Looking Forward in the Rear View Mirror

Nostalgia. That terrible ailment  that drags us mercilessly back to the day when we were, usually, we thought, (Choose all that apply.) happier, better off, richer, more content, love school, glad to get out of school, and we had not a worry in the world, and if we did, who cared?

Meaning a sentimental longing for the past, especially for a period of happy associations, the term nostalgia describes a longing for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations.  From the Greek "nóstos", meaning "homecoming", and  "álgos", meaning "pain or, ache" it has become and obsessive longing for some, and an excuse to remain immature for the rest of one's life.

 That terrible ailment  that drags us mercilessly back to the day when we were, usually, we thought, (Choose all that apply.) happier, better off, richer, more content, love school, glad to get out of school, and we had not a worry in the world, and if we did, who cared?

Meaning a sentimental longing for the past, especially for a period of happy associations, The term nostalgia describes a sentimental longing for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations.  From the Greek "nóstos", meaning "homecoming", and  "álgos", meaning "pain or, ache" it has become and obsessive longing for some, and an excuse to remain immature for the rest of one's life.



Like most who revel in the nostalgic days of their youth, I h ave a "nostalgic" file. Old photographs, letters, knick-knacks of an event or occasion remember with fond thoughts of those earlier days. Looking through it one day,  I came across a photograph of a tea stall that was situated opposite a well frequented pub, (but at the age of 14,  not by me). In my cycling days, when a 50 or even a 100 mile round trip was easily attained. The roads were relatively free of traffic, and this tea stall was at the end of a 12  mile ride, and where a tired but happy cyclist could slake his thirst with a strong "cuppa."

 Taken in 1945, it was complete as I remember it. A large tent within which cups of tea, sodas and other refreshments were served.   I spent many a Saturday or Sunday visiting Epping where The Rising Sun  public house was just inside the countryside, latterly  known as The Green Belt, a broad swath of undeveloped countryside surrounding what was then t he largest city in the world.. 
Beyond lay Epping Forest proper, full of oaks and ash and brambles. There was always a jar of wild blackberries for Mum on my return.

I had forgotten all about those trips, pedaling  past Victorian and Edwardian housing, rundown in a poor economy or bombed out -  both results from World War II, dodging in and out of traffic, avoiding the trolley lines, and having my bones shaken out by the ubiquitous cobble-stoned streets.The cobblestones have gone, except for tourist expectations of a Dickensian London, as have the trolleybuses, the traffic is king and  the houses still look the same but smarter and upgraded,s  full of gadgets and decor the Victorians and Edwardians dared not dream of..

For me, nostalgia almost always brings on a feeling of happiness. I am not sure this is because the world today seems to be a lot more unhappy than it was in my younger days, or that I only remember the happy times.

It was said that the singing of Kuhreihen, a traditional song played on a horn, was forbidden to Swiss mercenaries because it produced not only an emotion of nostalgia, but encouraged them to desert. This led to nostalgia to the point of desertion, illness or death.  I haven't quite reached that stage yet. The internet feeds my need to visit my past, and to remember the various portions of my progress.

 Were they really the good old days? I think it depends upon your outlooks, political social, financial and mental make up. (One of my daughters incurs my envy as she can't remember a thing before her teen years.) Bankers would not recall the Depression, railroad lovers moon for the days of luxury rail travel, and Midwest farmers long for the days when they had rain!


I am now living in my children's good old days!

Thar she blows...............

T

he fog's just lifting. Throw off your bow line, throw off your stern. You head out the South Channel, past Rocky Neck, Ten Pound Island. Past Niles Pond,  where I skated as a kid. Blow your airhorn and throw a wave to the lighthouse keeper's kid on Thatcher Island. The birds show up -- black backs, herring gulls, big dumb ducks. The sun hits ya, head North, open up to 12, steamin' now” 

            Anyone who has read or seen  ‘The Perfect Storm” may recall these words from Captain Billy Tyne, romantically describing the departure of his ship, the Andrea Gail on a fishing trip.

            When Sara and I found out that my daughter had gone on a whale watch recently,, we recalled our own whale watch in August.  The weather was perfect, the sea like (rippled) glass, and we were promised a 95% chance of seeing whales.

