I was born eleven years after the end of World War Two. Growing up around my grandparents afforded me many stories about their lives and the things that they had seen and things that they had been told. Some stories were memorizing and some were boring, and some were terrifying to the point of staying with me for sixty seven years. One story was about a car wreck on the Waterson Parkway in Louisville, where we all lived, and where my grandparents lived next to. A man burned to death and my imagination had the poor man running around on fire. I suspect he was trapped in the vehicle and nobody could get him out, but either way, that story made its way to my hard drive forever. I might add that these stories were not told to me personally, but children hear more than you think, and I was never too far away from my grandparents when they were around.

The second story was about D-Day, and the Normandy landing, and how many people were killed. The story goes that one of our friends or family members who was trying desperately to take the beach, watched a man who was running get his head shot off. This was the most frightening thing I ever heard growing up, not because the man got killed but because he kept running. That little story is also permanently on my hard drive. My whole family was deeply patriotic, and this story was told so they would not forget. Unfortunately though, we have forgotten.

The point that I’m trying to illustrate here, is that somewhere around September 11, 2001, and that may be the actual date, America suffered a mortal wound, and even though we are still running, the fall of a lifeless corpse is coming, and I’m grieving that fall with all my heart. This is going to be an interesting year.

ws