Category: History

Open Your Heart

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

open-heartThe vast majority of the earth’s people are good men and women, with honorable intentions. What confounds most of us is the fact that we are so divided as to what constitutes the best way of doing things. Each side proclaims itself the harbinger of all that is right and just. We are often forced to select between one philosophy or another, often with great difficulty. There was a time when we mostly kept our thoughts to ourselves and managed to get along quite well even with those whose ideas were diametrically opposed to ours. Now there is a tendency to “out people” and then defile them if they dare to contradict our own thinking. The great divide that exists across the entire planet has made it more and more difficult for those of us intent on keeping the peace to navigate among the differing points of view.

Social media is a wonderful place for seeing photos of our friends and family. We are able to vacation vicariously with the individuals that we know. We watch babies grow into lovely children and youngsters grow into young men and women. As long as things stay apolitical we seem to do quite well. It is whenever someone wants to express a thought that is important to them that we feel uncomfortable, sometimes to the point of avoiding those who have once been our friends. We don’t want to hear things that bother us. We want to keep the world more like Disneyworld. Sadly we have recently learned that even the land of Mickey and Minnie may be home to dangerous creatures who surprise us with their deadly actions. The truth is that we can’t close our eyes and hope for the best any more than we will ever be able to convince everyone to believe exactly as we do.

Lately I have noticed a number of people declaring their disgust with others. One of my former students participated in Houston’s Gay Pride Parade and heard shouts of hate being directed at him and the other participants. He was hurt and confused that anyone had the audacity to suggest that he was going to hell. A former colleague posted his supportive reaction to Brexit and endured negative backlash from people who had supposedly been his friends. In the present state of the world there are far too many among us who seem to believe that we must all adopt their points of view and abandon our own or run the risk of losing their acceptance of us.

It is always easy to open our hearts to those with whom we identify. There is nothing particularly magnanimous about embracing the people who are most like ourselves. In fact it always feels quite wonderful to have a sympathetic ear. We feel free to safely express ourselves with our philosophical twins. It is far more difficult to make an effort to understand people who totally disagree with us. We too often feel the need to either change their minds or turn our backs on them, neither of which is a particularly productive way to exist in a diverse world. 

The American Civil War was a terrible time for our country. Over 600,000 men died in a conflict that need never have occurred. Abraham Lincoln was determined to bring us back together to preserve our union. The interesting thing about him is that to the very end of his life he never expressed hatred for those who had rebelled. Instead he attempted to understand their frustrations and was willing to forgive them once the battles had ended even as he fought with everything in his power to bring the two sides together once again. He strongly believed that he was on the right side of history but he also steered clear of insinuating that the members of the Confederacy were somehow less important or more evil than the those who had fought for the United States. He understood that the need for healing and forgiveness required that he open his heart to members of a group that sometimes hated him. Upon President Lincoln’s untimely death the forces that wanted to punish the South persisted. I think it possible that with a an approach more in keeping with that of Lincoln the divisions that still exist in our country might have been mitigated.

History is replete with examples of individuals who punished their detractors and those who somehow found the grace to listen to the cries of even their enemies. It might have been easy to punish the German people for perpetuity after World War II but a more understanding approach actually hastened their renouncement of the evils that had caused their country to descend into unspeakable horrors. Today Germany is a world leader in democratic ideals. I wonder if it would be so if we had instead brokered hardcore retribution at the end of the war.

There are indeed moments when we cannot and should not embrace those who would do us harm. When we encounter abusive individuals we need not accept their corrosive behaviors. Those who would kill or hurt us likewise need to be cast aside. For the most part though we should be more open to the people whose ideas are far different from our own. I believe that the rise of populist uprisings across the world is in part due to the fact that we have often been tone deaf to the needs of vast swaths of society. When we continuously ridicule and debase those whose fears are genuine they become even more determined to fight. When we place entire groups into a bucket of our own prejudices we run the risk of angering many among them. Sadly our tendencies of late have been to do just that. We are not willing to open our hearts to those that we don’t understand. We join groups that are like ourselves and build walls designed to keep differing points of view and lifestyles from entering our sphere of influence.

If we were to rationally discuss virtually any issue that concerns our country and our world we might find that only a small proportion of the people engaged in a particular way of thinking actually have evil intent. Most of us sincerely want to improve our environments. We simply desire different means of doing so.

