Aftermath Veterans' Day - 2007

The past two weekends have been an emotional roller coaster ride. It started as a roller coaster usually does, climbing up a steep incline to a peak. November 9th I was interviewed remotely from VFW Post 755 in Springfield, Illinois on Sam Madoina’s WTAX radio show at 7 am. Most of the interview was about my background, time in Vietnam, ‘my book Lost Survivor” and some discussion on the manuscripts I am working on. I had a chance to share breakfast with members of that VFW post and other veteran’s organizations like the Military Order of Purple Hearts. It was a good time sharing stories and experiences with veterans from WWII, Vietnam and Iraq. After work I went over to American Legion Post 32, Pam Furr from WMAY was doing a remote broadcast there. She interviewed me. It was the second time I had been on her show. All in all was a very good day.

Sunday, November 11th, Veterans’ Day. I was the speaker at VFW Post 755 formal Veterans’ Day ceremonial at 11:11 am. I spoke about the history of Veterans’ Day, how it started as Armistice Day marking the end of WWI (the war to end all wars), but was changed to Veterans Day after WWII. The Federal Government had the bright idea to use it as way to give Federal employee another three day weekend. However, Veteran Organizations, State Legislatures, and the American people demand that Veterans’ Day be the eleventh day in the eleventh month, no matter what day of the week or year. My remarks seemed to be appreciated. Channel 20 TV was there and part of my speech was aired that night. It was a very good day, and then I was plunge down into steep dive.

The wife and I stopped at the grocery store on our way home. While she was going through the check out line I stood by the store’s door waiting for her. I was dressed in my blue suit, tie with American flags all over it, and my Marine Corps pin with the American flag on my lapel above my Purple Heart lapel pin. On the other side of my coat I had a pin that had the cover of my book ‘Lost Survivor’ on it.

A white couple, who looked a few years older than me, walked past several young white kids that worked for the store that had blue shirts with the store’s name and logo and asked me if I would take their groceries out to their car, load their trunk and bring the shopping cart back inside the store.

I told the couple I only do that for my wife, who walked up at that moment. You need to get one of the young kids who work for the store to take your groceries to your car. They said oh, and walked towards one of the check out lines where several young kids that worked for the store stood talking to each other. I grabbed my wife’s arm and walked her out of the store. She was upset, that in this day and age, something like that would happen. The couple felt free to walk past store employees up to a black man dressed in a suit and tie to ask him to serve them as a grocery boy. What do you say, what do you do, how do you respond? Such a wonderful day spoiled by a causal act of strangers. A natural act to them, a wound of words to me.

My wife shared her anger with other through an email. Silence was not an option for her, she understands that it can be an acknowledgement that it was okay. Dave Bakke, a writer with The State Journal Register, did an article on the incident tying it to the extreme views in the community concerning the 1908 race riot that sparked the creation of the NACCP.

The response was overwhelming with many different views intensely expressed. Check it out:

http://www.sj-r.com/News/stories/20665.asp

Veterans’ Day

Why do we have a Veterans’ Day?


November 11 is officially veterans’ day. It started in November 1919 when President Wilson proclaimed November 11 as the first commemoration of Armistice Day, based on the end of WWI “the war to end all wars”.

An Act (52 Stat. 351; 5 U. S. Code, Sec. 87a) approved May 13, 1938, made the 11th of November in each year a legal holiday - - a day to be dedicated to the cause of world peace and to be thereafter celebrated and known as "Armistice Day." Armistice Day was primarily a day set aside to honor veterans of World War I, but in 1954, after World War II had required the greatest mobilization of soldiers, sailors, Marines and airmen in the Nation’s history; after American forces had fought aggression in Korea, the 83rd Congress, at the urging of the veterans service organizations, amended the Act of 1938 by striking out the word "Armistice" and inserting in its place the word "Veterans."

