You know the moment: Young George (and later the adult George) steps up to the old countertop device, closes his eyes, crosses his fingers, whispers his grandest dream—”I wish I had a million dollars”—and then squeezes the lever. A small, reliable flame springs to life on the very first try. His eyes snap open, he grins wide, and out bursts that exuberant exclamation: “Hot dog!”
What a perfectly old-fashioned thing to say! “Hot dog!” was the 1920s–1940s equivalent of today’s “Yes!”, “Awesome!”, or “Let’s go!”—pure, unfiltered joy.
But the real magic lies in what that little device actually was: a vintage cigar lighter, a common fixture in early 20th-century drugstores and soda fountains. These contraptions were notoriously unreliable. The flint might spark weakly, the fuel might be low, or the mechanism might just be finicky. Most people had to try several times to get a flame.
So a charming piece of kid folklore sprang up: If the lighter lit on the first try, your wish was destined to come true.
Every single time George makes that wish in the movie—once as a boy full of big dreams, and again as a young man about to “shake the dust of this crummy little town” off his feet—the flame appears instantly. Hot dog! His wish is sealed. The universe has spoken.
Of course, as the story unfolds across decades of sacrifice, heartbreak, quiet heroism, and small-town love, we realize George never gets the million dollars. He never builds skyscrapers in Babylon or dances on the equator. The grand adventures stay just out of reach.
And yet… that lighter always lit on the first try.
In the end, the film whispers the deeper truth: George’s real wish—the unspoken one beneath all the million-dollar dreams—was for a life that mattered. For connection, for family, for being needed. And that wish? It came true spectacularly, flame after flame, in ways he could never have imagined as a boy at Gower’s counter.
On this Christmas Eve in 2025, with the world feeling heavy and uncertain for so many, I find comfort in that tiny, stubborn flame. It reminds me that the things we wish for most desperately often arrive in disguise. The million dollars might never show up, but the million little moments of love, kindness, and community? Those add up to something infinitely richer.
So tonight, if you’re feeling the weight of the year, maybe try this: Close your eyes for a second. Make a quiet wish—not for riches or escape, but for the things that really light up a life. Then imagine a small flame flickering to life on the very first try.
Hot dog.
Merry Christmas, May your own wonderful life be full of first-try flames, unexpected joy, and the kind of love that turns ordinary days into miracles.
And remember: You really have had a wonderful life… even if you haven’t always seen it that way.
Today we celebrate Robert E. Hargrove—a man who showed us that the greatest gifts aren’t found in stores, but on the banks of the Neches River.
Dad gave us something precious: a love of the outdoors and the simple joys of being together. Camp Hargrove was his classroom, and we were his eager students. We learned patience waiting for the channel cats and blue cats to bite. We felt the thrill when the ops latched onto the trotline bait and swam into view as we pulled the line from the depths. We waded through sandbars, filled minnow jars with bait, seined the shallows, and floated lazy afternoons in inner tubes, letting the river carry us.
We remember the ritual of it all—Dad pumping water from the river, later from the well he drilled with his own hands. The smell of bacon and scrambled eggs sizzling in cast iron. Biscuits that tasted like only the camp did. Coffee brewed strong in that old pot, grounds settling at the bottom, sipped slowly by the campfire as fog drifted across the water at dawn. The soft sounds of the river greeting us awake.
And every Fourth of July, Dad’s fishing became a gift to us all—fish fries for the extended family, gathered together, fed by what his hands and the river had provided.
In those moments—before the day rushed in, surrounded by sons, nephews, and grandchildren—Dad was teaching us how to live. How to slow down. How to appreciate what matters. How to pass love down through generations.
Those riverside mornings and summer days shaped who we became. Dad’s love for nature, his steady presence, his generosity of spirit—these are the catches we keep forever.
Happy Birthday, Dad. We’re still there by the river with you. 🐟🏕️💙
December 5, 1927 – September 6, 2013
ON THIS DAY
8 years ago
Glen Richbourg is feeling blessed with L.v. Hargrove and 2 others. wrote in 2013
Uncle Bob taught me the difference between a blue cat, channel cat and a mud cat. He could scull all the way around Mud Lake and not make a single splash. Made the best camp breakfasts ever and I’ve never had even a Starbucks that could match his river water coffee. Some of the best memories of my life were out in the Neches River bottom being a kid with the Hargrove boys and Uncle Bob. I learned life lessons from him about respecting the land, nature and fellow human beings that l’ve carried my entire life. He also raised the three best men you’ll ever meet. I will forever miss him.
