As has been written elsewhere, Thanksgiving is the best of all American holidays. It commemorates nothing. Especially now that the indigenous North American people are letting the rest of us know they regard the arrival of Europeans on these shores as a parasitic invasion.
Columbus Day, anybody? Continue reading We Have Plenty Yet We Are Poorer
Sometimes through life this runner stumbled. While there was never any first place, crossing the line signifying 65 eventually became a major goal.
On some plane, I should grumble about not living in opulence and swaddled by elegance. People who do are part of my circle. Cosseted as such, some still haven’t found satisfaction. Deep or otherwise. Indeed, you can have plentitude and realize it means little.
In lieu of close family, I’m lucky to have a network of trustworthy and understanding contemporaries. Can’t buy those. Continue reading Marathon 65
Not a lot of quiet reflection in Las Vegas. This really isn’t the place for that. The environment is unsuited for contemplation or reassessment.
In Las Vegas, that takes effort. So, even thinking twice is a rarity here. Continue reading Wassail!
Relocating to Las Vegas has given me greater appreciation of classical music. Growing up, many compositions heard today often provided the ambience to my 1960s boyhood in Quarropas, New York.
Besides the expected rhythm and blues records mother selected for our turntable, she also purchased 120 Music Masterpieces. If you’re old enough you should recall John Williams, the plummy English actor not Star Wars movies composer, who pitched them. Classical orchestrations filled this four-album compilation. If remembered correctly, mother usually had these spinning while cleaning house.
For some reason I still hear them best from summertime. Likely being home from elementary school on summer vacation increased these observances. Amazing how she could make and leave me lunch in the icebox before going to work, then return home after a full day of toil and freshen our home.
Now I can fully appreciate her efforts. Then it was simply “normal.” That is if the younger me ever contemplated it. Oh, quite unlikely. Continue reading Let the Music Play
August is the reason the French refer to September as “reentry.”
Like some Old World countries, the Belle Republique takes a month off after the bombast and celebrations of July. Americans should do that here in the New World but wouldn’t this just be the thing to interrupt our motorcycle rallies and guns shows? Besides, we must grudge the notion of vacation. Isn’t it a national trait? Instead of seeing time off as deserved, ah, earned, business and our hamsters on wheels go-getting natures insist we disdain time away from the millstone.
That’s just wrong. Continue reading Long. Languid. Like August.
Americans have done a great disservice to the valorous who fought and sacrificed for the Union cause during the Civil War. By renaming it Memorial Day then amalgamating all who’ve fallen in each of our nation’s armed conflicts, Decoration Day, consecrated and commemorated on May 30th, has been robbed of its purpose.
Like Armistice Day. November 11th signifies the emergence of the United States as the 20th century’s preeminent global power. The true start of the American Century.
A date upon which Henry Luce and Walter Lippmann might’ve seamlessly agreed. Continue reading Decoration Day 2023
Despite the mounting profusion of ads for Halloween, the bloom of summer remains fragrant. Besides, this was written in September. At least two weeks yet before Michael Myers, Freddie Krueger, and Jason Voorhees start invading screens for marathon gore sessions. Continue reading Solstice Serenades
A demise that occurred last year and a recent long-distance death chased the final week of July into the first week of this August. Continue reading Repasts that Revived
Jenkins was a stranger to Lancer. He only recalled ever seeing him once. On a sunny spring day inside a coffin at his funeral. Continue reading Soldiers of the Great War (Part One)
The calamity of Trumpvirus has made me glad my parents aren’t alive today to witness our disgrace. Only father’s and mother’s astonishment might’ve surpassed their disappointment in us.
As I’ve written elsewhere, by the time father and mother reached 27 and 16, respectively, they endured the Jim Crow South, the Depression, and World War II. After those preliminaries, they formed the devoted black masses who broke the second-class barriers which suppressed the truest of all Americans. Continue reading Social Eye Rolling