OLD

From the snowy recesses of my mind...

A place to walk—cold and wet and alone	-1- Winter in a bucolic little town in the American Midwest—it was the 1950s and we were taught to worry about communists waiting to take us over at any minute. There were diseases such as Polio. The Korean War was smoldering. Most issues were black and white. It was good vs evil. There were no impersonal supermarkets or super highways. The train whistle woke you in the night and beckoned of faraway places. The radio had pop and country music and an insidious invasion of something called Rock & Roll. It could be heard, via the radio, from mysterious, exotic places during the night.	The Street Where I Lived
-2- The snow was pristine. It was cold in the winter in Ohio. Cities spread very little rock salt and sand. A couple of guys in the back of a dump truck dispensed it with shovels. Cars were fitted with snow tires and chains. The cold wind came out of the north and the west. They too, whispered of far away places. Crude televisions couldn't compete with the outdoors or even the radio, for my attention. A person didn't have to know much to know enough.	This old house was home and shelter.	-3- Only the super rich had big houses and luxuries such as air conditioning and reliable furnaces. Our house measured about 25 feet by 30 feet. One tiny bathroom served a kitchen and 4 small rooms. A damp basement with a low ceiling raised rats, mold and spiders. For people in the post war housing shortage, it was paradise. Only hunters kept firearms and only the hard scrapple police chief carried a pistol in his pocket. One of his deputies was armed, the other was not. Nobody carried a house key and many left their car keys in their car.
Sled riding hill	-4- Today, everyone is in a hurry. Cities spend a fortune plowing snow and spreading chemicals to keep traffic speeding along. Older children carry keys and let themselves into empty houses and apartments. Younger kids sometimes go from pre school sitters in the winter morning darkness, to school and then to latchkey sitters, before returning home after dark. They have been cheated. A child becomes those first things he sees each morning. The spirit dies in increments.	Winter Wonderland (to us, anyway)
The old school One of the first of many places to be alone in a crowd	Winter fields in my heart	Barely 17—My senior year in a new high school—just another place I didn't belong
-5- But seasons always change. The family moved from the small house to an even smaller apartment behind a shopping center and bowling alley. It was cheaper but you had to lock your doors.	-6- The wooded view and the sounds of birds were traded for a parking lot and traffic noises. The wind that once tumbled leaves across fields, now blew litter across concrete. Angry voices came through thin walls.	-7- The dirt and gravel, bike riding alley of our youth was traded for the noise and litter of stores and another kind of alley—a bowling alley. There are several types of poverty. The one of the spirit is the worst.
Apartment living—a taste of urban life and impermanence	The woods of my youth—explored alone	The alley—a dirt and gravel road home

The Duke Of Wellington is credited with saying, "The Battle Of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton." There is much disagreement about the authenticity of the saying. No big deal. It doesn't matter who shouts "Fire" as long as there really is a fire. I've used the Wellington quote elsewhere on this site. I've also experienced it in my life. I am sure of this—a man is a product of what he experiences. The spirit is truly the sum of its parts—those parts being the things you see and hear—those things you touch and those things that touch you. Growing up with few material treasures was not bad. Nature and Nature's God had treasures for all to share and enjoy, I have stumbled upon some of them.

There is a war raging in the hearts of men. It is fought between the poverty of the spirit and the exaltation of that same spirit. Choose your battlefields wisely. Pick your weapons and allies carefully. Invest your tears freely. Winner takes all in this contest. The man who fashions despair into optimism is a formidable warrior. He is a dangerous man.

Like Charles Dickens, I have seen the best of times and the
worst of times. The entire quote is like an anthem for all ages:

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only."

There is a lesser known quote from Dickens. It may be of far more value to the soul. It too, may qualify as an anthem—at least for those folks who have done time on the road—for those wayfaring souls who have felt the pain of being alone in the crowd. In Great Expectations he wrote:

"We need never to be ashamed of our tears."