Over the past several weeks, I’ve noticed a pattern rising in my heart—a mix of heaviness and hope, grief and gratitude, pressure and purpose. The holiday season always magnifies what is present in the soul, and this year is no different. I find myself remembering the people who shaped me, the stories that anchor me, and the losses that still echo in quiet moments.
At the same time, my days are full of responsibilities—engineering projects, community work, pastoral care, business decisions, family needs. I feel the pull from every direction, not because any of it is unworthy, but because all of it matters. Leadership in any form carries an invisible weight. And sometimes that weight presses harder in November and December.
Yet beneath all of this, something steady keeps tugging me forward: hope.
Not the thin kind that ignores reality or paints over pain. But the kind that believes God is present even in the unanswered questions. The kind that remembers that Jesus steps into weary places, not polished ones. The kind that says, “You don’t have to carry this alone.”
As I look back at conversations, projects, and prayers from the last week, I see the same thread weaving through everything: healing. Healing for myself. Healing for others. Healing for the places in our community that feel stretched or wounded. Healing for the dreams that feel fragile but not extinguished.
And the truth is, hope and healing aren’t found by escaping life—they grow right in the middle of it.
Every memory that stings reminds me there was love. Every responsibility that feels heavy reminds me there is purpose. Every moment of fatigue reminds me I need grace beyond myself.
And grace keeps showing up.
So I’m choosing to keep walking—one step at a time, one day at a time—trusting that the God who has carried me this far will carry me further still. My prayer is simple:
“Lord, meet me here. Make something good out of the weight I’m carrying. Let Your light break through.”
Because even in the heaviness, hope is rising. #HopeInTheJourney #JesusHeals #GraceInRealLife
Celebrating the Life and Legacy of Robert Edwin Hargrove December 5 2025 Born December 5, 1927 — Buna, Texas Passed September 6, 2013 — Buna, Texas
Today we honor the birthday of Robert Edwin Hargrove, a man whose steady presence shaped his family, strengthened his community, and left an enduring mark on Buna and Jasper County. His life reflected the deep values of rural East Texas—work, faith, service, and integrity—lived not in speeches but in actions repeated faithfully over decades.
Born in Buna in 1927, Robert was raised during the Great Depression and the wartime years that demanded resilience from every family. Those early years shaped the patient, steady character he carried throughout his life.
During his youth and early adulthood, Robert contributed to the early development of Buna’s public services. He worked for Tom Barker during high school and for some time afterward, assisting in the operation of the town’s diesel generator system—the very system that provided electricity to Buna before JNEC extended power lines into the region. In those years, the town relied on local operators to keep the generators running, manage outages, and ensure that families and businesses had dependable light and power.
As a young man he answered his country’s call, serving in the United States Army with the 45th Infantry Division, 120th Combat Engineers, deploying to Korea and performing dangerous, essential work with quiet resolve.
Returning home, he built a life marked by responsibility and devotion. In 1957 he married Lavee Richbourg, and together they raised three sons—John, Hardy , and Wylie—rooting their family in the same East Texas soil that had shaped them.
Robert gave deeply to his community. He served for many years on the Buna Independent School District Board, including time as Board President. In that role he helped guide the school system through seasons of growth and change, always insisting that the next generation deserved stability, opportunity, and excellence. His leadership was steady, principled, and grounded in a genuine concern for the children and families of Buna.
He was also a man of faith, active throughout his life in the Buna Methodist Church. He served wherever needed—trustee, Sunday school teacher, volunteer, and quiet presence. His faith was lived rather than announced, expressed in service, humility, and a deep sense of responsibility to his church family.
His legacy reflects the best of the long Hargrove lineage—strength without pride, faith without show, perseverance without complaint. The generations who preceded him crossed oceans, endured war and hardship, and built communities from the ground up. Robert carried those same qualities into the modern era, living a life of steadiness that inspired those around him.
Today, as we mark his birthday, we remember a man whose example continues to guide his family and community. A man who did what needed to be done. A man who could be counted on. A man whose life mattered quietly, deeply, and permanently.
Happy 97th Birthday in Heaven, Robert E. Hargrove. Your legacy continues in the lives you shaped and the community you served.