            More than the prospect of seeing whales, I found myself as Captain Billy, eyes squinting against the sun’s glare and gleam on the sea. Yes there was Rocky Neck reaching out from the land as though to grab us and the ship as we slipped by. Niles Pond a freshwater oasis upon the Eastern Point between the harbor and and the sea. Actually on the island of Cape Ann, separated from the mainland by the Annisquam River, Gloucester has a perfectly natural harbor for ships. Shipbuilding started here well before the War of Independence, and as the city grew, it developed manufacturing, food processing (the home of Gorton and Birds Eye). 

Our whale watching boat - the Privateer IV

Looking back, the town hall sits up from the harbor like a monarch on his throne. Other harbors have a lighthouse to guide them home.  Gloucester has its City Hall.                                                     

Unfortunately, when we were there, the building, up for renovation was encased in green plastic.

                                        

Goodbyes

            I was saying good bye, and in a life that spanned over 60 years, it still wasn’t easy. I was saying good-bye to my son, Robert. It was the beginning of Summer and he was about to embark on another seven weeks of sailing, hiking, mountaineering, eating and study.

    Most people I know remember the “hello’s” the first meetings, the initial contact with friend and foe. But for me, my remembrance revolve around my good-byes, and to this day, and including this one for my 10 year old son, the ache was no different.

            My first ache was to watch my mother in tears as she put me on a train at a sooty London station called Paddington, after which the bear was named.  My mother held me, agonizing over sending her three year old son to a distant environment, yet knowing that I would be safe and secure away from Hitler’s bombs. I was dry-eyed.  This was part of life. You were born, wars started, you were sent to safety, what was the problem?

      But as the train pulled out, the warden in charge of me, held me to the open window and I watched my mother recede down the platform as the train gathered speed on it's way to Wales.

       Only when the warden pulled me into the carriage, did I start to cry. When I could no longer see my mother, I realized I was leaving her and would miss her so.

         In 1954, I enlisted in the British Army, and my mother saw me off at another grimy London station, and much to my embarrassment, she was only one of three of the hundreds of young men leaving for boot camp. There were no tears this time, just a hug, a whisper in my ear that she loved me, and she was gone. But my tears were there, held back until I could retire to the trains bathroom.

            In 1960, I left for America. My mother, now wise to the distress of parting. She decided to say goodbye in the familiar and comfortable surroundings of her kitchen. But where was my father? He was working, unable to get time off to say goodbye to his son.  I had to go, a ship was waiting to take me to the New World.

            I asked my Mom if Dad would be very upset at not being here to wish me well. I didn’t realize then that wives are married to husbands, not to fathers.

            At Southampton, I made a hurried call to my father’s company. His familiar gruff voice said “Hello.” and I knew I my heart was already in trouble. I began to tell him, in what I thought would be a normal part of conversations, how sorry I was that I missed him.    

         The words covered all those goodbyes when my father was not there. The whole parade of unfullfilled farewells came rushing down and I found myself telling my father, for the first time, how much I loved him. He assured of his care and affectionately gently pushing me out on my own at the very moment we seemed to have found each other. It began a bond that lasted well after he departed this earth.

            When my first marriage ended, the tears were there, unlabored and unforced. But my parents were not there, and I wept alone.

            Now my son was only going to be gone for seven weeks. But after three wonderful daughters, he was special in my heart and I missed him, even when he simply disappeared around the corner to play with a neighbor’s son.

            We held each other, his little form enfolded in my large arms, my head above his, hoping my wet eyes would not fall on his small head. His small hand started to pat my back.

            “It’s OK Dad, I love you and I will see you on visiting day.” he said so matter of fact. I wanted to tell him I couldn’t wait that long, that he should come home with me now and we can do all the things together that he would do at camp. But of course, we would not, we could not, and I said “Yes, I know.”

        We held a little longer then he was gone, into his cabin to claim the top bunk before anyone else could. 

           Two counselors approached me. They told me I had a remarkable boy there.

            “You know,” said one, “if there is any trouble, or conflict or discord in the cabin, Robert is the first boy I go to.”

          I looked at him, querying the next sentence.

            “I know that Robert will tell me the truth. I know that he will be honest, fair and just in his interpretation of what went on. You and Linda have done a good job.”

            Good job? Yes, I suppose so. I have always tried to teach all my children that character goals are more important than personality targets and that ideals are above ideas.I thanked the counselors, and we parted -- with no tears!

           I walked away from the cabin, and I heard my son call out.  “Dad.” he said, “wait.”

         I walked back and he hugged me again.

            “Hello’s are better than goodbyes.” he said.

I was going  to have to switch my priorities.

By The Way. . . . 