As an inexperienced teacher I tended to discipline an entire class rather than seeking out those who were the real trouble makers. I soon learned that in subjecting my students to such mass punishments I only angered the innocent and turned those who might have helped me against my cause. Once I became more adept at classroom management I learned how to counsel with those who were actually responsible for the offending behaviors. Even at that point I often learned that they had somewhat legitimate reasons for defying my demands. By brokering mutual understanding my classroom settled into a reasoned peace. My students sensed that I was a just person, not authoritarian or patronizing. I once had one young man explain that he saw me as a fair, strict person, the perfect combination.

I try to react in a similar way to everyone that I encounter. When I heard a friend recently railing against guns, conservatives, whites, seniors and Christians I did not take offense even though I belong to at least three of those categories. Instead I simply let him know that I had heard his cries of frustration and understood the depth of his feelings. When I told him that I loved him he immediately softened his tone and apologized in the off chance that he had somehow insulted me. We both left feeling okay with one another. It happened because I was willing to open my heart to a situation that might otherwise have resulted in the loss of a good friend.

Continue to love those who are close to you but don’t be so quick to condemn those who choose different paths than your own. Keep your heart open. Demonstrate your willingness to love even those who seem to contradict everything that you believe. You may soon find yourself feeling much more optimistic about the world. It really is a good place and in the end most of us want exactly the same things.   

Beloved of God

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

ali1My early years at the University of Houston were marked by a highly charged political atmosphere. I was there during the height of the Vietnam War when young men the same age as I was had to register for the draft. Attending college gave them a temporary deferment as long as they were full time students, and made passing grades that allowed them to continue to progress toward a degree within a reasonable timeline. Back then the intensity and stress normally associated with the college experience was exacerbated by the threat of losing that deferment and being called to serve in the army. For many avoiding the draft was simply a matter of not wanting to be forced to serve. For others it was a matter of principle, namely that they did not want to participate in a war that they thought to be unwarranted and unjust. Others were strict pacifists who would not have wanted to fight under any circumstances.

The university was the site of protests and political speakers on a regular basis and for those of us who were against the war there was ample opportunity to meet with like-minded individuals to voice our concerns. I had analyzed the situation and found little reason for the United States to be involved in the conflict unfolding in Vietnam. It had begun as a civil war between opposing political factions and ideologies and the United States had originally only intended to provide support to the democratic government of the south. By 1968, however, our nation had become hopelessly mired in the fighting with our youth being sent a world away to a war whose purpose few really understood. By the time that I was a college student the country was hopelessly divided over the issue of whether or not we should be sending troops to Vietnam. The divisions would ultimately destroy the reputation of President Lyndon B. Johnson and show its ugliest side in riots at the 1968 Democrat convention in Chicago. 

While my concerns about the political atmosphere of our country often outweighed my interest in my studies, I was only peripherally involved in the student efforts to voice our point of view. I knew many of the key players in the anti-war movement at school but mostly just attended meetings and went to hear speakers who came to our campus. I was particularly excited when I learned that members of the student government had secured a visit from Muhammed Ali and that he would speak at an informal gathering inside the Cougar Den. I knew that I had to be there.

Back then the Cougar Den was little more than a wooden shack nestled under a grove of trees to the left of the Ezekiel Cullen building. It was a dark, noisy, smoke-filled and always crowded room under the best of circumstances. On the day of Muhammad Ali’s visit it was a madhouse as students eagerly jammed inside hoping to get a glance of the greatest boxer in history. When a good friend and I arrived we realized that we would be lucky if we were even able to hear him speak much less actually see him. Fortunately fate intervened on our behalf. My friend was an incredibly beautiful and popular coed and as we were jockeying for a decent place to stand we encountered an officer of the Young Republican Club who had a huge crush on her. He offered to take us both upstairs to the organization’s headquarters where we might stand along the railing and watch the proceedings from a bird’s eye view. We eagerly followed him and the location proved to be perfect.

When Muhammad Ali entered the room a respectful hush fell over all of us. The mere sight of him was mesmerizing. Here was a man who had risked everything by refusing to be inducted into the army. With the famous words, “I got nothing against no Viet Cong” he had refused to step forward when his name was called to be drafted. His actions had resulted in the loss of his boxing title and the inability to fight in many places. He was threatened with five years in prison and had to pay a stiff fine. He would be involved in an appeal for the next many years, citing his Muslim religion as the reason for his pacifism. For some he was seen as a traitor but to those of us who believed that the war was wrong, he was a hero of the highest stature. On the day that I heard him speak he appeared to be godlike and was truly the greatest in my mind.

