OldTroubador's Blog - page 5

I have no more
Thoughts, ideas
I have no
Words
I can no longer see
The rainbow
No color
Not even black
And white just
Varying shades of gray.
I can no longer hear the music
Play.
My soul is dark
Desolate
Bleak
I have no more
Words

Ahhh, sweet 16, and what a sweet one it is.
After a few false starts due to traffic, shippers, receivers, and having to drive around the state looking for an empty trailer, I finally made some room in my schedule, called a lovely young lady, and said "I'll be there".
I parked my truck at a truck stop, texted her and said, "I'm here". She texted back and said, "I almost am". I ran inside, washed my hands, and went to the front door. I had very little time to wait before she pulled up.
I walked to the door of her Jeep, and opened it for her. And welcomed into my arms - Kimberly-1229. And lo and behold, she placed a meatloaf supper in my hands!!! Well, that called for another hug, for sure.
I escorted her to the Freebird and introduced the ladies to each other. I then showed Kim how to climb aboard - she swung up into the seat like a natural. We sat and talked for a while, just chit-chatting. Unfortunately, duty called and we headed back to her car. I held the door for her, but neither wanted to let go. Common sense finally prevailed - hers of course - and she climbed into her Jeep and I headed back to the 'Bird. I'm still smiling, and anticipating the wonderful meal Kim put together for me.
Kim is even more beautiful in person than on here, if you can believe. She has a great sense of humor, a delightful laugh, and a smile that could light the darkest night.
I want to say, Kim, the pleasure of this afternoon was all mine. I am touched and honored that you would give up part of your day to stop and see me, and even moreso that you brought a home-cooked meal. I look forward to the time we can meet again, and spend more time together, without work getting in the way. Until that time, I will keep replaying this afternoon in my mind, and smiling large at the memory of it. Thank you dear heart.

