February 14, 2016, Prescott-  I spent Valentine’s Day on a trail, of which more in the next post.  Right now, I feel the need to address some concerns that came up, regarding a post I wrote on another social media site.

No, love is not physical in origin.  It is not limited to the chosen few, nor is it something that should cause rifts between friends, siblings or parents/children.  In a contentious society, such as the one we have now, such rifts often happen- over anything.

Love is a spiritual force.  It began with everything we experience with our senses, being brought into existence.  It became manifest in plants, when they propagated.  Likewise, with animals, when they procreated, then nurtured their offspring and family members.

Humans have taken love to the next level- and we see the spiritual, feel the eternal.  I have spent the past five Valentine’s Days as an observer, a well-wisher to couples, and a would-be soother to the distressed.  There have been some, including one I thought was a friend, who have attacked me for even hinting that we should treat today as a time for honouring the concept of relationships.  More’s the pity.

The fact is, most of us have been in a close friendship that, sooner or later, evolves into romance, and in many cases, marriage. Many of us, myself included, have had such friendships, and I have certainly had my share of those which “went south”.

I have had one that endured, and that’s really all that matters-in my case.  Love is eternal.  It will survive the worst of excesses, abuses and miscarriages of justice.  It can be confused with its physical manifestations of affection, and lust.  They feel good, when they are mutually accepted by both in a friendship, for a time.  Real love, coming from the spirit, feels good for all time.

Hope your Valentine’s Day went well.  If it didn’t, may you receive more love, as this year progresses.

 

February 13, 2016, Glendale- The slight, bespectacled girl embraced her tall, athletic friend, and caressed her blonde forelock.  “Are you scared?  You are safe now.”, the shorter girl spoke, in comfort and assurance.

There were about 500 of us here, tonight, at Independence High School, in  the southern corner of this vibrant, artsy city, immediately to the west of Phoenix.  Yesterday, two girls, who were openly in a relationship, died in what appears to have been a murder-suicide.  We were here to pray and place lit candles at the makeshift memorial that lines the southern exterior wall of the gymnasium.  Those who felt like talking, did.  Those who needed a hug from someone they knew and trusted, got all the comfort they could handle.

I am a stranger here, tonight.  It was 2011, when I last worked in a classroom at Independence High, as well as at the other campuses of Glendale Union High School District.  I had good experiences here, and got on well with the students.  This evening, though, drew me like moth to flame.  I explained my ties to one of the current school counselors, who was introducing herself to anyone who seemed out of place, and making sure we had a connection to the school.  It was enough for me to just stand and silently pray, offer positive thoughts and accept a candle from one of the other teachers.  It was graciously lit by a well-dressed student, and I joined a line of people in placing the candles at the memorial site.  I stayed for about 20 minutes further.

Candlelight vigils have become all too common- as have the acts of despair, of giving up, which lead to the cause of the vigils.  One of my online friends responded to my initial post about the girls’ deaths, with one word:  “Bleh”.  My own response, every single time,  is a sinking heart.

This is Valentine’s Eve.  People at other high schools are having dances and parties.  People across this maddening, beautiful Valley, with its frenetic traffic and culture of anonymity are crowding into hotels and motels, paying premium prices for the sake of a holiday. At Independence, suffering proto-adults, and their elders, are doing what far too many of their peers have had to do, since 1997:  Mourn those among them who have fallen victim- sometimes by their own hand, sometimes by the Hand of Anonymous Rage.

It would be nice to be able to simply say:  STOP!- and have it be so.  For now, though, all I can do is be here for people I’ve never met, people who might recognize me from five years ago, people who are part of a generation I have come to love with the highest level of intensity.  I want “my kids” to thrive, to dream, to live to the fullest.

I dream- of the day when vigils may come to an end.

February 12, 2016, Prescott-  Today's prompt calls for using a quote from a famous diarist.  Who better for this, than the great Samuel Pepys?

“He that will not stoop for a pin will never be worth a pound.”
― Samuel Pepys, The Diary of Samuel Pepys: A Selection

Ben Franklin, William Shakespeare and W. C. Fields all had things to say about pinching small coins.  So did my father, God be with him.

Hon. Pepys, Member of Parliament in his time, looked a tad like William Shatner, and spoke like Mr. Franklin.  His mantra, and mine:  "Waste not, want not".