Robert Edwin Hargrove A Life Across Nine Decades
1920s — Beginnings (1927–1929) Robert was born in the closing years of the Roaring Twenties, at a time when Buna was a small, timber-country settlement with limited infrastructure. His earliest days would have been marked by family, church, and the rhythms of rural life. His parents, James and Mary, were part of the first generation to root the Hargrove and Denman lines firmly in Buna’s early community life.
1930s — Childhood in the Depression His childhood unfolded during the Great Depression, a decade when rural East Texas survived through hard work, neighbor cooperation, and self-reliance. Robert likely helped with farm chores, garden plots, cutting wood, and caring for animals. School was a privilege; work was expected. Sunday worship at the local Methodist church anchored weekly life. Electricity was limited, and his later work on the town diesel generator suggests an early familiarity with mechanical systems, power equipment, and practical problem-solving.
1940s — Youth, Work, and Early Responsibility In his teenage years Robert attended Buna schools and worked for Tom Barker, helping operate Buna’s diesel generator plant, which produced electricity for the town before JNEC lines arrived. This work required reliability, long hours, and technical skill well beyond his age. These were the war years. Though too young for World War II, Robert grew up in a community shaped by rationing, local enlistments, and the wartime economy. He learned responsibility early—supporting his family, working multiple jobs, and contributing to the stability of a rural town in a turbulent era.
1950s — Military Service, Marriage, and the Start of Family Life The Korean War era called him to military duty. In 1951 he entered the U.S. Army and deployed to Korea with the 45th Infantry Division, 120th Combat Engineers, where he served in harsh conditions that demanded discipline, strength, and courage. After returning home, Robert married Lavee Richbourg in 1957 and began building a home of his own. Late in the decade their first child, John, was born. The 1950s were years of transition—from soldier to husband, from young worker to the steady provider he would become.
1960s — Raising a Family and Deepening Community Roots The 1960s were defined by family life and community service. With the births of Hardy and Wylie, Robert became the father of three sons. He worked steadily to provide for his growing household, and these years likely saw him balancing demanding work with active involvement in Buna Methodist Church and local community responsibilities. His Father passed during this decade, leaving him as one of the senior carriers of the Hargrove family’s East Texas legacy.
1970s — Leadership, School Board Service, and Stability The 1970s were a period of public service. Robert served on the Buna ISD School Board, including time as Board President, helping guide the district during seasons of modernization and growth. His sons were moving through school, and he focused on ensuring they—and all Buna students—had reliable facilities, stable leadership, and opportunities that earlier generations lacked. These were steady years, defined by work, church, responsibility, and the steady rhythm of rural life.
1980s — Mentorship, Church Leadership, and Family Milestones By the 1980s, Robert was respected as a seasoned leader, a trusted church member, and a mentor. At Buna Methodist Church he served as trustee, Sunday school teacher, and a dependable servant in numerous roles.
His Mother passed as the decade started. He supported his sons as they began their adult lives, careers, and families. He and Lavee became grandparents. These were years of quiet influence—teaching, advising, helping, and modeling steady character.
1990s — Retirement, Reflection, and Community Continuity In the 1990s Robert eased into retirement while maintaining deep roots in community and church. He saw the passing of his siblings James (1994) and George (1995), a reminder that he had become part of the family’s senior generation. He spent more time on the Neches River, on quiet mornings with coffee, and on the small routines that bring meaning after decades of work. His presence remained steady—calm, predictable, and deeply valued.
2000s — The Grandfather Years The 2000s brought slower days and the joy of watching grandchildren grow. Though older, he remained active in his church and community, continuing the habits of service that marked his life. These were reflective years—filled with family gatherings, stories from earlier days, and the quiet pride of seeing the next generation stand on foundations he helped lay.
2010s — Closing Years Robert entered his final decade still grounded in the same community where he had been born. He lived to see Buna change, grow, and become a connected rural hub far beyond the diesel-generator days of his youth. He passed away in 2013 at the age of 85, leaving behind a legacy of steadiness, humility, faith, and service—a legacy carried forward by his children, grandchildren, and the community he helped shape.
For Joshua Blake Hargrove from John Hagrove his dad June 2025 1984–2002
My son,
If I could sit across from you today—twenty-three years after you left this world—I would begin with the words that still rise unbidden in my heart: I miss you. Every day. Not with the same sharp ache as before, but with a quiet, steady presence that stays with me like breath. You are never far from my thoughts, never absent from my soul.