It's days like this that make all the other ones worthwhile

Seriously, I need a videographer for ideas like this. This song is written about the loneliness of touring with a rock group, but it works well in my profession also. Wish I record what I feel to this song.
It’s the early morning; all is dark. I sit here sipping cold coffee, watching nothing happening in the parking lot. Walking to the truck stop, I listen to engines rumbling, refrigerator units kicking on with a snort. I smell the diesel and the exhaust. Back in the truck, inspections done and electronic log started, I turn the key. That big old Detroit Diesel grumbles, like I do, not wanting to go. I kick off the brakes, slide her into gear, and ease out of the parking spot. Once I am clear of the trucks on either side, I upshift and straighten out into the driving lane. I upshift again, engine grumbling again at the low RPM’s. Slowly driving around, heading for the exit. Not really wanting this day to start, wondering why I do this. My headlights reflect off the rigs parked – I see a spot on the windshield I missed cleaning. Out the exit, onto a side street, I am looking for the interstate, and the proper direction to go. Yeah, don’t go the west, you want to go east today. I gear down to sixth and swing onto the ramp. Gravity helps us accelerate and I quickly run up the gears. Settling into tenth, I flip on my turn signal and slide onto the big four lane.
As my speed maxes out, and I settle into the routine, my excitement for today’s work builds. Velocity is accentuated by the darkness. It’s a light load we are pulling this morning, the Freebird and I. The first hill looms in front of us and we climb, maintaining our speed. The miles fly by, trees and cliffs passing quickly on the sides. We climb another hill, engine singing at full song. A slower truck, a heavier truck, is in front of us and we quickly gain on it. Left turn signal on, fast glance in the mirror – nothing there. Slide left. As we pass the slower rig, the big Detroit up front is growling, snarling; the turbocharger is whistling a happy tune. The power can be felt through the seat, shaking me to my core. I smile as we zoom past; he is a blur in my peripheral vision. His lights dim then come back on, letting us know that we are clear back to the right lane. My wig-wags dance to the beat, saying Thank You. We top the hill and the governor cuts off the fuel pump; we glide quietly down, the only sound is the wind rushing past and the tires humming. At the bottom is a left hand bend. Mirror check, all clear, no one around or catching me. What the hell. I ease off to the right, tires buzzing on the rumble strip. One more glance – good. I Dale Earnhardt into the turn – Driving deep into it, tires laying a strip on the left hand yellow line. I hold her there, the ‘Bird leaning hard into the turn. I ease off the throttle as the turn tightens; the ‘Bird is rock steady. At the apex, I drop the hammer, pushing her hard through the last half. I can feel the centrifugal forces shoving me against the seat belt. Momentum and weight carry us back to the outside, right side tires again in the rumble strips. Even the Freebird is smiling as we straighten out, headed for the next hill. Oh hell yeah!!!
Dawn breaks. I can see the trees, farms, and fields as we flash by. I pass cars and trucks and get passed too. Everything is clicking today. The road, my ‘Bird, the music. She is talking to me, telling me she is having a blast. The music is so loud, I can barely hear the engine. But she tells me when to shift; I don’t even scratch a gear. She and I are one entity, pulling freight, laying a strip, exuberant in our work. Traffic builds, so I have to keep her between the lines now. But the dynamic never changes. Engine roaring, Jake brakes chuckling, every bit of her telling a tale of joy. We fly up the next hill – it almost feels like we will soar off into the clouds as we hit the top. I pass a competitor struggling against the grade and gravity. I cackle, like Snoopy laughing at the Red Baron. I close my eyes and imagine a rooster tail of asphalt peeling off the rear tires. I feel like I have been smiling this whole trip; yeah, four wheels move your groceries, but eighteen move my soul, baby.
My soul is cleansed by the rush of the wind. The hideous dark spots are beaten into submission by six enormous cylinders pounding down the power in that Detroit Diesel block. I dance to the beat of the highway, felt in my arms, feet, and seat; the music comes to me through the tires, the stick-shift, the throttle. We are on the world’s longest roller coaster – I put my hands in the air as we soar over the next hill. The Freebird and I are one. We are no longer machine and human. We are an eagle.
Like all rides, this one comes to an end. The Jakes chortle as I glide up the last ramp of the day, then bark as I downshift. Stop sign, easing her onto the two lane, then turning right and rolling into the truck stop. As the music fades, I back into our spot and set the brakes as the music comes to an end. My lady rumbles contentedly in idle as I shut down the electronic log and finish my paperwork. I turn off the engine and she sighs, happily. I roll my seat back, close my eyes, and replay the day. I can still hear the music. I can still feel the beat. Days like this are why I do this. And yeah, I’m still smiling.