I use things to their fullest, and though generous when I have it to share, I really don't like throwing money in the air, so to speak.  Some regard me as profligate.  That is their entitled opinion.  I honour my commitments and live by the advice of the great financial consultant, Dave Ramsey.

What has this to do with Samuel Pepys?  He, too, was a man of limited means, who wasted nothing, and expected less.  He got to travel a bit, as he served in the Royal British Navy.  I have traveled, more than a bit, because I seek to serve my Lord and because I have wanted to pay homage to my late father-in-law and to the plans my late wife and I made, years ago, which never came to fruition, while she was on this Earth.

Frugal?  Not in substance, but definitely in spirit.  Don't believe me? Visit my home sometime, and look at my wardrobe.

February 11, 2016, Prescott-  Today was brutal, for many people about whom I care.  It wasn’t so bad for me, personally, because I stayed put-mostly out of financial prudence.  Things will be better that way, tomorrow.

So, I will continue recounting what has been good, and not so good, with the years gone by.  A lot of you, my faithful WP readers, despised my account of the Sixties.  Brace yourselves:  Things went a tad south for me, as twentysomething, but I lay the blame at my own two feet.  Therefore, if you were rankled by me as a teen, skip this post.

1970-High Point:  Being in Fort Myer for the entire year.

Low Point:  Stan E. getting killed in combat.

People in the heart:  Cathy P., my best long-distance phone friend; my three faithful roommates in the TriService barracks; Don and Charley,my co-workers; Stan E., who died for his country.

Places in the heart:  Georgetown, DC; the C & P Canal Towpath; Lynn Beach, when I was on leave.

1971-High Point:  Being stationed in the Cholon section of Saigon.

Low Point:  Wretched, crowded, chaotic Long Binh Army Base.

People in the heart:  Jim T., who stood up for his girls; Tay Lanh, who honoured my dignity; Bill B., Arnie P. and Roger D., my buddies in Cholon; the Henderson family, who overlooked my surly temperament, while I was in Sydney; Tommy W., who didn’t deserve to have been left alone, while injured.

Places in the heart:  Cholon; Vung Tau; Tauranga Park; Woollahra.

1972- High Point:  My hitchhiking trip across North America.

Low Point:  Ignoring what I had been told about spiritual truth.

People in the heart:  Dave G., who gave me my first post-Army job; my workmates, Jimmy, Jan, Donna and Franny; Jim F., my long-suffering boss; Lillies S., the college office manager, who told me to always set my sights high; my hometown buddies, who welcomed me back from ‘Nam; the Gordon family, of Toronto, who camped with me, along Lake Superior; Kathy B., with whom I almost fell madly in love; the Bullocks, who hosted me in Baltimore, for a week; the anonymous truck driver in King of Prussia, who introduced me to the Baha’i Faith; Sandy and Al, my housemates; Donna G., who tried to be a good friend.

Places in the heart:  North Shore Community College; Montreal; Lake Superior; Edmonton; Jasper; Lake Louise; Babb, MT; Morgantown, WV; Baltimore; Ocean City; Bethlehem, PA; my little room in Beverly, MA.

1973- High Point: Visiting Prince Edward Island.

Low Point:  The Chelsea Fire.

People in the heart:  Geary C., Alan A., Sandy G. and Angie D., my friends at NSCC; just about everyone I met on PEI; the hipster who filled my tank with gas, for giving him a ride from Ellsworth to Boothbay.

Places in the heart:  Beverly,MA; Salem; Boston Public Library; Prince Edward Island; New Glasgow, NS; Boothbay Harbor, ME.

1974- High Point: Working at Quisisana Resort, ME.

Low Point:  The botched attempt to serve as editor of “Sage Revisited”.

People in the heart: All my NSCC and Beverly friends; Kathy H., Annette K, Tom & Fricky J., Sandy M., the Grices and Dave B., who were my friends and co-workers at “Quisi”; Dr. and Mrs. Ziv, my “Jewish grandparents” from lower Manhattan; Jimmy S. and Mr. McGregor, who offered me work close to home; my dorm mates in Orchard Hill, at UMass-Amherst.

Places in the heart: Quisisana Resort, Lovell, ME; Bar Harbor; North Conway; Amherst; Fisher Island, NY.

1975- High Point:  Hiking the Presidential Range, in New Hampshire’s White Mountains.

Low Point: Getting fired from a part-time job, on my 25th birthday.