I would tell you honestly: a piece of me went quiet the day you died—and another part went angry. I wasn’t just broken. I was furious. Angry at the unfairness, the helplessness, the fact that the world kept spinning without you in it. I didn’t know how to carry the weight of that kind of grief, so I buried it. I buried the part of me that laughed freely, dreamed boldly, and felt things too deeply.
And in its place, I went to work. I built things. I solved problems. I became dependable and productive. But underneath it all, I was still just a father who had lost his son. The music stopped. The prayers faded. I kept going because I didn’t know how to stop—but I also didn’t know how to live fully anymore.
If I could tell you anything now, it would be this: Your death didn’t end me—but it did remake me. And over time, with grace and patience, something inside me began to stir again.
I would tell you that God didn’t abandon me. He held me through it all, though I didn’t always recognize His presence. And in the years that followed, a few key people—some family, some unexpected friends—entered my life and helped awaken parts of me I thought were gone forever. None of them replaced you. They couldn’t. But somehow, through their kindness, gentleness, and love, I began to feel again. I began to believe that I could be fully alive, even while still carrying your absence. I hold those relationships with reverence. They brought back to life the part of me that knows how to love without fear.
I would tell you about your mama. She’s still the strongest woman I’ve ever known. Her grief was quiet, but it ran deep. We’ve grown older together, and we still speak your name. Sometimes in words, sometimes in silence. You are still part of our home, our hearts, our story.
I’d tell you about the little ones in our family—your cousins’ children, great-nieces and nephews you never got to meet. I watch them play, laugh, stumble and grow, and I see glimpses of you. Their lives are full of light, and I imagine the kind of uncle you would have been—funny, kind, full of mischief and wisdom. Your absence in those moments is a presence all its own.
I’d tell you that I’ve come to believe in resurrection—not just of bodies, but of broken hearts, of joy, of purpose. I’ve come to believe that the deepest love isn’t erased by death. It changes form, but it remains. And I carry you as part of that resurrection. You are part of what brought me back to life.
Most of all, I would tell you that you are still my son. Nothing—not time, not distance, not death—can ever take that from us. You made me a father. You taught me the kind of love that doesn’t fade. And though I never got to watch you grow old, you’ve shaped the man I’ve become more than anyone else ever could.
If I could hold your face in my hands one more time, I would say what I still say in the silence of prayer:
You are my boy. I love you. And I will carry you until the day I see you again.
With all I am, Dad
And I would tell you—humbly—that someone came into my life many years later who helped awaken something that had gone dormant inside me. That I could still feel. Maybe I was allowed to be fully alive again. I hold that chapter of my life with reverence. As strange and sacred as it was, it brought something back to me I thought was lost forever: the part of me that knows how to love without fear.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to do work that matters when it feels like no one cares.
For the past few years, I’ve been advocating for rural East Texas communities—places like Buna, Newton, San Augustine. I’ve built communication frameworks, written strategic plans, installed digital kiosks, organized meetings, drafted policy briefs. I’ve tried to give voice to communities that have been systematically left out of planning conversations, to help people shape their own futures instead of having decisions made for them from far away.
Most days, it feels like pushing a boulder uphill alone.
The Generational Game
I’m starting to realize this work isn’t measured in months or even years—it’s generational. The infrastructure I’m building, these communication frameworks and pilot models and community briefs, they’re seeds that may not fully mature in my lifetime. And I think I’ve been measuring success wrong.
Maybe success isn’t getting county commissioners to read every brief I send. Maybe it’s that one local leader who picks up this work five years from now and has a template to start from. Maybe it’s just that these documents exist at all—proof that someone saw what was happening, cared enough to name it, and offered solutions.
That’s not failure. That’s foundation-building.
Celebrating What’s Actually There
When the big wins feel impossible, I’m learning to notice the small ones:
A county commissioner who actually responded to a community brief
A kiosk that’s been running for six months without breaking down
One new business owner who showed up to learn about the community
The fact that I’ve created templates other rural organizers can use
These aren’t nothing. They’re evidence of progress, even if they’re not transformation yet.
Finding My People
The San Augustine meeting this year reminded me of something important. Sitting around that table with Eddie, Nancy, Tania, and Marianne—people doing similar work in their own communities—I didn’t feel alone. We shared frustrations, traded contacts, problem-solved together.