I’m not sure how it happened, but I have acquired something of a reputation for being a smart ass. Oh yeah, now I know. It’s because of stories like this.
I moved back home in 1985 after failing at my first try of living on my own. The rules were simple. Get a job, work hard, turn to when work around the house needed to be done, and pay rent. Food and laundry services would be provided. Well, I did all that, and worked hard at my warehouse job. And made decent money while doing so. I had good healthy meals, a strong roof over my head, and clean clothes every day when I got ready for work.
One evening, in the summer, Mom mentioned that my socks were so sweaty that if she flung them against a wall, they would stick. Well, that gave me an idea. After supper was cleaned up, I mentioned that I was going to bed, since I had to get up early the next day. I kissed Mom good night, and left her and Dad sitting downstairs watching television. As I passed through the kitchen, I grabbed a roll of tape. I went upstairs and grabbed about eight CLEAN socks. I rolled the tape up and stuck it to the back side of the socks. I then taped these socks to the wall above her pillow. I then went to bed.
Dad came up the stairs first and went into his room. I heard him laugh, then walk across the hall. He opened the door, stuck his head in my room and said “She’s gonna come unglued”. I said, “I hope so”. He showered and went to bed. Mom came up next, went in the room, showered, crawled into bed, and started reading. She never noticed a thing wrong. Until…..the tape let go on one of the socks and it landed right on the top of her head. She screamed like a snake had fallen out of the ceiling. I heard Dad laughing so hard he could not catch his breath. I was laughing so hard my belly hurt and tears were streaming down my face. Mom looked at the wall and swore like a drunken sailor. She grabbed all the socks, stormed across the hall, opened my door and flung the socks at me. She obviously did not see the humor in what I had done, and it didn’t help that, by this time, I was laughing so hard I rolled out of my bed.
It gets better. She stormed back across the hall to their room and proceeded to call Dad a sonuvabitch. “Why are you yelling at me? I didn’t do a thing!!!” he gasped, in between peals of laughter. “Exactly, you should have warned me about what YOUR son did!!!”
The best part of all this? Pulling a practical joke, and Dad taking the heat.
Of course, my journey through smart assedness did not end there. Christmas time was especially good for pranking Mom. One year, after driving home from North Carolina, Dad and I were decorating the tree. We might have had a sip or three of Old Bejoyful while doing so. We got to the point where we would put the aluminum icicles on. Now Mom always wanted them put on one strand at a time. Dad and I would put them one in small bunches and drape them over the branches. After another few drinks, I came up with a plan to finish the tree faster. I went to the garage and dragged an extension cord to the living room. Then I went back and got the leaf blower. I plugged that in and Dad stood there with two big handfuls of tinsel. He called Mom out of the kitchen, where she was baking cookies. She walked out and Dad said, “Hit it”. I turned on the leaf blower as he dumped the two fistfuls of tinsel into the air stream. Aluminum strips went all over the living room and dining room. Some even landed on Mom. Only about a third make it to the tree. Mom stood there, lightning flashing from her eyes, tinsel dripping from her hair and shoulders. Without a word, she stalked back into the kitchen. Dad and I looked at each other, then both of us landed on the floor, laughing. He told me years later that, when they moved, they found, behind the china closet and other furniture, tinsel from that glorious afternoon.
Another year, I had just gotten off the road from the drive up from North Carolina. The tree had not even been brought into the house yet. Dad and I put the tree in its stand and dragged it into the living room. I went to get the watering can, filled it, and crawled under the tree to fill the stand with water. Now, I had left the Raleigh area about 1:30 in the morning. It was just after breakfast, and I was tired. The carpet was soft, the air warm. So, while under the tree, I decided I might as well take a nap. I was just dozing off when Mom came into the living room. She asked Dad what I was doing. Dad told her to ask me. So Mom came over.
Mom: “What are you doing?”
Me: “Shhhhhh!!!!”
Mom: “What?”
Me: “Hush Mom. The tree is so dry, I can hear it sucking the water up its veins.” At this point, I heard Dad’s newspaper rustling. Mom knelt on the floor.
Mom: “You can not”.
Me: “You can too. You want to listen?” Dad’s newspaper rustled harder and faster.
Mom crawled under the tree with me and asked what should she do. Now mind you, Mom is profoundly deaf, and was at that time too. I told her to put her good ear up against the trunk of the tree and poured some more water into the base. Dad’s paper was moving around like it was in a hurricane by this point. As that poor dear put her ear against the tree, I placed my mouth near her other ear and said,
“SSSLLLUUURRRRPPPPP!!!!!!!!!”
I hustled myself out of there. Dad had tears pouring down his face and was trying, without much success, to dry his face with his handkerchief. After a few minutes, Mom came out from under the tree. She glared at me over the tops of her glasses, then turned on Dad. “You knew he was going to do that!!!” she yelled. “Why didn’t you stop him???” Dad was laughing so hard, he never did get a chance to defend himself. She stomped back up the stairs to the kitchen. We never did find out what she originally wanted. And frankly, we were too afraid to ask.
Now before you think that Mom is the victim in every tale, let me tell you how karma works.
Every Christmas morning, Dad, my sister, and I would wait patiently for Mom to come downstairs. Morning is not Mom’s best part of the day, at all. As she walked hesitantly down the steps, she would be wearing her pink bathrobe and her big blue fuzzy slippers. Her hair would be going in all directions and her face would be lined and wrinkled, bags under her eyes and no make-up on. One year, for no apparent reason, I picked up Dad’s camera, and as she came into view, snapped a photograph of her, just like that. It became a holiday tradition that we would all wait patiently for Mom, who would pout after having her picture taken, then we would open our presents. One year, we were sitting there; I had the camera aimed and focused and the flash ready to go. Mom still had not made an appearance. Dad sat there quietly as my sister and I called for Mom to hurry. She yelled down that she would only be another moment or two. We finally heard her feet and I picked up the camera. I was ready to press the trigger and saw her feet come into view.
She stepped out, wearing an evening gown. She had brushed her hair and put on make-up. Around her neck was a strand of pearls, diamond earrings were in place. She had on her stockings and high heel dress shoes. She was beautiful. I took one final picture, proof that I had been had, that there was a new champion in the house

