An advertising billboard on I-40 got my attention with the proclamation: The best is yet to come.

      But I'm thinking—wait, what if we're so busy hoping and waiting for the Best That Is Yet To Come—that we miss the precious immediate miracle of the Now?

      And, what if—This ... right now … is the Best of Times? . . .

      Our homebase is the 14^th-century walled hill town of Montepulciano, where we try to coordinate our long-term rental villa apartment with the annual celebration of the fall's olive harvest.

      From travel guru Rick Steves, we learned years back to adopt the travel concept of becoming "Temporary Locals," in which you immerse yourself in all things local. So, Lynne and I make a point to learn names, memorize local maps, attempt to speak passable Italian, dive into local lore, customs, history and lifestyle.

      Mostly it's about developing and maintaining relationships, so this time around, we could walk into Giuseppe’s shop, call him by name, and be greeted in return with "Buongiorno, Lynne y Giacomo!"

      Lynne and I came here first in 2015, to celebrate our 70th birthdays and our 20th wedding anniversary. Now, on our eighth return here—our Italian home away from home—our love for this place has only been all the more reinforced. …

            Fifty years ago this summer, the country was in the throes of dramatic change.

            While I was raising a log cabin in an alternate lifestyle community, all heck was breaking loose in the nation's capital. Do you remember where you were on Aug. 9, 1974, when you heard the news that President Richard Nixon was resigning in disgrace?

            I sure do. Along with a  long-haired homesteader buddy,  Charlie, I was nailing down cedar shake shingles, up on the roof of a log barn we were restoring—as far from DC as we could get. My first wife and I were in "Deep Western North Carolina, " in a remote mountain valley building an intentional community that we Back-to-the-Landers called "Hogwild." . . .

Maybe, at first you don't even notice it.

      Your attention is drawn primarily to other items in the frame: the 1936 black-and-white portrait of grandfather Charlie Rush, the pot of flowers, the '60s era Polaroid camera, the splash of afternoon sunlight on log walls—and then maybe you notice, there in the background, the old guitar.

      If I told you it's "the James Taylor guitar," that would certainly get your attention—for the '40s era musical instrument has a tale to tell.

      When James and I were kids, 10 and 12, respectively, we were buds . . . .