Perception

My baby sister turned 25 today. A quarter of a century old. She posted some comment somewhere about "been rock'n this world since 1984". I responded back, of course, giving her grief, of course. I told her to let me know when the soundtrack of her youth started popping up on "classic rock" stations. Incidentally, 1984 was a pretty fair Van Halen album.
But I digress.

I began to think about how much more and how much longer my parents have experienced than I. And also how much less my children (10 & 4) have seen. And still further my newest nephew, only days old, who has so much laid out before him and so little behind. And today, Winnie Collins of Littlestown, PA turned 100. What has Winnie seen? What has become of the soundtrack of her youth? And I wonder what in 1934, at her quarter century, constituted "rock'n this world"?

Just for grins and giggles:
in 1909, William Taft was sworn in as the 27th President of the U.S. That's right, she's seen 18 U.S. Presidents.
There were only 46 states in the Union; New Mexico, Arizona, Alaska and Hawaii were added later.
There were only 16 amendments to the constitution. (there are 27 now)
Winnie has witnessed WWI, WWII, Korea, Vietnam, The gulf war, and The Iraq war.
She was there when the Berlin wall went up, and when it came down again.
She lived through both Pearl Harbor and 9/11 (and those nearly 50 years apart)
Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts were formed during her childhood.
She survived the roaring 20's and the Great Depression(s, both of them;~)
Segregation was abolished, a few presidents were impeached, and others assassinated.
She has seen the first Female leaders in our country, the first Black leaders and most tellingly the first Black president.

I can't even imagine what Winnie's perception of the world must be, much less how she might perceive my sister's comment "been rock'n this world since 1984". But I do know that we all have a lot more to experience. And I hope that we all have the opportunity to share some of it with each other. . .

Happy Birthday Winnie. Happy Birthday Shannon. Thank you both for the gifts that you are those around you.

Bill

P.S.
If I ever see the day that Shannon's favorite pastimes are cooking and crocheting, I might just stroke out right then and there!

New beginings. . .

Last evening I became an uncle. It's not the first time that this has happened, but it got me to thinking. And that (most of you already know) can be dangerous. However, I would like to keep things on the lighter side today. So, Congratulations Heather and Chris, there is no blessing (or trial) quite like parenthood. And welcome little Tyler. I know this world seems so strange to you now. But get used to it, things won't get much better . . . but you will learn to roll with it and manage the weirdness as time goes on. As a welcome, I would like to post something I wrote awhile ago. Some of you have seen it, but it seems fitting for the occasion.

Autobiography

An empty page. That's how life starts; as an empty page. The first experiences are cold and scary. Thoughts scarcely understood and only vaguely recorded. But this is a great way to introduce the story. It must be, because they all start that way. Yep, a stranger in a strange land surrounded by strange things and even stranger people. Sound Familiar? An original tale, and each of us with a story. Encyclopedias, paperbacks, comic books, classic literature and trashy romance novels; many different types of texts but all are written in the first person. And they all start the same way. Peculiar yet oddly comforting really, that they all start the same way. And fascinating how differently they all turn out. Some are tattered and worn. Well used tomes that have been read, re-read and shared across generations. While others. beautifully displayed on a pedestal or under glass like fine works of art, reveal themselves to be entirely sterile and devoid of substance. And musty old journals, left mostly unrecorded, undocumented and unwritten. Still stiff, the uncreased spine complains as the cover is lifted on this obscure text and pages rarely turned stick to each other as if embarrassed for their naked leaves and unwritten chapters to see the light of day. One account may require considerably more paper than another while others are written on cocktail napkins or the backs of claim checks. Some of these chronicles are chiseled in stone and others are etched in precious metals. Bold and brash tales with a sense of permanence. Others still are written in the sands by the shore or on the ethereal scent of early spring blooms. Fleeting fairy-tales; beautiful to behold but lost with the next tide and the summer rains. These enchanting tales tickle the back of ones mind like the comfortable memory of an old friend. But no one book is any more or less significant than another. An autobiography; written one day at a time, hour by hour, moment by moment. Is it fiction? A fantasy? Maybe a little of both. Critics say that is usually the way these things turn out. If my experience is any indication, I would say mostly a comedy of errors with hints of tragedy for effect.