Muhammad Ali’s appeal would go all the way to the Supreme Court where his conviction would eventually be overturned. He was cleared to resume his boxing career and he went on to have a legendary career that is spoken of with reverence to this very day. His presence, his confidence and his style was unlike anything that the public had ever before seen. Even his detractors had to admit that he was an incredible man. 

I was never a fan of boxing so I can’t say that I followed Muhammad Ali’s career very closely. I had uncles who loved to watch the matches that were broadcast on television but I was never interested. One of those uncles had gone to see George Foreman train here in Houston. I remember his unmitigated excitement when Foreman was slated to fight Ali in Manilla. He was convinced that it would be one of the best contests ever and it indeed became one of those sporting moments that boxing fans would never forget. In the searing heat Muhammad Ali pushed George Foreman to a state of exhaustion and then knocked the giant off of his feet to secure a victory that stunned the world.

I suppose that what I admired most about Muhammad Ali was his integrity. He was a man who lived the principles that were the foundation of his beliefs. He was unafraid to speak even when the truth was difficult. He was a warrior for social justice and a peaceful man. When Parkinson’s disease began to ravage his body he demonstrated courage and grace. I’ll never forget the moment when he carried the torch to light the Olympic flame at the games in Utah. He was already frail but he bravely ran up the ramp as though he were holding the light of the world for all of us. He was as beautiful as he had been when I saw him as a young lion those many years ago.

Muhammad Ali became an example and spokesman for those of us who are nameless. He never varied from his determination to make the world a more tolerant and peaceful place. From his days as Cassius Clay in Louisville, Kentucky to his most triumphant moments the public knew that he was indeed a remarkable man. At a time when a black man dared not speak out lest he be punished, Muhammad Ali refused to still his voice. He held his head high and reminded us that he was beautiful and great. He would proudly boast, “I am Muhammad Ali, a free name – it means beloved of God, and I insist people use it when people speak to me.”

Muhammad Ali was beloved, not just by God but by people the world over. He taught us the importance of faith, family and conviction. Now he may rest in peace. His battered body will hurt him no more. He is with God and moving like a butterfly in his heavenly home.

Rain Potholes and Dreams

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

Floods920x920Normally I am a pluviophilia, someone who loves rain. I enjoy the mornings when the house is dark and all is quiet outside. With little fear that a random visitor will come knocking on my door I lounge in my pajamas and leisurely eat my breakfast while watching the precipitation fall on my garden. I feel safe and warm and think of how often my mother reminded us to be thankful for the roof over our heads whenever the weather turned frightful. Now that I no longer have to travel to work on inclement days I especially enjoy the roll of the distant thunder and the pitter pat of the raindrops on my roof.

Unfortunately today is not a normal day. My city and my state has been pounded with punishing storms for weeks now. Our waterways are full. The situation is dire in some quarters where rivers are cresting and reaching historically high levels. The price of human pain has been high. People have died, including a group of soldiers whose vehicle was swept away by raging waters. Homes in some areas are being inundated for the second and third times in only weeks. While the view from my window is still lovely I can’t help but feel for the good people in the path of nature’s destructive force. I think once again of my own blessings but somehow feel that but for the vagaries of nature I might be the one seeking refuge with a relative. I long for the sun, not so much for myself but for my Houston neighbors who have had enough.

Mother Nature appears to be on a rampage right now. Even as my city braces itself for the possibility of more flooding throughout today and tomorrow, the streets of Paris are filling from its own storms. The Louvre is closed so that workers might move priceless pieces of art to higher ground. Parts of Germany and Austria are also reeling from the punishing rains. Our precious planet seems to be in a state of feast or famine as some of us drown and others experience crushing drought. I have to wonder what we as people might have done or not done to prevent the unfolding tragedies.

Meanwhile back in Houston we will ask ourselves if the city’s romance with real estate may have gone too far. We now blithely build on plots of land that our ancestors would have avoided. Huge subdivisions spring up on river bottoms or former rice fields. We erect retention ponds, levees and pumping stations believing that we will be protected. Our city is beribboned with miles and miles of concrete, not just on our roads but in massive parking lots and even along the banks of our system of bayous. In our hubris we build and build and build with little regard for the consequences.