People in the heart:  My campus buddies at UMass; Mrs. Braman, the housemother in my rooming house, in Northampton; Steve R., Paul W. and Ken C., my brainy, irreverent and totally sloppy first housemates in South Deerfield; the Rivard family, who moved in, after the guys were evicted; Allan D., my internship co-op teacher; Lloyd Z. and Linda D., who imparted good pedagogy; every child who put up with me in that little U.S. History class; the Zivs.

Places in the heart:  Amherst; Northampton; South Deerfield; the White Mountains; lower Manhattan.

1976- High Point:  Graduating from UMass.

Low Point:  Almost losing a sibling, in an accident.

People in the heart:  Dave C. and Janet C., my Quisisana friends and a most unlikely couple; Fred L., aka “Doctor Dirt”; Clay R., my younger doppelganger; the Smalls, who lodged me in Bangor; the Bryants, who fed me, whenever I tutored their son; Mr. Bluestein, who stressed the value of a dollar; Peter W., who hired me as a Teacher Aide; Cheryl Q., who mentored me.

Places in the heart:  Bangor, Brewer and Etna,ME;

1977- High Point:  My brother, David’s, wedding.

Low Point:  Being evicted, on false pretenses, in the middle of February.

People in the heart:  Cheryl Q., Peter W., Greg F., Susan C., Grace P. and Evelyn L., who tried their best to be mentors and friends; Lucy and Ronnie R., who took me in from the dead of winter; John and Mary M., my cousin and his wife, who were always there for me; my eight unsettled, troubled and always worthwhile students, in the Behaviorally-Challenged class; my first and fourth-graders, that second year, who re-assured me that I could serve as a teacher.

Places in the heart:  Brewer, Etna, Vinalhaven and Fort Kent, ME; Fredericton and Edmundston, NB; Riviere Bleu and Lac Megantic, QB.

1978- High Point:  My sister, Cheryl’s, wedding.

Low Point:  Losing my temper on a school field trip to a museum.

People in the heart:  My friends and well-wishers at Etna-Dixmont School; my new supervisors at Villa School, Toltec, AZ; many of my students, at both schools; Mrs. Knox, my landlady, over the summer.

Places in the heart:  Bangor, Etna, Dexter and Kingfield, ME.; Mactaquac Park and Saint John, NB; Toltec, Casa Grande, Phoenix, Tucson and Grand Canyon, AZ; Amarillo; Chicago; Toledo.

1979- High Point:  My first solo visit to Mexico.

Low Point:  Encountering a dangerous sex offender, in the New Mexico desert.

People in the heart:  Lynda E., Patrick G., Bill K.,  John G.- my co-workers at Villa; the vast majority of my students; the two sisters who drove me from Little Rock to Albuquerque, without regard for my disheveled state; the majority of my fellow travelers, between Phoenix and Boston, and back; the young lady who gave me a ride from Grand Canyon to Las Vegas, in an empty tour bus, just for the sake of having company.

Places in the heart:   Casa Grande;Grand Canyon; Tucson; Puerto Penasco; Hermosillo; Ensenada; Woodfords and Bishop, CA;  Hodgenville and Mammoth Cave, KY.

This decade brought a lot of painful personal growth to my doorstep. There are many people from those days who, if they were never to see me again, it would be too soon.  There are others whom I miss, sorely.  The big lessons are that alcohol and autism are a  wicked combination.  Lack of even rudimentary social skills surfaced, at the worst possible times, though thankfully, it was all pretty much done by the time I moved to Arizona.  When a rough-edged former co-worker tried to nail me with  the label of “loser”, towards the end of 1979, his words fell on deaf ears.

The Eighties would be, by and large, awesome.

 

gin, delicate, hook, basset hound, pearls, hibiscus

February 10, 2016, Prescott- Rafe was understandably flustered.  For the third night in a row, some Bible-study group was sitting in his cafe, talking nonsense about Race Unity. "Race Unity?  The White race IS unified, as far as I'm concerned", Ralph Waldo Emerson Tucker muttered, as he turned on his heels and walked out the door.  "Next thing ya know, they'll have some Black Eee-mahm leadin' the festivities!"

Rafe headed back to his makeshift camp, at  the edge of a ramshackle wharf and threw his backpack on the old cot he called Slumberland.  He had to lay down carefully on the single bed, lest its legs collapse.  Slumberland was always on the delicate side.  Before he brushed his remaining teeth, Rafe had himself a healthy swig of gin.