The Uniforms Holiday Bill (Public Law 90-363 (82 Stat. 250)) was signed on June 28, 1968, and was intended to insure three-day weekends for Federal employees by celebrating four national holidays on Mondays: Washington's Birthday, Memorial Day, Veterans Day, and Columbus Day. It was thought that these extended weekends would encourage travel, recreational and cultural activities and stimulate greater industrial and commercial production. Many states did not agree with this decision and continued to celebrate the holidays on their original dates.
The first Veterans Day under the new law was observed with much confusion on October 25, 1971. It was quite apparent that the commemoration of this day was a matter of historic and patriotic significance to a great number of our citizens, and so on September 20th, 1975, President Gerald R. Ford signed Public Law 94-97 (89 Stat. 479), which returned the annual observance of Veterans Day to its original date of November 11, beginning in 1978. This action supported the desires of the overwhelming majority of state legislatures, all major veterans service organizations and the American people.
Veterans Day continues to be observed on November 11, regardless of what day of the week on which it falls. The restoration of the observance of Veterans Day to November 11 not only preserves the historical significance of the date, but helps focus attention on the important purpose of Veterans Day: A celebration to honor America's veterans for their patriotism, love of country, and willingness to serve and sacrifice for the common good.

Veterans’ Day is a time for Americans to remember the commitment of men and women that served their country. To honor those that served and sacrifice for the common good. This is the day Americans collectively express the country’s appreciation for their veterans.

America is the country she is today because of her veterans. Every family has military veterans and any member of a family can be one. They are the men and women in our lives that gave us life and help us live it, like our fathers, brothers, sisters and mothers. Some are war heroes who faced unbelievable challenges to survive. Some sacrificed all for their country. So, on Veterans’ Day let us not let the jangle of our daily routines over shadow what we owe our veterans for their service. Let us not forget that Veterans’ Day is a day that honors people we love.

Thought note: Food ingredients?

I remember when food was simply mixtures of ingredients like flour, milk, sugar, and eggs. You cooked them, sat down and ate your meal. Now I am not a TV chef with recipes from around the country and abroad. I am the chef in my house and I do cook from scratch, using basic ingredients. If I eat out and enjoy a dish that tastes good I will go home and find the recipe on the internet and cook it at home. In my house we eat very few prepared foods from the grocery store.

I understand that today lifestyle moves at faster pace that when I was younger. Both mothers and fathers have to work to make ends look like they meet. Everyone is doing more to fill up the time in their lives. Kids have schedules that rival their parents. It is not just filling up all available time. It is the rushing to do it fast as possible. No matter fast the movement, there is never enough time. We feed with quick spurts to get something in the stomach. The microwave oven has become the major appliance in a kitchen. Our food ingredients reflect this pace of life. They have become chemical compounds designed in labs.

I don’t understand what is advertised as ingredients in food. You need a scientist to explain what they are. Corn maltodextrin, hydrolyzed soy and wheat gluten protein, sodium acid pyrophosphate, monoglycerides, sodium sulfites and sodium bisulfites (preservatives), disodium inosinate and disodium guanylate, sodium phosphate, calcium phosphate, yellow 5 and yellow 6 are ingredients. What food group they belong to? I have a sense that ingredients in today’s prepared foods are for the time they spend on shelves. But I’m sure that some government agency said it is okay for human consumption which I think means it’s okay to eat

Thought Note: Product Recalls

I have had friends call and get on my case about not consistently writing my blogs (Lostsurvivor.com and TJThoughtsthings). My reasons, job and writing new manuscript (Ghost Watcher) was not good enough. I have to agree, especially when I wrote in TJThoughtsthings I would. I have to admit it was good hearing there are readers out there that wanted me to spill thoughts out of my mind.

So here is a thought note:

What happens to things that are recalled?