Despite my having read it so many times, and known of it through countless conversations, I have made a remarkable personal discovery that much of America, with its kaleidoscope of humanity, is to be found on its highways.

On a trip west, and heading through the Berkshires, with their soft rolling hills, I gave a lift to two young girls. Upon stopping, the oldest-looking one opened the door and said, “New York?”

“City or State?” I countered. She hesitated, looked back at her younger companion, and a secret sign passed between them. “Are you going to New York City?” the younger one asked, standing back on the grass verge. “No,” I replied , “but I can take you part way and you can try to get a lift to New York City from there.”

Again the hidden signals passed between them. The younger girl gave a slight nod, and in they climbed. We sat in silence, while my attempts at conversation were suspiciously rebuffed. It wasn’t until I switched on the radio and a rock star sang his latest money maker that they came to life.

I wondered about these two young girls. At first, I put them at about 16 or 17 years of age, two girls off to see the city. But a closer look told me that they were probably several years younger. I tried not to dwell too much on why they were out here on Interstate 90, miles from the nearest town. In between their humming of the tune, I pushed in what I hoped were innocent questions about their travel. Where had they come from? Where were they going? I managed to make it light enough to add a joke about running away from home.

Again, the silence and the secret signals. I did not push further. I managed to elicit from them that they were traveling from Hartford to “their grandfather’s house in Bridgeport.” That would be comparable to traveling from London to Paris via Rio de Janeiro. Again, I resisted the desire to find a reason for this, and I suppose I though of the Samaritan, who helped, but did not inquire.

The girls were painted in the colors of the age. Deep eye shadow, and varnished finger and toe nails. They wore purples and puce, violets and green. Their natural hair color could only be guessed at; underneath it all were two girls who should have been claiming their right to play baseball with the boys, instead of being here on this lonely highway. I could only wonder at why they were on the lam like this and if someone was worrying about them. I decided that all I would do was to remember their description, and to note where I had put them off.

I finally pointed them in the direction of New York City and left them. My heart went with them. I saw my own two girls in their faces. God forbid that they should ever find themselves in such a situation—and God ensure that someone would help them, IF necessary.

Once cleared of Albany, the New York farmland spread out and the low clouds that had been with me since Boston opened up and the rain beat against the windshield. Two figures huddled in the pelting rain, making a tent of their two coats. I pulled over, honking to them.

One figure ran up, a young bearded man about 25. Behind him, a smaller figure hopped and dragged a foot. “Hi,” the young man said. “Her buckle has broken on her sandal.” But he made made no attempt to run back and assist the small round girl who came puffing up. “My buckle broke.” she said in a voice that rose above the rain. “I already told him.” the man said. She stared at him, as though he had robbed her of her moment in the light.

“Why don’t you hop in out of the rain?” I beckoned them in, she in the middle and he, propping himself against the far door. This time I did not initiate any conversation. I had a feeling that I would not have to, and I was right. He called me “Sir,” and she called me “Mister.” “How far ya going, mister?” she asked. I told them that i would go all the way to Buffalo on the Thruway. ”We’re going to Elmira. You going there, mister?”

“Maybe he’s not going to Elmira,’ he said, staring out the window, then turning to me, “Are you?” I said, “No,” but that they were welcome to accompany me as far as the nearest turnoff point to Elmira.

Both wet and exhausted, he soon feel asleep, but she poked him awake telling him that he had fallen asleep. He smiled, put his arm around her, and nodded off again. Soon, she fell asleep, and although this didn’t fulfill my reason for picking them up—I wanted company—it was comforting to have them there.

They seemed “country people,” not used to city ways or manners; had I been king or farmer, it would have made no difference to them. In contrast to their light abrasiveness to each other, they slept as though all their worlds was wrapped up in each other. Miles later, I reached across and nudged his shoulder. He snapped up his head. “The next town is your best spot for a lift to Elmira,” I told him. “Thank you sir,” he said, “We really appreciate this.” Then she awoke and said, “where are we, mister?” He told her, “We get off soon.” When I looked for the last time in the rear view mirror I saw them holding their coats over their heads. It suddenly occurred to me that they could have been the parents of those two small girls.

Normally this would have been adventure enough for one trip. But farther on, through the clear gap left by the sweep of the wiper, another sodden hiker waved his thumb at the passing traffic.

A dark complexioned man looked in the window. He said, “Excuse me, please,. ver’ goot. I go to Boofalo. OK?” I said OK, and he dripped into the car.