That's when Old Blue, his trusted basset hound, came wandering over.  "Here ya go, buddy boy", Rafe cackled, as he poured a bit of gumption into Blue's bowl.  The aging hound, with one good eye, lapped up the gin, in several slow, somewhat agonized slurps.

The dog belched, then Rafe followed suit.  One more chore remained, before the snoring.  Rafe and Blue went down to the bay's edge, and checked the baited hook, and their traps.  "It's a helluva great day, after all, Blue's Clues", Rafe snickered, as he counted the two dozen oysters in the trap.  The grizzled fisherman placed the day's catch in a lizard-proof container, set it up on a high shelf, in the locked shed, and headed inside to crash.

That night, Rafe interrupted his snoring, tossing and turning, to dream, deeply, that a lithe, lovely young pearl diver was walking past his camp.  He could smell the lush, sweet hibiscus in her hair.    Rafe may have been a bigot, but he had an eye for beauty, undeneath that snarling, very scruffy, countenance.

He woke, to see the stars still sparkling, high above.  Hearing Old Blue murmuring contentedly, Mr. Tucker got up and looked out on the hound's dirt sleeping area. Old Blue was lying, happily stretched full-out, his snout resting on the lap of a young lady, dressed in a floral print muu-muu, her hair sporting a fresh hibiscus blossom.  Carlota had a habit of catching some sleep here, when her father and brother got to drinking and fighting.  Rafe was a drunk, but he was no lecher.

"Yessiree, Bob", Rafe mused, "The best decision I ever made was moving here, to Iloilo."  Old Blue couldn't have agreed more.

 

February 8, 2016, Prescott- 

20. sonnet, astronaut, cheese, glitter, karaoke

Sleep on this, I say.  I am not one who can rattle off the names  of poetic forms.  I know a quatrain has four lines, a sestina has six, and that's about it.  Let's consider, for a moment, the sonnet.

This type of verse, I am learning in my advancing state of being, has fourteen lines, of ten syllables apiece, written in iambic pentameter.  I was most likely taught this in Junior High English- but who listens to talk of John Donne, or Petrarch, in seventh grade?

Shakespeare made the genre glitter. May I present his Sonnet XIV:

"Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck;
And yet methinks I have Astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert; 
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date."

Much in this world glitters.  In the end, the tinsel falls apart.  Astronauts, though, look starward, as the Bard does here.  He had the foresight to see the celestial as Man's future focus.  A lot of what we treasure, like fine cheese or a gilt evening gown, is doomed to fall apart, sour or spoil.  The stars and planets, shall not.

Back to the sonnet:  How do you think the late David Bowie would have sounded, singing the above verse in a karaoke fest?  I believe it would not have gone well.  Troubadours did not make a living, on the verses of Petrarch, or those of Spenser, Marlowe or Will,himself.

Yet, give it a try, if you are so inclined.  There are almost as many sonnets by Shakespeare as there are moods in a season.  The Bard was a master of observation, and of the turn of a phrase.  In any age, Shakespeare rules.

February 7, 2016, Prescott- I was happy with our Baha’i reflection meeting, this morning and I am happy for Peyton Manning and the Denver Broncos.  Now it’s time for a short verse, based on prompts from the Winter Scavenger Hunt.

19. mild, ochre, bulb, tail, scale

Have you ever been to Khamsomulb?

A mild isle, ’tis, where grows a delightful bulb.

The shallots on Khamsomulb feed an iguana,

whose loving master named her Shannah.

Shannah lives among the reddest of rocks,

and so has developed a hue that might shock.

She’s ochre, you see, from crown to tail,

with nary a hint of green, not even on her scale.

Shannah the Iguana is fed shallots and fish,

which she knocks out, with her ochre tail’s

Swish, swish.

 

February 6, 2016, Prescott- I have "a day off", today- no commitments, until 7 PM, and except for getting a much-needed haircut, no real accomplishments.  Nonetheless, time has been put to good use.

Let us return to the Winter Scavenger Hunt

18. garden shed, moon, antlers,

Damian was an iconoclast.  His family was made up, almost entirely of PETA activists.  Everyone was for animal rights, except him.  Damian didn't despise fauna.  He just thought it was their lot in life to serve the needs of people.