The media lets us know about products that are recalled, but I don’t remember ever seeing or hearing about what happens to the products. For example, meat recalled receives attention of being pulled off store shelves. I, like many others, assume it is send back to the company that made it. Then what? Do they destroy it? I have seen and heard of diseased cows and chickens destroyed in the media. But I don’t remember the media saying what happens to recalled packaged meats. It is a vast distribution system for these products, consisting of warehouses and delivery trucks before they get on the shelves. How do they handle recalled products in these cases?

And what about those toys that were recalled? What happen to them? Were they put a boat and shipped back to the manufacturer? If a recalled product is not good in American, does that mean it is not good in other countries?

Perhaps there are simple answers to these questions and I just missed it in the news.

The Journey: New York, New York

New York, the big apple with Broadway shows, Empire state building, Harlem, Wall Street, and the 8 lane George Washington Bridge. Three or four miles before the George Washington Bridge we ran into a traffic jam. The smell of gasoline and diesel fumes from the slow crawl of cars mixed in stifling heat was overbearing. No one could go anywhere. People turned off their cars and stood or sat on their car’s hood watching the frozen stream of metal.
There are no bathrooms on controlled federal roads except at the exits. Some people had blankets and were lying in the grass on the side of the road drinking alcohol. People were yelling at other people, some cussed others passed a bottle between them. A few were peeing on the side of the road. It was a party to some, to others a pain in the butt. We had the CB on listening to the truckers. The chatted that filled the air was to watch out for the Mexican 500 that would start when the bridge lowered. The traffic started moving slowly, cars filled with Mexicans sped over highway embankments and dodged dangerously between cars. I don’t understand how there were no accidents.
We could see the Empire State Building outline through the smog. I asked Carol if she wanted to go into New York and see some sights. She was not interested in seeing any more of New York. She had seen more people in the traffic jam than she had ever seen in Springfield were enough people for one day. She said the only way she would see New York would be in a tank.
Stamford Connecticut, we stayed at the Stamford Inn, off 195. An older hotel, which in it’s hey day was a Holiday Inn catering. That night an assortment of characters filled the hotel. Highway travelers reflect the nature of America. They are from and going to every area of America. Regional differences of clothes, living, and thinking clash in hotels like the Stamford Inn. The local police visited the hotel twice.
One of Carol’s friends, in Springfield, had given us a contact name that was the owner of one of the local radio stations. Carol called him and talked about living and working in Stamford. He wasn’t very encouraging, but offered to help us.
I don’t know if it was the hotel setting, the constant buzz of traffic, the lack of encouragement, or our expectations that made up our minds we were not going to stay in Stamford. Whatever the reason we decided to leave and continue our search for a place stop and live.
We decided not to travel the main federal highways, but to meander on two-lane tree covered back roads.

The Journey – car troubles in Pennsylvania

Bad weather and car troubles had to happen sooner or later. No car trip would an adventure unless these events are part of it. We had had no problems with either until we were in the low ridges of the Appalachian mountains in Pennsylvania. The Appalachian region is generally considered the geographical dividing line between the eastern seaboard of the United States and the Midwest region of the country.

We encountered large thunderstorms few miles out of Danville, Pennsylvania in the mountains. The wind driven rain was a torrid down pour causing everything to disappeared outside the car’s window a few times including the car hood. Cars were parked bumper to bumper underneath overpasses. Speeding trucks whipped the driving rain up from the road bed into a blinding dirty fog. I followed their lead and kept driving but slower. After about twenty-five minutes of creeping through the downpour, the sky cleared up and the sun came out. I told Carol if we had pulled over, we would still be on the mountaintop in the drenching rain. We were out of the rain but her mind was still on the mountain with the fright of speeding trailer trucks engulfing us with clouds of dirty back wash from their tires.

We were a few miles from Stroudsburg Pennsylvania when the front of the car begin to wobble violently side-to-side whenever I went over ten miles an hour. I pulled off the road and checked the wheels, looked under the hood. I could not see anything that would cause the problem. A state trooper pulled up behind us. He looked at the wheels and under the hood. He couldn’t see anything wrong. He directed me to a gas station at the next exit that repaired cars.