“Ver’ goot. I come from Algeria. I go to Boofalo. Ver’ goot.” Fine, I told him. “Ver’ goot. Ver goot. Excuse me, pliz,” he replied.

He wore heavy corduroy trousers, a thick sweater, and a fur-hooded parka. It was almost 90 degrees, very humid, and he was not even perspiring. I asked him if he wanted to take off his parka. “Excuse me, pliz, ver’ goot. I like America.Is goot,” he said. I had the feeling that if i told him Martians were kidnapping Chicago, he would have said, “Ver’ goot.”

Eventually he did take off his parka and sweater. Perhaps he was wearing his entire wardrobe. His English was about as good as my Algerian. I tried speaking French. It only made matters worse. Each time I said something in French, he asked me to tell him what it was in English.

The countryside south of the Adirondacks is rolling and sliced with tiny valleys, hugging and small towns created from the river traffic which served the mills. We caught each other looking at the green slopes of the farmed fields, and I said, “Very pretty.” “Ver’ goot,” he said, “is nice. America is nice.

Many trees, is ver’ goot to have many trees. What is pretty?”

“Pretty is beautiful,” I said. “Only smaller.” I pinched my index finger and thumb to indicate size.

I dropped him off among the industrial landscape of “Boofalo.” We exchanged gifts. I swapped a cap of mine he had admired that said “Lake Placid, Winter Olympics, 1980,” for a drink of orange juice. “Thank you,” he said, his charcoal eyes glowing. We shook hands and parted as we might have done had we met in the desert.

I felt better for having met them all. It would have been easy to simply pass them by. On a subway train or an elevator. I might not have given them a second thought. But special circumstances breed special people. And ancient travelers often joined caravans for mutual protection; somehow, I felt part of a very historic tradition.

As a personal experience, I found I had to readjust; much of my thinking has always centered around “home and hearth”—a sense of permanence that belonged inside four walls. I found myself feeling that perhaps the nomadic instinct was as much a part of human feeling for the world, as to put down roots. Although each of these people was entirely different in background, character and outlook , they all had that wanderlust that impelled them to travel the highway, rather than trust their direction to a plane or car. None of them showed any anxiety about arrival at their destination. On the contrary, I had the feeling that it was the traveling itself that was important.

Good news is good news

It is said that 'no news is good news.' That phrase has seldom worked for me. Like the popular ad for a gossip magazine, 'I want to know.' My entire working life was involved in some kind of information and news gathering or another. Not knowing or how to know, produced more desperation and heartache than, in many cases, the news itself. The phrase was supposed to have originated with King James I of England, who, in 1616, allegedly said, "No news is better than evil news" Defining the news that one doesn't want to know, is a little more acceptable.

My long suffering wife listens patiently as I blow, pound and complain about how much bad news there is in the paper. Home invasions, murders, street gun fights, political patronage and corruption, crumbling bridges, et al, all are icing on the cake of a struggling economy. But wait: today I opened the paper, and whether I was more alert to, or whether there actually was a super nova of good news, I cannot tell, but page after page contained at least one good, meaning upbeat, progressive, helpful, just or just plain, well, good, news item.

On page one I read that more money was to appear in paychecks and that a former boss of the New England mafia had been arrested. (What took them so long?) And that Mitt Romney was keeping the Tea Party movement members away, or at least at arm's length. Inside, the two Koreas are jawing not warring; Congressman Gifford is making wonderful progress. It said that she felt the sunshine on her face for the first time since she was shot. That news alone provided me with a bright solar burst all on its own.

Two editorials were more positive instead of critical or anti something or other. One said that recent signs of life in the auto world have shown that the bailout for GM and Chrysler has basically paid off, and Richard Lugar calls for a renewal of the assault weapons ban. In the letters column, a few brave souls criticized the "we dug it, we own it" attitude towards saving street parking spaces in Boston.

And so it went: the State suspends release of parolees; Blue Cross said its new system of paying doctors a fixed amount per patient is working; and, wow, blue jeans and spaghetti straps are out for House sessions on Beacon Hill. UConn wants to end Spring Weekend drunk and dunk parties, and a woman who was kidnapped 23 years ago has at last found her real mother.

So there it was, pages of good news. Sure, there was the usual negative fare. Welfare worker slain by one of her charges, dozens killed in assaults on Iraqi pilgrims, Miami police officers killed in shootout, and Massachusetts employers cut 2000 jobs in Dec.

