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Why is it that the Eagle, and the Hawk are individuals, and seemingly noble hunters, while the vultures and noisy crows hunt in groups? I’ve never dreamed of a hawk or an eagle attacking me, but have had vivid dreams of the evil cawing crows trying to do me harm. I’ve run from them on numerous occasions in my nightmares, barely surviving the chase many times. Often, having to jump over a chasm or a deep precipice in order to escape.

Why is it wolves hunt in packs, tearing the flesh from their victims, but the mountain lion hunts alone? Why do the hyenas slaver and quiver in the wake of the lioness’s kill on the Savanna?

It seems that although most animals hunt their prey, we consider those who congregate in loud cacophonous groups to have evil intent. I wonder if it’s because we humans are so far removed from the true predator/prey cycle, that we don’t understand it anymore. We don’t recognize that we are part of it.

We consider ourselves above it…even though many humans still kill for sport or fun, and most of the time with a gun as our weapon. We keep the odds heavily in our favor.

With our rise above other animals on our planet on the evolutionary scale, we have mentally separated ourselves from nature’s plan.

Now recently we humans have found ourselves accosted by some of the smallest of living things suddenly preying upon us, sickening and killing us. Something we cannot kill with a gun or a knife.

I expect it will one day be one of these tiny creatures who decimates our population and brings us back in balance with the rest of the life on our planet. I don’t think it would take nature very long at all to grow over our towns and cities, hiding our greatest architectural achievements and our centers of culture.

And if somehow there are enough of us to start over again, which direction would we grow? Would we once again follow the paths we’ve walked that have led us into the mostly pack mentality we share with the wolves, the crows and the hyenas….or would we maybe make a few changes and soar like an eagle?

We may one day find out

A false prophet can be recognized by the fact that he or she yields bad fruit — distrust, discord, confusion, wrangling, gossip, useless disputes, and divisions within the church, Jesus was very concerned about false prophets:

Mt 7:15 Jesus said to his disciples: “Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing,but underneath are ravenous wolves.

Matthew 24: 4 Jesus answered: “Watch out that no one deceives you. 5 For many will come in my name, claiming, ‘I am the Christ, and will deceive many. 10 At that time many will turn away from the faith and will betray and hate each other, 11 and many false prophets will appear and deceive many people.

How do we tell who is a false prophet? Jesus tells us to look at the fruit:

Matthew 7: 16-20 By their fruits you will know them. Do people pick grapes from thorn bushes, or figs from thistles? Just so, every good tree bears good fruit, and a rotten tree bears bad fruit. A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, nor can a rotten tree bear good fruit. Every tree that does not bear good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire. So by their fruits you will know them.”

I Had a Dream…back in 1968

Growing up in a small town of only about 2000 people, you pretty much get to know everyone. The population of the town I live in has hovered around that number for most of the 61 years I have been alive, and I have been associated with it. The people change of course, old people die and are replaced by new babies. The babies grow up and either work at the mill, or some of them break free and go off to college and end up in other parts of the world. But still the population is about the same.

I started off in grammar school in 1956, and there were about 50 of us in the first grade. We had three classes with about 17 or 18 each in the classes. We graduated 52 people in 1968. An ultra small Senior class for sure. And 1968 doesn’t seem all that long ago to me. It’s a relatively long time ago though. I was watching the golf tournament last week and Phil Michelson won. I thought, to myself that he is getting on up there in age to win a tournament. Then, when they said he was born in 1970, I did a double take. I had a daughter born in 1970.…so I am old enough to be Phil Michelson’s Dad…ouch.

Today, I feel really old. I have done a little painting the last couple of days and it has worn me out. I thought I felt pretty well this morning, so I went about my usual things…walking around trade day etc. I thought I was pretty energetic, but I was wrong. This evening I feel like I have been dragged behind a car for a couple of miles. I used to shake these kinds of things off a few years ago like a Water Spaniel shaking off some pond water. Now, I think I am like an OLD Spaniel. Ahh, but I know 61 is not too late to get back into decent physical shape, so I am REALLY trying, losing some weight and such.