I drove slow, as slow as when we were caught in the drenching in the mountains. I had a difficult time controlling the steering wheel. We pulled into the gas station, a man was standing outside smoking a cigarette. His eyes got big and the cigarette fell from his mouth as he watched us wobbled into the station. When we got out of the car he said he could believe his eyes. The left front tire was wobbling side to side. He had never seen anything like it before.

We had lost three tire lugs off the wheel. Only two lugs, next to each other, were holding the tire on the wheel. The gas station didn’t stock Peugeot replacement parts. In fact they had never seen or heard of a Peugeot. We looked in the yellow pages for the nearest Peugeot dealer. There was one in New Jersey. Thank goodness the station did have some metric lugs that fit. They were plain tire lugs not the chrome-plated lugs like on the other tires rims, but they would hold the tire onto the wheel and stop the wobbling that’s all we cared about.

We didn’t realize that you don’t go driving around America in a Peugeot. Most people had never heard of the French car. We were very lucky to find a dealer close. There were very few dealerships in the United State. With all the fast hard driving and bad weather we had been through we felt blessed nothing happened to us.

Lost Time

I have lost a lot of writing time the past few weeks, between mother-in-law trips from nursing home to emergency room a few time, medical procedure on me, working for the State of Illinois (which is planning to pass a thirty day budget for a 12 month year), and installing new window Vista on my laptop. But, the swirl of activity has put my mind to work which always helps my writing. Ah, but the writing doesn't get done unless I write the words. So, I have to get back to my writing disciple. Writing everyday. One of my goal to is write in this blog at least every day. Everyday is what I working for.

I thought about lost time. What makes time lost? Distractions. Something, most of the time ourself, wish we were doing something different than what we are doing. It gives us the feel we have lost time. You can't get time back you lost. All you can do is to do what you feel is important for your time.

The Journey: On The Road East

On route 80 going east big trailer trucks whizzed past us. Their speed scared Carol. She asked if they knew the speed limit. That was unimportant to them, time was money and speed was the way to get more time.

We had a CB radio that plugged into the cigarette lighter and had a magnetize antenna you put on the roof of the car. CB’s were the highway's communication link. You don’t realize the number of people that are on the airwaves until you spend time out on the road. Truckers have CB conversations like they are in the same room with you. They talk about everything from the weather across the country, how to by-pass state weighting stations, what they had to eat and what their wives and girlfriends did or didn’t do. No one uses their real names on the air they have handles. Airwave names, that most of the time are reflective of who they want people to think they are, like Grey fox, wild man, hoochy momma, farm boy and the like.

Carol like to listen to the CB traffic, a new and different language to her. She heard women on the CB saying what milepost or exit the commercial beaver house was parked. She finally asked what the women where talking about. I laughed. Her face flushed when I told her they were telling men where their camper was parked. They were women who were applying one of the oldest trades.

She couldn’t believe there were women traveling the highways doing that. Long distance truck driver don’t stay in one place very long. When they off the road they were not making money. Since they are always on the on the road, houses of pleasure were mobile like their customers. The journey would be full of discoveries we had never thought about.

America does not need made up heroes.

America is full of real heroes. She does not need to make them up. There are many different types of heroes. There are those that do a heroic act in war, during disasters, and responding to circumstances of accidents. Then there are those unsung heroes who meet the challenges of daily living in an unforgiving world for their children, for their future and hopes. The media does not make heroes. The media shows the actions of ordinary people reacting to extraordinary situations that create heroes.