Now don't get me wrong. I am not advocating that the press, TV and Internet show only sunshine and candy in their news. It's just that for every piece of bad news, it needs to be countered by some good news. It's not a matter of importance. Even a man saving a dog from a frozen river is a small counter to genocide in the Ivory Coast. One likes to feel that good is still operative in what seems to be an increasingly troubled world of corruption, injustice and natural disasters.

Perhaps this particular paper has always included a fair amount of good news, but I just haven't noticed it. Perhaps one has to have a particular faith in humankind that good is endemic to most peoples, nationalities or individuals, and look for it. Perhaps the events of bad news bring out the good in others. Seeking and finding goodness in the world about us, enhances our own sense of what is right and wrong, not only with the world, but with ourselves.

Buckminster Fuller said, "You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete." I have resolved not to be overwhelmed, achingly depressed or painfully disappointed in the failures and deficiencies of my fellow man. As I read the good news to my (still) long suffering wife, my "goodness" radar picked up her smile and felt the hand upon my shoulder as she stood behind the chair I was sitting in as I read. My new motto might be "No news is missed news."

Bee Nice to Your Honey

Summer Days 2010

At long, long, last my turtle plants or Chelona glabra have opened and their abundance is revealed. They are a late summer bloomer, and they take their time to bud and bloom. Mine are pink, they come also in white or light green. Of all the attractions for bees in my garden, ER, sorry, yard, the Chelona glabra turtle plants are the most sought after by my little buzzing buddies.

After mowing the lawn, (now THERE'S exercise for you...) I went and stood by the turtle plants and watched the bees hum, buzz and softly drone around the flowers. Chelona glabra blooms are elongated but the mouth part curves in, just like a turtle's beak. The bees have trouble getting in sometimes and I watched a couple struggle through the doorway. (I noted that a couple of these obese buzzers could lose 30 pounds) Some bees are laden with honey, the leg sacs bulging with sweet treasure for the hive or nest. I was reminded of the old saw about the monkey that put his hand through the cage to grab some peanuts, but couldn't get his hand back -- unless he let go of the peanuts!

One particular bee seemed to be having a difficult time trying to get into the beak of the turtle head. I decided it was time for a little help for the honey hunter. I have opened doors for lots of people, old and feeble, young and pretty -- both with packages, is my excuse. I have even let dogs and cats through doors, but this would be my first for a bee. I reached over for one that was attempting to push through the flower's mouth and I reached down and squeezed the body of the flower, similar to what one does with a snapdragon. The mouth popped open a little wider and the bee slid in. I don't understand bee talk, but I swore I heard other bees saying, "Me next, over here, squeeze this one." I don't like people -- or bees -- taking advantage of my good nature, so I said, in what I though was my best bee talk, "Buzz off, you're on your own buddy." I did, however, think I saw a smile on the face of the bee I helped. "You're welcome," I buzzed back.

© Copyright Roy H. Barnacle 2011

Going Back and Going Home.

Nostalgia. The word is a learned formation of a Greek compound, consisting of, nóstos, "returning home", a Homeric word, and , álgos, "pain" or "ache".  I suffered from it for years, not from any pain or ache, but often from a feeling of appreciation for the past or something related to the past, often in an idealized form.

A few years back, I re-visited the small Welsh village where I was sent as a World War II evacuee. My memories of that small community were of a happy time, far away from the London Blitz. The house of Mrs. Adams, with whom I was billeted was still there, as was the park with its trim gardens and smooth, lawned, bowling green, the small chapel still stood although it had long ago lost its congregation. The winding road to the school at the top of the hill, and the small sweet shop, where a penny bought a life supply of candy were still in place.

But there were changes. A huge recreation center had been built in the middle of the pristine landscape of the park. A new rotary or roundabout was now in place of the quiet intersection by James' grocery store and there was now a new tire factory on the outskirts of the town. These pushed my happy memories aside, becoming intrusions to me.

I asked one long time resident if much had changed for him over the last 50 or 60 years. "Nothing too much," he replied. He had slowly accepted the changes, adjusted to them and fitted them neatly into his daily routines. We talked about the changes. He said that to him and others who lived in this village, the qualities and values that made up this town were still there in what remained of what it was. As we talked, I realized that our lives are constantly accommodating change. We may protest modern change and facility, but for the sake of their convenience in our lives, we accept much in the "name of progress" and advancement of what we term "civilization."