But, in any case, I was thinking about my Senior class again. We usually try to meet a couple of times a year for a meal and to rehash old times. The only thing is, the last few times we have met, we have discussed members of our graduating class who have died in between our meetings. We were, and are a close knit class. Most all of us went all the way through those twelve years together, and it’s troubling when these people who you picture as youngsters start falling by the wayside. Heart attacks, cancer, car wrecks. This can’t be happening can it?

I once had a dream back in the 60’s that I would be the LAST member of my class to be left alive. Really, I did! I can’t remember too many details about it other then the vaguest memory that I was some kind of ancient decrepit man. And I was alone. That’s the thing I remember the most about the dream, was the being alone. Now I know, dream interpreters would say I was having a dream about the teenage feelings of isolation I was going through, but I don’t know about that. How many dreams do you remember from when you were a teenager?? That’s what I thought!! I am pulling for the rest of my Senior class to live long and happy lives, with many grandchildren. That way, if the dream was true, then I am going to get over this fatigue!

Speaking of changing things, what things about your life would you change, if you could go back and change something? If you had the power to change ONE thing that happened in the past to you or to someone else because of you, what would it be?

That would be the most powerful ability any of us were ever given, if by some magic we had it bestowed upon us. I can think of several. But, the thing about the ability to change that ONE thing would be the ramifications of changing it.

I know we ALL have heard about the ripple effect. Where you throw the tiny pebble out in the middle of the still waters of a little pond, and watch the ripples spread out from where the pebble has hit. They eventually go out to the very edge of the pond itself albeit by that time they are very negligible and barely visible. But, near where the pebble has hit, they are much stronger.

I have though about things that I could have done which would have changed my life. I am not going to name them though. The fact is that what I did is what I did and it caused pain sometimes and happiness sometimes. Sometimes just to me, and sometimes to others. I would be petrified with fear to change any of these things in the past, even if I could, because I might come back to future and find that I didn’t like what I had done.

The best thing for me to do then is to make sure I make better choices in the years I have left. I would advise everyone to try and do that. You know that we can make better choices. It’s all a matter of thinking about things logically, taking the time to sort them out and not jumping into them without a lot of careful thought. Now, I am not talking about deciding what to have for supper! I don’t think that will affect us that much, unless we decide to eat Peanut butter and Banana sandwiches with Mayo, or something. What I am talking about are the decisions that have that ripple effect. The ones that can cause other people or our self’s that pain or happiness I was just talking about.

I have to be very careful, because I often open my mouth and speak before my brain has a chance to process what I am going to say. I act hastily sometimes. I act impulsively and irrationally sometimes. Why do I do all of that? Why do any of us do that? I wish I had a dollar for every time I should have kept my mouth shut, don’t you?

Along with trying to get back in to physical condition, I think I am going to try my best to treat other people the way I would want to be treated. That’s how we should do it, regardless of what anyone else might tell you. Now…if I can JUST get a good night’s sleep tonight…..

If you want to change, you must change yourself. No one can do it for you. I have often wondered if I had the resolve to change. I think I do. I think I have already changed in some ways.

I know it seems counter intuitive, but I feel that only with age have I found the wisdom to change…to know what part of me is lacking. I am by no means complete. There is so much which still needs work.

I appreciate life more, but I’m still grumpy some days. I cherish time greatly, yet I still waste it. I feel more tenderness and love for my family, but don’t verbalize it properly.

I help other people more, but my want exceeds my capability now, where perhaps in the past I could have done better. If only I had been wiser at a younger age. The things I might have done haunt me more than the things I did.

I look at the calendar, and hear the clock ticking and calculate the time since the day I was born. I think to myself “you need to hurry,” but for the life of me I cannot think of why. I wonder if I am the only one who feels this way, or is it all of us?

I know I should be satisfied with the day, and live in the present. For all I can puzzle out, it IS all we have. But does it have to be all we hope?

I can change.

We can change. I believe we all can change for the better, because we need to. Because we must in order to make a future where we can walk in the sunshine and breathe the air.

Everyone knows how hectic the last few weeks and months have been. There’s been a lot going on with in my personal life this past year, as some of you may know.

There’s certainly a lot going on in our country and our world, as all of us should know.

As I begin to take a look at all things, I am finding of course that I refer more to the past than the future. I guess it’s because unless I live to 112 years old (which is possible, but not likely) I am already well into the last 1/3 of my life. I look back more than I look forward.

The present seems to pass by way, way to quickly into that past. Days are blurred. I can’t remember what the date is a lot of times. I guess it really doesn’t matter though. I feel like life is marked by events, not by dates. When I remember things, both good and bad, I usually don’t remember them “by date” but more by what was happening.

I couldn’t tell you exactly what the date was when the U.S. cleared out of Viet Nam. But all the images are burned into my image.

I don’t remember what day it was when my oldest son nearly got his arm torn off in a machine at work, but I can damn well tell you I remember coming into the office where he was sitting, before the ambulance even got there, and seeing the bones sticking up out of his arm, and hollering and screaming at their “first responders” to cover it up with sterile gauze.

I don’t remember which Christmas it was that my daughter marched out of her bedroom, sat down at her brand new little table and chairs that Santa had brought her (without even noticing they were there!) and demanded in her stentorian voice: “I want my Breakfast!”

I can’t remember the date my youngest son fell off the horse he was riding out in Idaho at Paula’s cousin’s house, but I was so scared he was going to break his neck I couldn’t even yell.

I just don’t know that dates are all that important. Its life that happens and what happens that matters.

I am joyous and hopeful for my children and grandchildren and for my younger friends. I wish for them all the possibilities and opportunities which I have had and more. I wish for them more success than I have had in many areas. I wish them fewer struggles with tough problems.

When I was young, I thought for sure I would grow up and be a singer, or a writer. I even entertained the thought of teaching. But, it didn’t happen.

I am what I am. (With apologies to Popeye the Sailor man) Life turned me this way. I am giving up on being a movie star, pop singer, best selling author, and millionaire financier. I am going to just continue to be me, and hope that it’s enough.

I think maybe that if I can do that, then I will realize how lucky I have really been.

I Guess I will be thinking that over this year when I watch ol’ Jimmy Stewart running down the streets of Bedford Falls!!

Today’s Random Thoughts…..

Without a doubt, much of what we think we know is false. Even being as “smart” as we humans think we are we don’t even know everything about our own bodies. When we move out from there, into the world around us, and eventually into the Universe that surrounds us, our knowledge becomes exponentially less and less.

There are SO many theories on how the Universe started, where it’s headed and how it’s going to end. Some of them are theological in nature, and some are scientific. None of them are right, probably not even near right.

I shudder when I think about how little I know. I have to take most things I do every day on faith. I have faith when I plug in the coffee machine that it is going to make me a cup of coffee. If it didn’t, I don’t have the knowledge to tear it apart and remake it so that it would. If I put my key in the car, and turn the switch and it doesn’t start, most of the time I wouldn’t know what to do. When I had my heart attack, I couldn’t fix my arteries. Of course there are people who DO know how to fix these things, and it’s a good thing too. Otherwise, most of use would be in a heap of trouble.

But, even those people who are “technologically” smart, don’t have all the answers. Every few years or so, a new theory comes out about how the Universe began. Of course, all religions would acknowledge that it was ‘created’ if you will, by God. A thinking consciousness started the ball rolling and made use what we are today. Makes sense to us as humans, because WE are conscious thinking creatures. That’s what separates us from the rest of the creatures….at least so we “think” ( I am not so sure sometimes, when my little dog plays me for a sucker that she is not “thinking” about what she is doing) I guess there is all different levels of thinking, and I am SURE that we are not in ANY way close to the “thinking” if that is what it is, of a consciousness so powerful it could create the Universe.

Now secularists have a harder time trying to explain how something like the Universe started on it’s on. I read somewhere a few weeks back that they think all the matter that it took to get the Universe started, could be compressed down into a ball the size of a basketball, but that it would weigh some astronomically heavy weight. Some basketball! When this thing decided to explode and start the Universe, it continually spread from a central point and made us what we are today. The scientists can look at light coming in from outside our Galaxy that took billions of years to get here. That’s cool. When we look up in the sky at night, and see the stars, we are not really seeing what is happening at the moment we are looking, but what happened years and sometimes hundreds or thousands of years ago and is just now reaching us. For all we know, some of those stars could be, and probably are, gone. Mind boggling ain’t it?