I’ve been spending too much energy seeking alignment “up”—with county officials, state agencies, foundations—and not enough building lateral relationships with peers. Those relationships aren’t just strategic. They’re sanity-preserving. They remind me I’m not crazy for thinking this work matters.
Even when nothing changes immediately, these reports I’m writing serve a purpose:
They validate what communities are experiencing
They create a record for future organizers
They protect against institutional amnesia (“we didn’t know there was a problem”)
I need to remember that documentation is activism. Recording what’s happening, naming the gaps, proposing solutions—that’s meaningful work even when it doesn’t produce immediate results.
Not everyone is going to get it. Some officials will remain indifferent. Some developers will keep ignoring community input. Some residents will stay skeptical of any change.
That’s okay. The goal isn’t to convince everyone—it’s to build enough of a coalition to create momentum. I don’t need universal support for this work to matter.
Taking Real Breaks
I’m bad at this one. I need to take actual breaks—not performative self-care, but real disengagement. Days where I don’t mention rural development. Weeks where the kiosks can wait.
This work will always be there. It’s generational, remember? Burning out doesn’t serve anyone.
I’m trying to get more specific about what meaningful progress would look like in the next year. Not transformation—just progress:
Three communities actually using the communication framework I built
One successful regional roundtable where rural leaders are at the table
Maybe a single rural navigator position gets funded somewhere
When I make it concrete like that, I can tell the difference between “not enough impact yet” and “actually making progress.” They’re not the same thing.
Buna, Newton, San Augustine—these aren’t abstractions to me. They’re people who deserve to shape their own futures. The work I’m doing affirms their dignity and their right to be heard.
That has value independent of whether it produces immediate systemic change.
The fact that I keep showing up, keep documenting, keep building frameworks when no one asked me to—I don’t think that’s naivete anymore. I think it’s moral courage. Or stubbornness. Maybe both.
The question isn’t whether to keep going. It’s how to keep going sustainably, strategically, with enough support to avoid burning out completely.
I don’t have all the answers yet. But writing this helps. Naming what’s hard helps. Remembering I’m building foundations, not finished structures—that helps too.
If you’re doing similar work somewhere else—advocating for a place everyone else overlooks, building infrastructure no one asked for, showing up when it feels pointless—you’re not alone. And you’re not crazy.
I’ve been asking myself lately why I’ve done all of this. Why, in 1989, I sat in the yard with a notebook computer, working while my son played nearby — but not really paying attention to him. Why I’ve poured 65 to 80 hours a week into work, every week, from college right up to now at age 67 — through Evergreen, ministry, and community service.
I can see the pattern stretching back decades. In college, I juggled studying and part-time jobs because I thought that’s what it took to make something of myself. In 1993, I turned down a safe regional manager’s job because I wanted the freedom to build my own thing. I consulted for 26 years, worked in co-ops for 5, then left under a cloud. I started consulting again, built a WISP to $55K a month and 730 customers in two years, only to be dismissed by the majority owner for lack of fealty. Ninety days later, I started Evergreen — and I’ve been slogging ever since.
Somewhere along the way, I built my life around the belief that it was my job to build, to fix, to carry. That I should never settle for “good enough.” That if something needed to be done, I should be the one to do it — even if it meant giving up comfort, time, or relationships.
I’ve lost everything more than once, in cycles of 8 to 10 years. I’ve rebuilt more than once. And in between, I’ve driven myself with an intensity most people don’t understand — and maybe I don’t fully understand either.
If I’m honest, I think I’ve been chasing significance more than success. Trying to prove that what I build matters. That I matter. That I’m the kind of man who doesn’t walk away when things get hard, no matter how long it takes.
But lately I find myself wondering… Can grace win over the cynicism I’ve picked up along the way? Can purpose rise again from all the pain and loss? Can light reframe what I’ve lost — and maybe even redeem it?
I don’t have those answers yet. But I know I’m still here, still building, still hoping. And maybe that’s where the next chapter starts.
Eighteen with 49 Years of Experience: Its been a Wild Ride
I have never felt completely sure of myself. But that never stopped me from trying things anyway. Life has been a mix of near-disasters, small victories, and the occasional moment of brilliance—sometimes all in the same day..