The alarm clocks start going off at some obscene hour. Two different ringtones on my phone force my eyes open; I shut them off and sit up, swinging my feet to the floor. As I’m sitting there trying to figure out why I am awake at this hour, one more alarm begins its shrill squawking. I am muttering words that should get my mouth washed out with lye as I try to find the “Shut the hell up already!!!” button. That mission finally accomplished, I stumble to the front of the truck and sit heavily into my seat. I reach down, grab the thermos of yesterday’s coffee and pour a cup. I sit there sipping the cold black brew, looking out the windshield at the darkness, trying to remember where I am and where I am going. These damned truck stops all look the same after a while – especially in the dark. I give up trying and grab my notebook; I soon realize that I need to turn on a light to read it. To hell with it - I toss the notebook back where it belongs and just sit there, drinking coffee, coming to grips with reality. Sort of.
Leftover coffee gone, I get dressed and walk across the parking lot. I fill my two thermos’s, grab a breakfast burrito, and go to the counter to pay. The lady working the register laughs as I hand over my insurance card by mistake. I finally find my credit card and hand that over. After exchanging a few words with the by now hysterical lady, I walk back out the door. I find the Freebird, she didn’t wander too far away, put up my coffee and begin the pre-trip inspection. All looks good, so I climb into my seat again, fire up the power, and get things ready to roll.
Second gear, slipping the clutch, easing out of the parking space I’m in. Driving around carefully, around the trucks parked willy-nilly along the curb, looking for the exit. I look both ways into the darkness, no traffic on the road. My foot slips off the clutch, the Freebird leaps sideways, it seems. I curse myself as I run up the gearbox onto the two lane. I cross the highway, gear down, and drop onto the ramp. More trucks line the shoulder so I ease past them, not giving into the temptation to lay on the air horn as I pass. I’m grabbing gears and laying down the power, getting the old gal up to speed. I side-slip onto the highway and set the cruise control.
We have to travel a few hours of darkened highway before the sun comes up. My windows are down, the music is loud, and the burrito lands in my belly like a hot brick. I pop a peppermint into my mouth, hoping that will quell the fire down below. It doesn’t help as I belch painfully. I reach for my coffee mug and take a swig, the hot brew scalding my gullet. Yeah, it’s that kind of morning. The road is fairly straight and rolls gently through the southern hills. Over the sound of Blackfoot, I can hear the cicadas calling each other in the grass. Occasionally, headlights pass me, but for the most part, I have the road to myself. Just me, the Freebird, and the endlessly scrolling dotted lines to my left. A small town slides by, the lights harsh from the all night gas stations and stores. Exit and entrance ramps appear and disappear quickly. With little to no traffic, the biggest problem is staying awake. Another drink of coffee is needed. This one doesn’t burn on the way down. The dashboard lights and the electronic logbook lights are turned down. The CD comes to the end, so I turn off the stereo and just listen to the night. The air is soft and cool as the tires and engine serenade me.
After a couple hundred miles, things begin to look different. The trees are no longer shapeless shadows in the darkness but start to take on form. The color changes slowly from black to green. The roadway lengthens from the small circle of light, stretching out further in front as the sky lightens. Soon, all the shades of green can be seen in the trees; the shadows below them are still black. Birds begin to sing and fly around. As I cross one bridge over a stream, I look to the water; a light mist hangs there. Crossing under a road, barn swallows by the score explode out, looking for mosquitoes to eat. Lights start coming on in farmhouses that were previously unseen. Passing another town, cars are moving around, people heading out to go to work; they are buying coffee, newspapers, going through their own morning routine.
I pour a fresh cup as the sky in front of me becomes brighter. I can see exactly where the sun is going to rise. Clouds in the east catch the rays of the sun, glowing gold. The light spreads quickly across the land and the last vestiges of sleepiness in me depart. The sky itself is a pale blue; in my mirrors it is still dark. The blue is highlighted with pinks and yellows as the thin clouds capture the light. The palette is ever changing, minute by minute. I smile, realizing that moments like these make the last few hours worth all the trouble. A small line of clouds hide the actual rising of the sun. Mare’s tails of wispy ice crystals are dry brushed higher in the sky, catching and holding the colors of the dawn. I say a word of thanks for being allowed to see such a morning.

