this role.” The majority never complete the homework. When there’s mutual interest, I’ll say, “Call me Thursday.” Then I don’t answer. I count the messages they leave, track how many times they call back.

The ones who don’t give up? They get offered the job.

Because persistence almost always wins. Creativity almost always wins. Resourcefulness always wins.

The Unexpected Hearse 

My late friend Rich Marston understood this principle better than anyone. He wanted to land a particular car dealer as an advertiser — a potential goldmine account. His first call ended with a rude assistant hanging up before he could even speak to the owner.

Most people would have moved on. Rich saw it as a year-long project.

Every weekday, on his way home from work, he stopped by the dealership to try to see the owner, leaving a note each time. For an entire year. When that still didn’t work, Rich got creative.

One day, a hearse pulled up to the showroom. Pallbearers carried a coffin inside. The owner ran out, shouting, “You can’t bring that in here!” That’s when they opened the coffin to reveal Rich lying inside with a sign: “I’m dying to get your business!” 

The dealer burst into laughter. He’d been testing Rich’s persistence all along, keeping every single note he’d left. Rich walked away with a massive contract and a friendship that lasted years.

The Myth of the Must-Haves

My kids are trapped by “musts”: You must have a degree, you must follow certain rules, you must apply through proper channels. Yes, if you’re becoming a doctor or lawyer, credentials matter. But even then, they’re not enough when 3,000 other qualified people want the same position.

You have to find a way to stand out, to be remembered, to create an interview experience so exceptional that people can’t stop thinking about you. It starts with finding a way to get noticed, to slip through the door, and to rise above the sea of identical applications.

The Quiet Man Who Knows Everyone

My artist friend Guy Morrow is the most connected person I know. He can reach anyone on earth and seems to know everybody, yet he’s quiet and unassuming — the last person you’d expect to be a networking powerhouse.

When Guy first called me, I was looking for a polite way to end the conversation. Within two minutes, he had charmed me, found our common ground, and somehow turned a cold call into the beginning of a friendship. Before long, I was spending weekends painting with him. We’ve been close friends ever since.

Guy never felt he didn’t deserve someone’s time. He never assumed he couldn’t reach someone. He simply believed that connection was possible and acted accordingly.

The Doors That Never Open Unless You Knock

Most people defeat themselves before they start. They assume they can’t reach someone important, so they don’t try. They tell themselves, “They don’t want to talk to me,” or, “I’m not important enough.” But at the end of the day, we’re all just people.

Believing you can accomplish anything and reach anyone is one of the keys to a rich life. Not every door will open — but none will open if you don’t knock. Following standard procedures is for ordinary outcomes. The people getting extraordinary opportunities are the ones trying creative solutions to tell their story.

The Weight of Chances Not Taken

Is there a time you can recall when you didn’t call, didn’t ask, didn’t take a chance — even though it was something you desperately wanted?

Can you remember a time when you walked through a brick wall because you wanted something so badly you could taste it?

I cringe when I think about the opportunities I let slip away because I was too insecure or shy to pursue them. I used to say, “That’s just who I am,” until I got sick enough of failing that I decided to change that part of who I was.

The Philosophy of the Possible

You deserve the best possible life, the best opportunities, the best job. There may be others more qualified on paper, but you are special — and you need to make sure others know it. Don’t let anything get in the way of that truth.

Think big. Aim high. Never, ever give up.

There is always a way. Always.

The question isn’t whether the path exists — it’s whether you’re willing to find it, create it, or, if necessary, blast your way through solid rock with nothing but determination and a refusal to accept no as a final answer.

What door have you been afraid to knock on? What dream have you been too “realistic” to pursue? Sometimes the biggest barrier between you and everything you want is the word “impossible” — and that’s a word you have the power to erase.

Eric Rhoads

Most spots are already claimed, but there’s still room for a few more kindred spirits. Join me at www.FallColorWeek.com and let’s create something beautiful together while Wisconsin puts on its most spectacular show.