Welcome to the world little Tyler. May yours be a bold & brash tale to be remembered fondly and forever. May you slay your dragons, rescue your damsels, feast with your friends and of course, live happily ever after.

Uncle Bill

Freedom isn't pretty. . .

Freedom isn’t free. We have all heard that phrase before. And here in America I dare say that most of us, on some level or another, agree with this concept. It is a blessing that must be earned, cultivated and protected. But what most people don’t understand (or refuse to accept) is that Freedom isn’t pretty.

“What!?!?!?” You ask incredulously. “Not pretty? Noble eagles soaring against the canvas of a blazing sunset. The sun hung low in the evening skies, caressing purple mountains majesty like a sated lover; inducing a golden glow of contentment across the endless fruited plains.” How can that not be considered beautiful? Much less the baser status of pretty? I agree with you. The imagery of freedom is powerful, beautiful and even awe inspiring. The imagery of slaves throwing off their shackles, of countries toppling oppressive regimes and of common folk dropping the yoke of elitist controls in favor of designing their own destiny is truly beautiful and amazing on more levels than most of us can perceive at once. The imagery of freedom is stunning; but Freedom isn’t pretty.

Freedom is sneaking onto a boat in the middle of the night to toss crates of tea into Boston harbor. Freedom is men coming together quietly (without full disclosure, without press releases, without embedded media personnel) to draft a document many would have considered treason; to literally sign their own death warrants should things not go as planned. I wonder how many of our current “leaders” would have had the gumption to follow through with such a task. It might be scary, but Freedom isn’t pretty.

In retrospect, we tell the story of the midnight ride of Paul Revere with pride and humbled awe. But that is in retrospect. Imagine the night of the ride. One man scared out of his gourd; reeking of fear and sweat on a horse that smelled much the same. Riding at breakneck speed over fields and through forests risking his life to proclaim the beginning of the battle of rebellion. Yes rebellion. We won, so we refer to it as our battle for independence. But had we lost, it would have only been referred to as a rebellion put down by Mother England. Freedom isn’t pretty.

Someone has to keep tabs on the world around us to anticipate and head off threats to our country. Someone has to make preemptive strikes to ensure our safety and avoid larger conflicts. Espionage can be ugly, but the world can be uglier. There are those who are jealous of our freedoms and would rather destroy them than allow the idea to spread. As long as there is freedom, there will be those who would take it away. And as long as people are attacking our way of life, then there will be those who stand to defend it. Hostility is not our goal but is sometimes necessary; is sometimes thrust upon us. Conflict is ugly. But then again, Freedom isn’t pretty.

The invasion of Iraq, the war in Afghanistan even our own Civil war were all ugly, brutal, conflicts. But at the heart of each was the simple belief that a people, any people, have the right to form their own future; that they have the right to design their own destiny. The idea that a governing body can inflict their plan on the people it governs will always result in conflict. Rather it is the people, who by right and by design, should be inflicting their plan upon the governing body; the government itself being merely a tool of the people and not visa versa. Conflict, rebellion, war, espionage; these are all ugly concepts. But every time a people has claimed or defended their freedom, one or more of these has been involved. Freedom is a concept so pure, so necessary, and so innate to our mortal being that most of us would have it, or die trying to obtain it. And once held, we would rather die defending it for ourselves and our loved ones rather than relinquish the sweet existence of a free people. Freedom is wonderful, and amazing and truly awe inspiring. Freedom is the stuff of anthems, of epics, of myth and of legend. But Freedom isn’t free and Freedom isn’t pretty.

A fable

Fw: [NBSCircle] A fable

I found this on another Blog and thought that it was worth sharing. . .