Looking back, I’ve built things, broken things (intentionally and otherwise), raised a family, started companies, rejoined companies, and somehow managed to survive a quarter horse with a mean streak. I’ve designed nuclear security systems, climbed radio towers, and watched Star Trek recover from its worst movie (looking at you, 1979). Through it all, I’ve realized that work was never just work—it was always fun. And somehow, I’m still here, still learning, still trying.
Along the way, I’ve designed electrical control systems for substations and regional grids, implemented one of the first utility fiber control systems (1982), and developed leading-edge cybersecurity systems for power plants and grid transmission.
All that said, I still feel like an 18-year-old with 49 years of experience.
The Best Times of My Life
(In Chronological Order, Because That’s How Time Works)
The Early Years: Learning, Surviving, Horses That Bite, and Learning Things the Hard Way
Age 11
Age 12 – Survived the mile swim. Earned a merit badge for not drowning.
• Age 13 – Earned Eagle Scout rank, proving I could navigate the woods, tie knots, and not set the camp on fire.
• Age 14 – Discovered Newton’s Laws the hard way by losing control of my quarter horse while riding bareback. As I rotated around to her neck, she decided to bite me while at full gallop—which seems like an unfair move in hindsight.
• Learned drafting from my grandfather, setting the stage for a lifelong appreciation of good engineering (and good erasers).
• Spent summers on the Neches River at my dad’s camp, developing a deep love for nature and mosquito repellant.
Graduated Buna ISD
The Family Years: Running From Kids, Finding Purpose, and Speaking in Public
• Pretended to run from my 3-year-old son, because making toddlers think they are faster than you is part of the Dad Code.
• Thirty-nine years later, repeated this with my grand-nephews and niece (ages 4 and up). Kids never get tired. I do.
• Got my BSEE from Lamar University (1981)—a degree that would later justify many of my wildest projects.
• Became a telecommunications engineer because my boss discovered I knew Morse code.
• Married Leisa, a moment of sheer brilliance on my part.
We had a Son – Joshua Blake Hargrove – a gift from God. 1984-2002
• Age 42 – Had the life-changing realization that Jesus loves me, this I know. That moment when you TRULY know it, and realize you were ignorant before. This alone saved me from what was to come in less than two years.
• 1994 – My wife twisted my arm into attending Toastmasters to learn public speaking. I physically got sick before my first talk. Turns out, you don’t actually die from it.
The Career Years: Work Was Never Just Work
• Started an internet company—because apparently, I like a challenge. During a pandemic…
• 1993-1995 Redesigned and oversaw a replacement and rebuild of a transcontinental microwave system from Houston to NYC, proving that yes, sometimes the right people DO get put in charge.
• 2010-2019 Designed cybersecurity systems for power plants and the grid—because keeping the lights on is kind of important.
• Put in one of the first utility fiber control systems in 1982, back when fiber optics were considered risky and cutting-edge.
• 2002 onward – Led Bible studies, where I saw the Word come alive in me and others.
The “Geezer Paradox” Years: Dancing, Trek, and Perspective
• Age 64 – Learned that I can dance like no one is watching and, more importantly, not care if anyone is. Look up the “Geezer Paradox”—it’s real.
• The Worst Times of My Life (Because Life Isn’t Always Fun and Star Trek)
• 2002 – The death of our son, Joshua. Until then, I did not know pain. Afterward, grief became a constant companion—one that never leaves, but you learn to live with.
• 1983 – The passing of my maternal grandfather at age 26. The first close relative I lost. I didn’t know how to process it.
• 2013 – The passing of my father at 85. He had a full life, but I wasn’t ready to let him go.
Final Thoughts: What I’ve Learned
No one ever feels truly complete. I’ve done a lot—some impressive, some just weird—but in the end, I’m just a guy who tried his best and constantly fell short in his own eyes. I’ve been a legal adult since 1976, but some days I still feel like a kid. Some days I act like one.
Sometimes I’m proud of what I do, sometimes I’m not.
But whether good or not-so-good, I rinse and repeat. Adjust. Keep going.
Looking back, I’ve been privileged to lead in both professional and personal areas. And yet, I still feel like I have so much left to do.
Family is huge, they made me who I am.
Each day, I try to be better and not be a burden to others.
I think I may finally be succeeding at life.
Final Words of Wisdom:
Have a great life. If I can, you can too.
Joshua painted this for me in 1999 The signature says from Paco to Dad.
The signature says from Paco to Dad.
when he was in his 20’s
John Hargrove Seeking Truth and Reality 