In that vein, he was opposed to poaching, and to the excessive slaughter of any given species.  It was, Damian would tell anyone who listened, a matter of balance.  "Kill off a species, and it's like pulling a linchpin out of a Janga tower.", he once told a Chinese traditional healer, who'd come to Damian's part of Alberta, to kill off and transport as many Grizzly bears as he could manage.

Damian had a thing about elk jerky.  He killed his quota of buck elk and shared the meat with his kindred spirits, saving a fair portion of it, to cure for his own snacking, over the winter.  There were several racks of antlers hanging throughout his property, always discomfiting his mother and siblings, on the infrequent occasions that they came by to visit.

The one that bothered them the most was the rack that hung above the entrance to Damian's garden shed.  He had a full, varied garden plot- growing everything from sunflowers to soybeans, and all free of both Genetic Modification and chemicals.  Damian also believed in letting different parts of his field lie fallow, each year, so as to allow for  soil recovery.

None of this prepared him for the night of the Full Moon, in late January.  Around 11 PM, Damian was awakened from an early slumber, by the bright light of the orb that shone through his bedroom window.  It was not the moon. That shone on the other side of the house.  This orb was a vehicle of some kind.  It landed, carefully, in a fallow section of field.

Damian watched in awe, as a door opened, a ramp lowered to the ground, and three figures walked slowly out, their hooves-yes, hooves, clanking on the metal surface.  These elk walked upright, on two legs.  Even more astonishing, they were blue.

A short time later, there was a sharp rapping on Damian's door.  The shaken, but still curious, man opened the door.  The lead cervine figure spoke, though in a language not heard on this Earth.  Yet, psychically, he made his wishes known to the Earth-bound human.

"We are from a planet under the sway of the star Sirius.  We have observed how homo sapiens sapiens treats its fellows, and its planet-mates. We have adopted the form of the elk, so as to impart a message:  'Let your animal friends be.  They are part of a Universal schema.  They must be allowed to live out their lives,in balance.'  Furthermore, you, Damian Elkins, must give us all of your antler collection, that we might create new creatures for our own planet.  We can do this, through use of the Deoxyribonucleic Acid in these antlers.  Elsewise, we must take you, yourself, to our planet, and create a species, that we will exploit and hunt, for sport.!"

Damian delivered up all of his antlers.  The visitors left.  Two days later, Damian joined PETA.

February 5, 2016, Phoenix- I had my lunch, of spicy California rolls, at Dreamy Draw Park, a popular desert redoubt, on the northeast side of town, before going in for what was an encouraging dental checkup.

While sitting in the coolness of the Sonoran Desert, I went back, in my mind to the years of adolescence.

1960-High Point: The New England Shopping Center opened

Low Point:  Ellen moved.

            People in the Heart:  Barbara I., Ellen S.

Places in the Heart:  Makepeace Hill, Johns Pond (Mashpee)

1961-High Point:  Hiking Mt. Chocorua, NH.

Low Point:  Having a stupid meltdown, while on that camping trip.

People in the Heart:  The Geotis family, who moved into the Statuto’s old house.

Places in the Heart:  The White Mountains of New Hampshire (all of them).

1962- High Point:  Family gatherings at Kingston State Park, NH.

Low Point:  Five days in the hospital.

People in the Heart:  A tall, beautiful girl in our grade (anonymous, out of respect to her and her loving husband); my then new friends, Dean and the late Mike; three beautiful sisters, who were friends of our extended family.

             Places in the Heart: Canobie Lake;  Kingston State Park.

1963- High Point:  Putting an end to being bullied in Grade 8.

Low Point:   The death of John F. Kennedy.

             People in the Heart:  Half the female population of Saugus Junior High School.

             Places in the Heart:  Every school building that was torched by a serial arsonist, who was in our class.

1964-  High Point:  Promoting out of Grade 8.

              Low Point:   Dealing with enuresis.

              People in the Heart:  Those three beautiful sisters; the thugs who actually stood  up for me.                                                                                                    Places in the Heart:  Our cellar, where I could shine the family’s shoes and listen to the richness of pop music; Breakheart Pond.

1965- High Point: Getting my own newspaper route.

Low Point:  Dealing with a pedophile.                                                                                          

             People in the Heart:  My neighbourhood group of friends (who remain my friends, to this day).                                                                                           Places in the Heart:  Breakheart, Johns Pond, the Saugus Howard Johnson’s Restaurant (where so many of us hung out); Mt.                                 Chocorua.