I’m a native of Houston and so is my husband. His mother and mine were both born here. We have watched our city change dramatically in our lifetimes. Ironically the places where our mothers lived as children rarely experience problems with floods. Their 1920s era homes are always safe, even in hurricanes. They were built at a time before the city was looped with highways that lured the populace far from downtown. Both of our parents often spoke of playing in wooded areas near their neighborhoods. The city was small and had a more rural feel. My mother’s family even owned livestock. While there were sometimes terrible storms that flooded the streets inside the business district, there was plenty of open land where the runoff might meander without doing harm to people or homes.

When I was growing up our family moved to a neighborhood in the suburbs. It was located just outside of Loop 610 and at the time seemed to be at the far end of city. Our subdivision was built near Simms Bayou, a mostly quiet and meandering ribbon of water that was once home to birds and fish and other creatures. Back then only a few people were willing to tempt fate by building along its banks. For the most part the land adjacent to the waterway was left in its natural state and I fondly recall spending hours inside the woods that graced the area. Eventually the beautiful forest was eliminated as first one and then another home was erected where nature once reigned. Today there are few signs of the serenity that once marked the edge of my neighborhood. It is instead one vast intersection of concrete roads that scar the beauty of Simms Bayou. Now when seasonal rains bear down on that area the streets become impassible and the waters of the bayou encroach on the properties that have tempted fate.

It doesn’t always rain in Houston. We are not Seattle. There have been years when the ground was parched and dry, times when a single cigarette thrown from a car window might set a field on fire. Our lakes and rivers have often faded to low levels that are as frightening as the moments when they crest. With regard to weather Houston has never been an easy place to live. Many of the early settlers died from yellow fever and other diseases caused by the swampy breeding grounds. The area known as The Heights was created on land that towered over the rest of the city. I suspect that if truth be told nobody ever dreamed that Houston would one day be home to the fourth largest population in the country.

We have done our best to create living spaces for the people who have flocked to our city. It has always been a place of opportunity and promise. For the most part the people are friendly and even someone whose entire family history is one of struggle and poverty can make it big here. There was a time when our city was led by visionaries, men who created Rice University and the Texas Medical Center. They actually took the time to carefully plan expansion projects. Now, in many ways Houston is experiencing the fruits of neglect. We worry about potholes in the streets while the movers and shakers of old built dreams. I fear that our city will go the way of other urban centers until and unless we once again envision more than just knee jerk reactions to problems. Building more roads and leaving fewer and fewer open spaces will only complicate the situation.

My son-in-law’s Uncle Don grew up in the same Houston that I did. He loved this city, especially its bayous. He was devoted to showing our citizens the majesty of the waterways that drew people here in the first place. He advocated for returning them to their natural state, the way my mother and mother-in-law remember them. He was not just a quaint dreamer but someone who had navigated and studied the many outlets and the effect that concrete and construction was having on them. He firmly believed that in saving the bayous we would also save our city. He died before realizing many of his ideas but he is remembered to this day for his efforts to redesign the places that he so loved. I suspect that if he were still around he would see the massive problems that we are experiencing this week as more evidence of our tampering. He would urge us to respect the laws of nature believing that in doing so we would actually help ourselves.

I can only pray that the worst is over for our city. I’d like to think that we might learn from what we have seen during the past few weeks but I doubt that this is so. We are a hard headed lot and we tend to just patch things up and move on. There are more potholes to fill and dreams don’t appear to be in fashion right now. I just hope that one day we will finally realize the error of our ways.

Go Forth in Remembrance

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

k10304515Memorial Day on the last day in May has come to represent the beginning of summer even though the laws of astronomy give that designation to a different date. It is a three day weekend holiday designated by Congress. There are few better times to buy mattresses or large home appliances. People flock to the beach on this day and gather around swimming pools and barbecue pits. American flags fly from the porches of homes all across the land. For many the true intent of Memorial Day has become lost in a haze of celebration having little to do with what this national holiday was originally intended to be.

The Civil War left our nation broken and bereft. Over 600,000 Americans had lost their lives in the conflict. People in both the north and the south attempted to heal their wounds and sorrows with annual tributes to those who had fallen in battle. The homage sometimes included parades but the main focus was to be found at the grave sites of the soldiers who had been killed in those terrible battles. Family, friends, and sometimes even sympathetic strangers would bring flowers to the cemeteries. Some even carried food for picnics and held solemn vigils. These were days of remembrance and honor that went by different names and occurred in different times and places.