I am a connoisseur of sunrises and sunsets. The best way to chase away the night driving blues is by watching the sun come up, and listening and watching the world awaken. By the same token, there is nothing more relaxing after a long day of driving than sitting back and watching the sun set. The terrain, the weather, the cloud formations all conspire to make each unique.
Many thanks to Whokens for inspiring me on both the last blog and this. Although I will never come close to his talent, I readily follow in his footsteps (until he falls in a stream), looking for the little treasures Nature has to share with us.

Some people spend a lot of time tending their flower gardens. When possible, they grow them outside; if not, they have constructed greenhouses to protect their work. Some are simple, some elaborate. But they all do it for the same reason – to have a beautiful place around their homes to sit, relax, and enjoy the colorful outpouring of their labor.
I have visited some places that had fantastic gardens – the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, NC and the Governor’s Mansion in Williamsburg, VA come immediately to mind. The gardens in Silver Springs, FL are wonderful, all year around. Many amusement parks also have colorful displays to break up the monotony of concrete and steel.
I was never very good at making flower gardens grow. And I have spent a lot of time and money trying to do so. Azaleas? Dead. Oleanders? Dead. Roses? Yes, them too. Now, I have been very successful at growing vegetable gardens and always looked forward to the blooming of the sweet peas, green beans, tomatoes, and peppers. The last few gardens I put in, I ringed them with different varieties of sunflowers – now those I could make grow. But just a flower garden? I am hopeless.
Since I started driving, though, I have found many gardens along the paths I travel. Lady Bird Johnson started a roadside beautification program in the 1960’s. And I have been a happy beneficiary of her efforts. Starting in the spring, miles of Texas highways are lined with bluebonnets and red clover and Indian paintbrush and dozens of others that I know not what they are. Nearly every state in the nation has since followed suit, designating areas as “Do Not Mow” because of the flowers planted there. North Carolina comes quickly to mind, with miles of day and tiger lilies and poppies in a riot of hues lining the roads. It is a visual treat to drive along these routes and never fails to put a smile on my face.
So, you see, gardens are where you find them, even if you are blessed with a brown thumb like I am. And the point of this blog? Well, sit back and let me tell you.
I was parked at a small truck stop one evening in Paris, TX. My legs needed a stretch, so I climbed down from my cab and took a walk through an abandoned lot behind the parking area. I quickly ran back to my truck and grabbed my phone so I would have a camera. In this weedy, dust filled, untended parcel of land were some of the prettiest flowers I have seen. I was in heaven as I walked along, taking about two dozen photographs of all the different flowers I saw. I would like to share with you some of the best of these.

An small overview








Beauty, my friends, is where we find it. Even in an unused dirt lot in north Texas. We just have to take the time to look with open eyes and hearts.