1966- High Point:  Getting my driver’s license.

Low Point:  Working out the bugs in my own driving behaviour.

           People in the Heart:  Most of my newspaper customers; Coach Wall, who put me  through Driver Boot Camp, and whom I credit for 50                 years of driving, with only  two, one-car, accidents; Joan M., one of my best female friends, ever.

          Places in the Heart:  Martha’s Vineyard; the above-mentioned spots, from 1966.

1967- High Point: Getting a job at a supermarket.

             Low Point: Struggling on the job.

People in the Heart:  Bob Powers, my first boss, and one of the finest people for  whom I’ve ever worked;  all my above-mentioned peers                 from Saugus High.

            Places in the Heart:  Merrymeeting Lake, Alton, NH; Fireplace 10, at Lynn Beach.

1968- High Point: Graduating Saugus High School.

            Low Points: Not taking college seriously; all the crap that went down that Spring.

            People in the Heart:  Ron Gerace, my fourth boss; Professor Ahmad and Jim  Gorman, who tried to set me straight about college; Kathy              W., to whom I should  have paid more attention.

           Places in the Heart: The old campus of UMass-Boston; the Back Bay; Hampton Beach, NH.

1969- High Point: Completing Army Basic training.

            Low Point:  Leaving college, feeling like a failure.

            People in the Heart:  My Army buddies, Tim and Mike; Drill Sergeants Cummings, Wescott, and Green.                                                                           Places in the Heart:  Downtown Columbia, SC; Myrtle Beach; Indianapolis.

Junior High had its share of abysmal moments.  High school, I must say, was freeing.  I had a core group of friends, and yet made the rounds of several groups of people, in Saugus and in nearby Melrose.   I was too young, emotionally, to have attempted college.  Girls and protest marches were way bigger in my life than studying.  So, 1969 found me treading water in a job at my Dad’s GE Plant, then signing myself up for the Army.  It was past time to stop being the family nuisance.  On June 16, 1969, I left for Fort Jackson, SC.

I did not, in the scheme of things, end the ’60’s too badly.  By October, 1969, I had made a place for myself on a “clean-up crew”, re-establishing Army postal service to the residents of Tri-Service Barracks, Fort Myer, VA.  Still, the bugaboo of alcohol dependency, along with mild autism, kept me from bonding with many people and created all manner of problems, with my family and with others, who didn’t know me very well.  The hiatus of Boot Camp and Advanced Individual Training did bring me a bit further along towards adulthood, but relapse came, once I was back in routine.

The ’70’s would be the first of my two lost decades.

 

February 4, 2016, Prescott- It’s been nearly three weeks since the nation took time to honour the life and work of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  It’s been three weeks, since we heard this year’s iterations of the speech he gave, sharing his dream of a nation whose people were at peace with one another.

I have thought, long and hard, about the years that have passed since then, and the years that have passed since his slaying.  We no longer, thankfully, have full-on urban riots, at least not since Los Angeles, and 25 other cities, in 1992.  We no longer tell people of colour that they cannot live in certain neighbourhoods, or parts of the country. We have, on the one hand, made an attempt to include people of colour more fully in the outward cultural fabric of our world-with HipHop and rap becoming de rigeur, worldwide.  On the other hand, there is so much unfinished, and even some progress at risk of being undone.

I have to say this, sans hard hat:  There are still several areas of daily life, mostly involving how I, and people who look like me, are perceived by law enforcement, especially on the road at night, that are not experienced the same way by people of colour.  As a nation, we buy too easily into stereotypes, still.  It was not so long ago that I would lapse into a lilt, when speaking with African-Americans.  That had to rankle the people with whom I was speaking and I apologize, profusely.  It said volumes about my own gap in self-identity and deficit in self-confidence.

I am over that personal roadblock.  The Dream that Dr. King shared with us, while speaking at the National Mall, those 53 years ago, was meant for all of us.  It was meant for Blacks, Native-Americans, Latinos to claim a place in the true life of the nation.  It was meant for women to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with men.  It was meant for Caucasians to recognize that sharing the full life of the nation with people of colour, in no way diminishes who we are as a dynamic force in the progress of mankind.  It was meant for those of both sexual orientations to be afforded the opportunity to share their God-given strengths and talents, in making the world a better place.  It was meant that the Dream be truly universal. I believe the Dream is alive.  I believe that this is truly the Day that will not be followed by Night.