Three years after the conclusion of the Civil War an organization of Union soldiers, the Grand Army of the Republic, established Decoration Day to be held on May 30 to honor those who had died in the Civil War. It is believed that this date was chosen because it coincided with a season when there is always an abundance of flowers. After World War I President Woodrow Wilson declared that the day be forevermore known as Memorial Day and that it be a time of remembrance for all soldiers who have died in the service of our country. It was not until the nineteen sixties that Memorial Day was set to occur on the last Monday of May to create a three day weekend associated with the national holiday.

Over a million members of the military have died while engaged in active duty. It is a staggering number and yet the vast majority of Americans today have little or no experience with losing a loved one or a friend in a war. Talk with individuals in their sixties, seventies, eighties and nineties, however, and there will be more and more eyewitness stories of young soldiers lost in World War I, World War II, the Korean War and the War in Vietnam. While those conflicts seem to be almost ancient history now, for those who saw the blood being spilled, the memories are as vivid as the actual events.

I have watched my father-in-law cry when reluctantly relating stories of fallen comrades in the Korean War. I have friends who speak of relatives who came back home dramatically changed from the War in Vietnam. They tell of husbands and fathers who still have nightmares because of what they saw. My mother’s eyes used to fill with tears as she told of school chums who never returned from battlefields across Europe and the Pacific. I have run my fingers across the names of school buddies whose bravery is forever proclaimed on the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington D.C. My great grandfather did not die in the Civil War but he was charged with burying the dead after the Battle of Shiloh and official documents tell of the horrific nature of his duties.

Today our armies are staffed with volunteers many of whom continue to die in faraway places for a cause that we all too often don’t really understand. These young men and women are our first line of defense in an uncertain and often frightening world. Somehow they find the courage to carry out missions that most of us would be too frightened to do. When they die their families and friends suffer great loss. Many times those of us busy with our own lives are all too unaware of the great sacrifices that they have made.

War is hell and always has been. It would be so wonderful if we humans somehow managed to resolve our differences in peaceful diplomatic ways. For whatever reason, even our best efforts to avoid conflict are challenged again and again. We may want to isolate ourselves from the necessity to spill blood but history has shown us that we are sometimes given no other choice than to defend ourselves and lose our human treasure in the process.

I used to naively believe that one day mankind would evolve to a point at which the killing would forever stop. A lifetime of observing human nature has convinced me that there will always be some form of evil in the world and that sometimes we have to cut off the head of the serpent to save the innocent. Thank God for those with the courage and the willingness to do what must be done, even understanding that their efforts may result in death.

We must never forget the brave souls who gave their lives so that we might retain our freedoms. We may not know their names or be related to them in any significant way but we have benefited from their acts of courage nonetheless. There is no greater love than a man or woman laying down his/her life for another. It is incumbent on us to spend some time today reflecting on such sacrifices.

If you have children don’t fail to talk with them about why we have this holiday. Far too many of our youth are sadly ignorant of the real reason for our celebrations. It is up to us to teach them to remember and honor those who gave so much in the long arc of history. Simple gestures can be powerful reminders. Our children understand symbols and they like to hear stories.

My son-in-law and my grandchildren awoke early this morning to place American flags throughout their neighborhood. It is a ritual that they have repeated for many years now. I am proud of them for doing this in memory of our fallen heroes. It displays a special reverence that we as a nation are sometimes in jeopardy of losing. We must not equate respect for the dead with unbridled nationalism. It is the duty of present and future generations to never forget the true cost of war. Every life that is lost represents dreams that will never come true. If we honor those who gave everything, they will not have died in vain.

I have read that in our nation’s capitol the flag is raised on this day in the early morning and then lowered to half staff to remember all of the soldiers who have died for this country. At noon the flag is raised again to represent the glory of our nation that has resulted from their courageous deeds. I encourage you to both remember and celebrate. Go forth and enjoy the fruits of the sacrifices made for all of us.

One Picture, A Thousand Words

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

minnie bell85759993_133385194360A former colleague and friend has agreed to help me include photographs in the body of the book that I have written. I’ve spent a great deal of time  to that end sorting through boxes and albums containing images of family members that tell as powerful a story as the one that I have related with phrases, sentences and paragraphs. The old saying is that a picture is worth a thousand words and I have been reminded of the truth of that statement as I study each of the snapshots from my family’s history that have been forever captured in black and white, Kodachrome and pixels.