In 2007, my parents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary. They said it was tradition to take the whole family on vacation to help celebrate. They said the choices were either a 7-day cruise or a week at Walt Disney World. With three girls under the age of 11 (my daughter and two nieces), we went to Orlando.
Now, my daughter had met my sister and her girls once – when she was six months old. She had seen pictures of them and talked to them on the phone, but she had never really met them. My nieces knew me, and they knew how my sister and I acted when together. Also present were my wife and my sister’s boyfriend, soon to be fiancé. He was fairly new to the family (I had never met him) but had a slight idea how we all got along.
The first night, we met for supper at the restaurant co-located with the block of hotel rooms we had together. Mom and Dad had not shown up yet, so at the table sat my sister, her boyfriend, and her two girls, and myself, my wife, and my daughter. My sister and I sat across from each other, with my daughter by my side. As we sat waiting for Mom and Dad, my sister and I started picking on each other. It was getting pretty rambunctious when my sister kicked me under the table and nodded her head toward my daughter. Huge tears were running down my little girl’s face and her bottom lip was quivering. I put my arm around her and asked what was wrong. The rest of the conversation went like this:
Young ‘un: “Aunt Beth, I HATE you!!!!”
Me: “How can you say that??? You just met her”
Sister: “What have I done wrong???”
YU: “You’re being mean to my daddy!!!!”
At which point, we all fell apart in laughter (except for my sister’s boyfriend who sat there with a look on his face that said ‘Do I REALLY want to spend the rest of my life with these nutjobs?’
We explained to my daughter that the way my sister and I expressed our love for each other was to pick on each other unmercifully. Her eyes dried up, then lit up. “Okay”, she said, “I understand”. And I have not known a moment’s peace since then.
Case in point, but first, I must tell this small tale to tell the most current story.
On Mother’s Day, 2007 (a month before the trip mentioned above), I was cutting the grass from a small tractor which had an annoying tendency to throw one of the belts. I had been putting the belt back on, while everything was running, for weeks (can you see where this is going?). But on this particular Sunday, I grabbed the belt wrong and, as it caught on the pulley, it pulled three fingers along with it. Half of my right index finger was amputated on the spot. I may or may not finish this story some other time, but that is the main point I need to make right now.
Fast forward to last Sunday. My wife and daughter picked me up at the truck stop and we headed to the big city. We hung out at Barnes & Noble for a few hours, then drove across the highway to get supper. I set my half full coffee mug on the floor and, to avoid kicking it over, lifted my feet up to swing them out the door. I was wearing flip-flops because my heavy work boots were not needed. The toes on my left foot hit the bottom of the dashboard. I said “Ouch” and got out of the truck. One toe had a tiny spot of blood on it; I’ve lost more blood when they pull the needle out after taking blood samples. For some reason, my daughter thought this was funny. As I stood there and jokingly admonished her that her daddy was bleeding and should not be picked on, she pointed down and informed me that another toe was also bleeding. Needless to say, she thought this was hilarious. The rest of the conversation went like this:
Me: “You should be a little nicer to your old daddy. I’m in a little bit of pain here and I am bleeding too.”
Her: “Look on the bright side Daddy. At least those toes are still attached.”

I had nothing for this - nothing but elevator music

Disclaimer - These are just some rambling thoughts. Nothing untoward is contemplated. I have withheld no health information from anyone. I just saw something today that triggered a thought, and when I put fingers to keyboard, I just let them ramble.


Did you ever notice just how peaceful a cemetery is? I did today. I was on a little two lane road near Amana, IA and saw a small country cemetery. It was surrounded by a black wrought iron fence. The grass inside the fence was well tended and a lush green. There was a couple of large trees shading most of the graveyard. A lot of the headstones were a reddish-brown marble; others black, some gray. If there had been room to pull over, and time, I would have stopped and just sat and watched. This place seemed to call to me, inviting me in to share the coolness of the shade, the solitude. It was quiet, tranquil, an oasis in even this green land of peacefulness.
A couple miles up the road was another. In this one, there were two sections - the newer area and an older section filled with old white marble stones. The kind that were just simple markers – straight sides, rounded tops, with just the name, birth date, and date of death inscribed. This cemetery also had the wrought iron fencing, green grass, and overshadowing trees. And it too spoke of peacefulness.
My mother’s side of the family is buried in a cemetery on a hill in northeast Pennsylvania. This one is larger than most of the towns I drove through today in Iowa. But the same gentle tranquility resides there. The plots are laid out on rolling terrain amongst the trees; here it is mainly spruce, maple, oak. The wind sings gently through the needles and leaves. It was here that I used to celebrate Memorial Day as a child, with the bugles playing Taps and the honor guard with flags and rifles to render honors.
If not for the deceased, these places could be small parks. The grass, the trees. Squirrels scurrying around, some on a mission, others just chasing and playing. Rabbits hopping, nibbling on the grass. Songbirds flitting from tree to tree, singing their happy songs. They are places for quiet contemplation. Places we can go to just think, or not to think. Places where we won’t be bothered by the day to day, by the noises of life rushing past. For others, they are places to go and talk with loved ones that have passed before us. Those who feel a need to talk to someone – not that they will get an answer, but to just bare their souls to a loved one whom they confided in previously.
When it was time to bury Rebecca, I made sure that her resting place was one of these kind of places. The funeral home owns the cemetery where she now lays. They offer the internment of children for free. When I talked with the funeral director, he told me where the cemetery was and had no objection to letting me make sure it was the right kind of place for our daughter. It is a very nice resting place for her. The grass, as noted above, is well tended and lushly green. Live oak trees surround this land and are interspersed throughout. There are crepe myrtles lining some of the roads therein and oleanders are planted between the graveyard and US90 – a major thoroughfare. Even with all the traffic, it still seemed quiet when standing there – the stillness broken only by the mockingbirds joyfully trilling their songs and the squirrels chattering at each other. After spending some time there, I went back to the director and told him it would be a fine place for Rebecca to sleep.
It is an idyllic place. A place I have visited often, well, more so before when my job meant I was able to go home every night. I would sit and talk with my daughter about my hopes and fears, I would tell her the family news and how her older sister was doing. I would tell her how sorry I was that life turned out the way it did. Or sometimes, I would just sit quietly with her. I would usually leave a small present. Then, I would stand up, brush the grass off my pants, and get back in my van and drive away. And my soul would be at peace.
This has sort of rambled away from my original intent. But maybe not. The visitors are quiet; so are the residents. The dead listen without judgement – they may not have any answers, but are willing to let one talk things out.
I seem drawn to these places. Or maybe I am just drawn to a quiet place. A place where I can be alone, let my inner self relax. Maybe it is the simple beauty of grass and trees that speaks to me. Maybe it is the voices of those long gone, trying to tell me their stories. Maybe it is all of this, or maybe it is none of these things.
Did you ever notice how peaceful a cemetery is?