Well, I just don’t believe that either group has ALL the right answers. I personally believe the Universe was created, and didn’t just happen, but I don’t even PRETEND to understand the type of intellect it would take to do it.

I know that we have had books and bibles, and documents from the beginning of the time that man learned how to write, with all the theories about how things happened. All of those came from the minds of man, and have been shaped by the mind of man down through the centuries. None of them are accurate. I don’t think that we even know how to define accurate.

Now, don’t go all funny on me, and think I am being sacrilegious. I’m not. I don’t go around telling people what to believe, OR that what they believe isn’t right. I don’t have the right to do that, and neither does anyone else. There are, however, Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, etc. who would disagree with me. All of those religions consider that they have been given the innate approval, by the being that created the Universe to tell everyone that there way of thinking is the only one that is correct. I happen to disagree with them. There may be some correctness in all of them. Being a Christian, I personally believe in that philosophy and some may think it is a conflict of teaching that I would state I don’t believe in telling OTHER people what to believe, but I don’t. Everyone has to decide for themselves, and I think on that particular point that the being that created us, God if you will, has been totally succinct. You choose for yourself whether to be good or bad, light or dark. This choice is yours no matter what your religion or philosophy.

I think we will all find out one day, of course. I think that God would be totally unfair to just leaving us hanging about the answer to things. Of course, I could be wrong about that too. We may go to Heaven, or we may lay unconscious of the passing of time until we come back around in the endless cycle of the Universes coming and going. We MAY know nothing, and that’s that. I highly doubt this to be the case, but….

Days….

My word how time passes by, the days moving with the speed of hummingbird wings,

As the babies who listen to our lullabies, leave the notes of the last song they sing.

Echoing in the hallways and the bedrooms, as they pack their bags and wave so long. So long, see you soon. Maybe that might be.

So long, but oh so very short… that distance in between.

When we can call them our very own, and not someone else’s.

But it turns out that way, and it’s a natural thing.

Like a long cold old winter, that turns into spring.

Always moving forward as we catch a fleeting glimpse,

and turn it into memory, a color of love that age can’t eclipse.

By Larry Bowers.

I took up playing golf when I was fourteen years old. I had ruptured some ligaments in my knee while swinging too hard at one of Don Durham’s curve balls. I was looking for a fast ball, and had dug my spikes into the ground really deep at home plate. Don had a ferocious fast ball. However, I had always been able to make some contact with the bat against him, and usually ended up getting a hit. The slow curve ball totally fooled me, and as I over swung at it, my spikes hung up in the soft dirt, and I felt something pop in my knee. Pain shot through me from the top of my head to the bottom of my toes, and I grabbed my knee and fell to the ground writhing in agony. To beat it all, it was only strike one!

I ended up staying for three nights at the Trion Community Hospital, with my leg in traction. It wasn’t so bad, as the only thing I had to do was lay around and read comic books.

After about three weeks of recuperation, old Doc Clemens said I should start to get some exercise, and that walking would be good to build up my thigh muscles, and hopefully prevent that type of injury again. (It didn’t) My Dad had played golf when he was younger so he suggested we try that. He bought a used set of left-handed clubs for me, and we drove up to the Trion Golf Club.

It was early May, and as we rounded the big curve right before the entrance to the course I gazed out over the course with awe. The greens were a deep emerald color, with flag sticks that had bright red flags on top, flapping gently in the spring breeze. The Chattooga River flowed by the first hole, a deep sapphire color, not having been by the mill yet to pick up any contaminants.

The old log club house looked pristine, sitting dignified on a little rise overlooking the river. You could smell the sweet Bermuda grass as it was being cut, a pungent, lovely odor that lingered in the air like a kind of hypnotic perfume. Big tall pine trees whispered their spring symphony as the winds blew through their closely knit limbs. It was magnificent, and I fell in love with it at first glance. I still get the same feeling even now whenever I go to that familiar site. Goodbye Mickey, Roger, Yogi, and Whitey. Hello Arnold, Jack and Gary Player.

Some of the members of the club were teeing off when we pulled up, and I watched as they sailed those Titleist and Maxfli’s straight down the fairway toward the number one green. J.W. Greenwood was playing and saw us walking up, and referred back to the beginning of my little league career: “If you knock all your golf balls in the river HERE, you won’t be a hero.” He laughed. (referring to the time I had hit all the practice baseballs into the Chattooga river during my first little league practice)

“Looks pretty easy to me.” I exclaimed excitedly. I couldn’t wait to get up there and smack one of those little white balls straight down the fairway. It could not be any harder than hitting one of Camp’s fast balls.

We paid our green fees and my Dad teed up and went first. He took an easy swing, and sailed the ball about 200 yards down the middle. It was my turn now.

I teed up a new ball, took my stance, and did a little be-hind wiggle like I had seen the other guys do. I took a huge back swing, and uncoiled in an explosive and powerful movement which ended up with a beautiful follow through, looking down the fairway to see where my drive had gone.

“Nice swing,” coached my Dad. “You missed the ball, though.”

I looked down at the tee, and that little white, dimpled devil was still sitting there undisturbed.

I slowed my next swing down slightly, and this time made contact, and sent the ball bouncing down the fairway about fifty yards.

“Topped that one.” Advised my Dad.

I took an eight on that first hole. A quadruple bogey.

“This is not as easy as it looks.” I muttered

On hole number 2, which was a short par three, I took a seven iron out of the bag as my weapon of choice. As I stood over the ball, I looked out at the two creeks, and one swamp that the ball would have to cross before getting to the green, and bowed my head and prayed silently to God to please let me at least not lose all of my golf balls on this one hole. I exhaled, kept my eye on the ball, and took a smooth swing. The ball sailed over both creeks, and the swamp, bounced in front of the green once, and rolled gently onto the putting surface about six feet away from the hole.

“Nice shot, son.” I could barely hear my Dad say, over the pounding of my heart.

There was enough adrenaline flowing after that shot for me to have picked up an automobile.

Although I played another year of Pony league baseball, my High School athletic career goals had just changed. Goodbye Mick. Hello Arnie.

Anyone who has never played golf, can’t understand what motivates people to chase a little white ball around a large field, whacking it with a club. All it takes, however, to remain motivated is one great shot every once in a while. About the time you’ve topped three in a row, and are ready to throw your clubs in the creek, the good Lord, who I believe approves of the game, looks down and commands the next shot to be a humdinger.

“How ‘bout that shot I made on number four,” you reminisce as you write down your third bogey in a row on hole number eight. “Almost a hole in one!”

Steve Hammond and I were passing acquaintances before we both took up golfing. We went to the same church, and Steve’s brother Tommy was the same age as I was, and we were often in the same classes at school. Steve and I never got to be close friends until my freshman year in High School when I went out for the golf team.

J.W Greenwood was the golf coach, and when he saw me come walking up to the clubhouse on the day we were to play a round as a tryout he again ribbed me good naturedly:

“There comes ‘ol scatterarm.” He grinned. “This ain’t the baseball field Bowers,” he continued “It’s the golf course.”

“That’s O.K.,” I said “I’m here to try out for the golf team.”

I don’t think J.W. thought I was serious, but he got the idea when I teed off of number one, and put one straight down the middle.

“Dang boy, you must have been practicing.” Said J.

I had. Every day it didn’t rain since I had picked up my clubs. Many days me and my neighbor Mike Brown had taken our clubs and walked all the way from Eighth Street. I made the team, and so did Steve. We became practice partners, competitors, and teammates. We were golfing maniacs.

Every time we had a spare minute, it was up to the golf course. We practiced drives, putts, irons; you name it, and we did it. Swinging a golf club became such second nature we could do it in our sleep. We read Arnold Palmer’s book and studied Jack Nicklaus’ grip. Our record as a golf team reflected our practice. We won the region title in 1967 at Hogansville, which was Steve’s senior year. I had a chance to win as low medalist that year, but fate wouldn’t allow it.