After my mother died my brothers and I spent many hours inside her home dividing up her few belongings. I was amazed at how many cards, drawings, letters, invitations, programs and photos she had saved. I found pictures that I had never before seen that had long languished inside boxes. It appeared that at some point my mom attempted to identify the people and the places so that we might one day have a clearer understanding of her personal history. The best of the lot were the black and white images from the nineteen forties when she was young and her whole adult life lay before her. Many of those images held commentaries such as “Those Happy Days” or “Such a nice person.” It was as though she wanted us to understand who she had been when the road before her was still based mostly on dreams.

I so enjoyed seeing my mother with her brothers and sisters, mugging for the camera, walking arm in arm down 1940’s Houston streets, and looking so incredibly young and beautiful. There were at least two quite handsome young men whose photos she kept, noting that they had purchased engagement rings for her before she had even met my father. One of them was killed during World War II and the other she turned down even as she noted that he was always a gentleman. I mostly loved seeing the pictures of my grandparents when they were younger than I remembered them, younger than I am now. I lingered over the postcards and panoramas from trips that Mama had taken. I laughed to learn that she traveled alone to San Diego when she was only seventeen to visit with a friend, demonstrating the daring spirit that would always define her.

My favorite photos were the ones that showed my mother and father flirting with one another during their courtship and early days of wedded bliss. It was almost shocking to see how young and in love they were. They mugged and teased in the style of the day. Mama vamped on top of automobiles and Daddy leaned on lamp posts gazing at my mother as though he had just won the lottery. Mama carefully recorded her feelings on so many of those pictures that show them in the first blush of their courtship.

Eventually the chronology of their life together led to photographs of me and my brothers. They took noticeably fewer snapshots of each other once we were born. Their lives appeared to shift focus. Their own visages became more serious. Instead of looking at each other they looked adoringly on us. Nonetheless, one image taken only months before my father’s shocking death shows them holding hands while walking down the streets of Hot Springs, Arkansas. It provides a testimonial of the depth of their feelings for one another. It shows one of those rare moments away from their children when they were relaxed and still so much in love.

The remainder of the memories are the story of our family life without our father. Somehow we managed to hit all of the milestones and find our own special kind of happiness. Of course that was mainly due to our mother’s determination to provide us with the safety and security that we needed at a time when our futures appeared to be so bleak. She did a yeoman’s job and somehow found the inner strength to provide us with a show of optimism in spite of our circumstances. I would find notations and writings that indicated the truth of the struggle that she silently and bravely endured.

My mother remained a pretty lady for all of her days. She possessed a radiance and unselfish spirit that drew people to her. Her albums are filled with memories of celebrations and parties and the people who meant so much to her. Eventually she grew tired and her friends became less energetic themselves. Many of them even died. She spent a great deal of her time alone. She collected readings from the Bible and verses that appealed to her. She wrote about the positive aspects of suffering and how enduring pain and loss had only made her feel closer to Jesus.

I discovered aspects of my mother’s personality and life story that I had never before known. I was able to gaze objectively into her world, not as her child but as a fellow human being. She had kept pieces of her heart hidden away and it felt amazing to get to know her in a whole new way. She became more real to me than she had ever been. I began to understand her on an almost spiritual level and I was awash with gratitude for all of the sacrifices that she had made for me and my brothers. It was a truly humbling experience to take a marathon tour of her memories.

We each travel through the modern world recording our own histories with selfies and images of the people that we know and the places to which we travel. Our faces and expressions tell stories of our passages through time. I wonder how many of our most special memories might one day be tossed away or deleted by distant descendants who don’t even know who we are. Will there be no one left to understand the meaning of our poses and our smiles? 

Whenever I eat at a Cracker Barrel restaurant I find myself looking at the old portraits lining the walls. I wonder who the people are and how their pictures ended up so impersonally decorating a place where nobody knows their names. There is a kind of sadness in knowing that their fate has become being a caricature of an era long past. It seems wrong that their lovely photographs have met such a lonely fate.

I now have a new goal. I plan to organize the thousands of photos that are in my possession. They will be far more meaningful for the next generation and those that come in the years long after I am gone if I take care in identifying their importance. My first step is going to be to include some of them inside the covers of my book so that my readers will have faces to put with the grand story of a little family that did its best to muddle its way through life. I hope that my words will equal the grandeur of how special they really were. Perhaps then the people that mean so much to me will find a way to live on forever.