Declaration of Independence

[Adopted in Congress 4 July 1776]

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The Unanimous Declaration of the Thirteen United States of America

When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shown that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future security. — Such has been the patient sufferance of these colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former systems of government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over these states. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world.


He has refused his assent to laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.

He has forbidden his governors to pass laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.

He has refused to pass other laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of representation in the legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.

He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.

He has dissolved representative houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.

He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the legislative powers, incapable of annihilation, have returned to the people at large for their exercise; the state remaining in the meantime exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.

He has endeavored to prevent the population of these states; for that purpose obstructing the laws for naturalization of foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migration hither, and raising the conditions of new appropriations of lands.

He has obstructed the administration of justice, by refusing his assent to laws for establishing judiciary powers.

He has made judges dependent on his will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.

He has erected a multitude of new offices, and sent hither swarms of officers to harass our people, and eat out their substance.

He has kept among us, in times of peace, standing armies without the consent of our legislature.

He has affected to render the military independent of and superior to civil power.

He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his assent to their acts of pretended legislation:

For quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:

For protecting them, by mock trial, from punishment for any murders which they should commit on the inhabitants of these states:

For cutting off our trade with all parts of the world:

For imposing taxes on us without our consent:

For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of trial by jury:

For transporting us beyond seas to be tried for pretended offenses:

For abolishing the free system of English laws in a neighboring province, establishing therein an arbitrary government, and enlarging its boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule in these colonies:

For taking away our charters, abolishing our most valuable laws, and altering fundamentally the forms of our governments:

For suspending our own legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.

He has abdicated government here, by declaring us out of his protection and waging war against us.

He has plundered our seas, ravaged our coasts, burned our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.

He is at this time transporting large armies of foreign mercenaries to complete the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of cruelty and perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy of the head of a civilized nation.

He has constrained our fellow citizens taken captive on the high seas to bear arms against their country, to become the executioners of their friends and brethren, or to fall themselves by their hands.

He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavored to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian savages, whose known rule of warfare, is undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

In every stage of these oppressions we have petitioned for redress in the most humble terms: our repeated petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A prince, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.

Nor have we been wanting in attention to our British brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence.They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, enemies in war, in peace friends.

We, therefore, the representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress, assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the name, and by the authority of the good people of these colonies, solemnly publish and declare, that these united colonies are, and of right ought to be free and independent states; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the state of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as free and independent states, they have full power to levey war, conclude peace, contract alliances, establish commerce, and to do all other acts and things which independent states may of right do. And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor.