More than just another sappy Christmas story


Note: Please start playing this now to fully get into the spirit of the blog. Thanks.

It was Christmas, and he was alone.

His name was Edmond. While he studied for a medical degree at the University of Kentucky, living by himself in a tiny apartment, his family — a wife and two small kids — remained at his home in Africa.

Edmond struggled with his English, botching several words and phrases, but what he lacked in “Americanized” speaking skills, he made up with is smile and laughter.

I worked with Edmond at the shipping warehouse for Gall’s Inc., a Lexington-based company, in the winter of 1998. Gall’s was, to be perfectly honest, a miserable place. Dry, hot air suffocated the workers, causing many long nights of frustration and fighting. But for some reason, this group took to Edmond, joking with him about his lack of knowledge on basketball and teasing him about girls. For the most part of that season, we all enjoyed his company and hoped to make him feel a little like he had some family in Kentucky.
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No, really Hammer, we’re on our hands and knees asking you to to stop inflicting harm

Eighteen years ago, I entered the world of music.

On Christmas morning in 1990, I received my first stereo and CD player, which at that time was a gigantic beast of machinery. Compact discs were cutting edge, with a sound that blew the doors off cassette tapes (not so much albums, though, but those can’t be easily played in a car).
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