I was in the lead by one stroke coming to the last hole. It was a dinky little par three, with no hazards whatsoever. Just a straight shot up a little hill. All I needed was bogey to win. I was confident, I was pumped up! I was stupid. I went with too strong an iron, and it sailed over the green by about twenty yards. I heard a loud ringing sound:

“Dong!!!”

I didn’t have a clue where my ball went, because I’d never seen it land.

As I approached the green, J.W. was standing there shaking his head slowly from side to side in disgust. My ball had landed smack dab in the middle of the big thirty gallon barrel that was being used for a trash can. The rules for the tournament were very strict. You had to hit it from where it lay, no matter what. If you couldn’t do so, it was a stroke penalty for a drop. Not being able to crawl into the trash can for my shot, I had to drop the ball, and take a stroke penalty.

I could still win, all I had to do was to get up and down in two strokes. However, the combination of the trash can shot, and the crowd which surrounded the green, had also shot my nerves. I chipped the ball up and over the front of the green, eventually struggling to a six, for a triple bogey and third place. J.W. Greenwood never let me live down that shot in the subsequent 45 years I knew him. Every once in a while, he would still poke me about it:

“You remember that shot you made at Hogansville that year that went into the trash can?” He would ask.

Yes I remember, but luckily time has made it much less painful than it was on that day.

J.W. passed away not long ago, and he is a man I surely miss. Always willing to help children and budding athletes. Always giving his time to other people. He was a great man.

Steve and I even liked to keep our swing in sync during the winter.

One gray, cloudy, bitterly cold December day, we put on three sweaters and a scarf, and went up to the golf course to play nine. The weather prediction was for snow, but we figured if it started in snowing too bad, we would just get in Steve’s car and come back home. As luck would have it, we were excellent, and I mean EXCELLENT that afternoon. We were both one under par when we reached number four, and the flakes started to descend.

“Let’s see if we can finish.” Steve suggested “We’re playing too darn good to quit.”

I agreed and we kept on going. By the time we got to number six, we were beginning to have our doubts. The snow was coming down faster and faster, and had already accumulated to about two inches on the flat fairways. As we teed off on number seven, the only way we knew where the ball was at, was because of the furrow it dug in the newly fallen snow.

“Uh…I believe we had better go.” I suggested

“No way!” Steve hollered back over the howling wind.

Despite the semi-blizzard, he was still one under par.

We played on to number eight, and when I chipped my ball up onto the green, it gathered snow as it rolled, and ended up as almost a baseball size snowball.

“How in the heck am I going to putt that?” I thought

Suddenly we heard the blast of a car horn from behind us, and turned to see Steve’s Dad sitting in his work truck, with an incredulous look on his face. We were supposed to have left if it started snowing, and Steve’s Dad had visions of us off in a ditch somewhere in the blinding snowstorm.

“Are you idiots’ crazy??” He yelled.

This display of emotion from a man who normally never, ever raised his voice was alarming to me. However, it did not seem to bother Steve.

“C’mon Dad,” Steve shot back. “We’ve only got one more hole to go, and I’m one under par!”

Amazingly enough, Mr. Hammond waited on us and followed us home in his truck after we finished the round. Steve lost his ball in the snow on number nine, and I made him take a stroke penalty! Thus his splendid one under par round in the blinding snow was snuffed out. It was the most fun I ever had playing a round of golf, before or since! Wish I coulda’ played yesterday….

Opening doors and closing them. Both physically and metaphorically it is all we do in life.

Before there was this medium in which to wax nostalgic, I was simply concerned only with what was going on with myself, my immediate family, and those I worked closely with. For many years, that’s all it was. That’s all it had to be. Oh, I knew there was a world full of other human beings out there, but I wasn’t mindful of what was going on with them. Their joys, their sorrows, their inner thoughts, their rantings, their wisdom… was just whispering in the wind. I cared not because I knew not.

Upon entering into this new means of communication, I first sought out family, then old school friends, with whom I had lost contact. It was fun catching up with them, finding out what had happened in the last forty years. Drawing close to them again through common experiences and causes…sometimes agreeing on things, sometimes not. Thus is the way of human beings. We all have things in common, we all have differences.

Strangely, I began to become friends with people who I never knew before, but who were friends with one of my friends. My relationship with people began to branch out beyond my little circle. I have become friends with people who have and hold some of the same beliefs and philosophies which I hold, and some who do not. I have met some people because of this medium and hold them in high regard and really, genuinely care about them, and through them, their loved ones.

My artist friend with his affinity for dogs and reclusiveness, my Alabama flea market buddy with his beautiful talented family, my new friend the lady lawyer from Alabama, the professor of my lawyer judge buddy, a Locklear cousin who thinks like me. A handful more.

Old friends who have reintroduced themselves back into my life…who I knew closely in my teenage years. People I loved.

Growing closer in friendship again with many old friends through empathy and sympathy with their familial situations.

Common likes…My old Buddy the wonderful biking, caving photographer and his sweet wife. My UGA fan buddies, my Vegan and vegetarian friends. I could go on.

I guess the most important thing is that for the most part, I have found I genuinely love people. I’ve found I don’t like everyone….or at least I don’t like some of the things they say. But, as human beings with souls and feelings I must love them all. I must, no matter how hard at times. I do not know everyone’s story anymore than they know mine, and there’s a story behind the way many people feel.

I love good discussions where if everyone doesn’t agree, we at least can have our opinions and be civil with each other (though I have NO tolerance for those who cannot be civil, and resort to name calling or vulgarity) These types of discussions are, of course, becoming as rare as hen’s teeth.

I love seeing the love that others have for their family and friends, and the photos of them they post showing that love. Their expressions of love for their family, and their thoughtful and loving posts many times touching me deeply. This is the best of this “social” media.

I live vicariously through posts and photos that friends make of places I’ve never been, and may never go.

There are many who would use this medium to spread their lies and their hate. Let’s not allow them to take over what could be, and had been up until recently a positive thing. Don’t share one sided hate “memes” just to have something to post. Think before you do it “will this cause harmony or discord?” If you want to post a page at least put a little preamble of your own words on it to let others know your purpose in sharing.

If you have an opinion on something, use your own words. Don’t let others who are extremists use you as a tool. I’ve been guilty in the past, but I’m honestly trying to do better!

Love not hate. Empathy and sympathy not empty feelings. We can use all things for the good of others if we only pause to think, to consider, to put ourselves in the shoes of others for a few miles before we judge.

Peace to you all.

I got to thinking last night that I need to start tidying things up a bit. By that, I mean start getting rid of more of this stuff I don’t need or use anymore. A lot of this junk I have accumulated over the years that doesn’t mean anything to anyone else besides me.

I fully feel that I can start to whittle my junk down to a smaller pile , because I just don’t want anyone else to have to deal with it once I’m gone. I know it can be done because I’m surely not bringing in much stuff now. Not nearly what I used to bring home. I’ve actually went to Trade day four times in a row, and haven’t bought a dang thing. I believe that to be a record.

I’m going to start selling a lot more stuff in the near future. Keep an eye out cause it might be something you need. I’m also in the process of organizing all my photos, and archiving a lot of things I’ve written.

I mean, I’m not planning on checking out anytime soon, but it doesn’t hurt to get ahead of the game….and one never knows.

I once had a very vivid dream in which I was walking up one of those old dirt mountain roads, like the ones that I used to walk with my Grandma Stewart. For some reason, I was alone, using a cane, and I knew somehow that I was 92 years old. I also knew that once I topped the hill that I was walking towards, I would never, ever return. I was sad, but satisfied.

Hopefully, my old body will stay together a decade or so longer, and I can finish up on some of the aforementioned projects. It’s my intent to do so, and to also continue to love and help my kids and grandchildren as much as they’ll let me, and to enjoy the bright sunshine as it shines, the tomatoes as they ripen, the music as it plays, the books I need to read more of, and my wife’s company.

To each and every one of you, no matter what…I wish you peace and health on this Sunday night.