It took a conversation between me and one of my daughters, then 10 years old, as I drove her to yet another soccer match on a Saturday. I grumbled about my Saturdays not being my own any more. But the conversation brought home how much life has changed between my childhood and hers, indeed all of my four children. It would not be hard to accept. Technology, innovation, communication and changing social customs have all contributed to dramatic changes in the way we live and interact with each other. So Sarah asked: "Daddy, what did you do on a Saturday when you were a little boy?" It seemed as though my answer had been waiting with eager expectancy for that question for years. It leapt from my lips with an eloquence and eagerness that surprised us both.

"Ah yes," I replied. "My Saturdays. I would get my map of the London Home Counties and pore over it for an hour. Then, I would pick some interesting sounding name, circle it, and map out the route. Out would come my bicycle and I would set off on my planned journey. Sometimes the trip was more than a hundred miles. Sometimes it would be to visit someone."
 
Sarah thought for a moment.
"Your Mom let you go?" She said with a slight note of incredulity in her voice.
"Yes, of course."
"Wasn't she afraid?" exclaimed my daughter.
"Of what?" I answered. "There was no traffic. The streets were safe. The towns and villages that I passed through always had a small cafe where I could buy something to eat or drink."
"But what about, you know, those guys?"

Yes, I knew. I knew she was referring to the headlines that shouted that it was not safe for children to be out on the streets alone; that they could not be left in cars, or strollers outside the store, that leaving with children with others invited risk and that our young offspring were marketable items, or socially manipulative objects or future earners. I knew that I was at a juncture where I could easily frighten my daughter, or create a block of cynicism in her, or a hundred other negative tones in a young mind.

We tread a fine line between keeping our children informed of the world around them and keeping them innocent and blameless of the world's failings and frailties. I realized with a mixture of melancholy and hope, that the climates of my childhood and theirs were a world apart. I also realized that this difference, this dissimilarity of our childhoods, would not, could not stand in the way of giving them that sense of adventure, inquisitiveness and wonder that I enjoyed in that far away Welsh village.

Above: A view of the Ely Valley as seen from Llantrisant.

As an evacuee, I was shielded and protected from the ravages and horrors of Hitler's terror. What I knew about those dark days, I read years afterwards. No one in that village made it a point to tell me what I was protected from. I just was and didn't have to know from what. Today's children cannot avoid instantly learning about the weakness of their president, of the injustices in our courts, of the revulsion of demented minds, nature of extremes or the brutality of today's terrorism. It is this instantaneousness that gives them little time to make an honest evaluation of events and consequences in the world.

Is our task now, perhaps, not so much to make these things invisible to them, but to educate them how to combat them, overcome them, or heal them? Ideas, notions and view towards solutions, perhaps, do not need either time or space to be healed.

My involvement in my children's growth and progress is a hundred times more than my own parents. My father left me nothing but the world to make my way in. It was a world of safe streets, kind and decent people, of traffic-free streets, respect for authority, and of TV-free livings rooms. Perhaps my parents did not need to spend a great deal of time looking for negative aspects in my life or their own. The qualities they instilled would serve me well in a world that was largely congruous and amicable.

Today, I know I cannot let my children wander too far from home without some protection from the world and to care for their safety. But I can tell them there is much to appreciate and value. They may have to be taken to their soccer matches in lieu of walking or cycling as I did, but those moments traveling in the car are filled with open, honest and fun-filled conversations. We fill our journey with our voices in song and the moments together are taken great advantage of.

Lacking a safe subway system, I may have to take my son into town to see the sights of the city, where I once bicycled or walked, but it affords me an opportunity to share the journey with him and to contribute my experiences to the moments we share. Perhaps, just perhaps, I had to watch my children more than my own parents ever did, but there is a meshing of our minds that was never there when I set out on my own explorations.

I miss those days of yore, that small village in Wales, and I miss my children, whether they are in the next town, state or across the Atlantic. They are all out on their own now; half of them married with grandchildren and the other half far away in London and St.Louis. But when they were part of my milieu, my surroundings, they took up a lot of my time, as I took up a lot of that small Welsh village's time, time that I sometimes felt should have been sacrosanct. But in the larger picture, I realize that today, we need to be with our children, guiding, governing and guarding them in preparation for their eventual emergence as adults. Adjusting our love and care for children to today's world, should be an affirmative journey, not one of fear, resentment or inconvenience. I am thankful that my children do not feel restricted in their world of watchfulness and shielding. I don't know what the world will be like when my children care for their own, but I do know that the values of love, respect, courage and appreciation for all that is good and honest will serve them well.

Copyright Roy H. Barnacle 2011