In Vietnam during combat daily heroic acts kept most men alive. Someone who charged the enemy without regard to their personal danger, threw their bodies on a grenade to protect their fellow soldiers, or exposed themselves to enemy fire to drag a wounded man to safety. Acts done with no thought of being a hero but because something someone had to do at that moment to save lives. Someone who was willing to give up their life so others men could live. No thoughts of the consequence just the act that needed to be done. I was a corpsman with a Marine long range recon unit. When a man was wounded my only thought was to get to him as soon as possible no matter what was happening around me. Part of it was my training to respond, it was my job. Facing death continuously was not part of the job description. Yet, when a man yelled “Doc, I’m hit” without thinking I ran or crawled to him. I was scared, though fear screamed in my mind I didn’t hesitant. The need to help overrode the fear. There were times I didn’t know how I survived. No matter how often it happened, I was ready to do it again. To some these actions would be considered heroic acts, or just crazy, to me and men I served with it was my job.

Mother’s and fathers are heroes. They face a world everyday they have no control over to feed, clothe, and protect their children from harm. Some days it seems impossible but they make it to the next day to meet new challenges. They strive to give tomorrows to their children. The personal sacrifices, the pain, the suffering they endure quietly most of the time. For most it is their love and job.

America is who she is today because of her heroes. Some we know about, most we don’t. After most heroic acts, heroes look forward to a normal life. There is no hero’s life style. The heroic act happens at a time and place, one of many events that happen in a life.

Iles school – Writer's conference - Springfield, Illinois

I was invited to participate in Iles school’s fourth annual writers’ conference on Friday, April 20 2007. The theme of the conference was “Writing Is Out of This World”. The purpose was to enable children to become excited about being both writers and readers. I spoke to 3rd, 4th, and 5th grade classes, six classes all together. My remarks were about the purpose, structure, and elements of a story. Iles school is for gifted children. The children were very bright and witty. All had a sense of what writing was about in terms of a story has a beginning, middle and end. It has character, plot and conflict. I was very impressed with their knowledge, their expression, ideas and structure of thought. They were full of energy, with bright eyes and excitement on their faces. I really enjoyed interacting with them. It was a great experience sharing time with such hopes for the future.

The Journey: Decatur, last night in Illinois

I called Chicago and talked to my mother. Actually, she talked mostly about the foolish things I had done in my life. Giving up a stable good life for something unknown had to be one of the top foolish things. We ended the call planning to meet the next day at her brother’s house in Markham, Illinois which wasn’t too far from route I-80 we would be taking east.

It took a while for me to go to sleep. At first I thought it was because I was in a strange bed. But, in the middle of the night it came to me that the reason was because I knew we wouldn’t be getting up and going home. Breakfast the next morning was like a last meal, emphasizing our doubts of the next time we would have a cooked meal in our home.

We took I-72 east from Decatur to Champaign then north up I-57, which ran into the Dan Ryan expressway. We didn’t talk much on the drive, just looked at the flat countryside pass by.

I was named after my Uncle, Thomas. My mother’s brother had been the first black electrical contractor in Peoria, Illinois. A very courageous act back then, the white labor leaders in town worked hard to make it as difficult as possible for him. There were no black electrical people in the union so most of his workers were non-union common laborers. I worked during the summer with him when I was a teenager.

After a tight hug my mother didn’t try to hide her concerns or her anger. As usual, the word crazy was used quite a bit. Like Carol’s mother she didn’t understand where we lost our senses. We not knowing how to explain it didn’t help. Mother’s love is a special thing. Not matter how dumb or crazy you are they love you and wish you the best.

My life started with my mother when she was a teenager, a scared black unmarried girl with a baby in a small southern river town. My father’s family thought he should go to college without the distraction of a family. She left that town and went North ending up in Chicago. Many of the street folks called her “The Queen of 63rd street” when I was growing up. She had survived a hard life and knew the strangeness of people. When we left, my mother had no tears, but I could see the coils of fear tightening her face and in her eyes.

We were finally on the road. We had said goodbye to family and friends. The only people we could expect to see would be strangers. We were on our own with no expectations of familiar faces, sights or scenery.

We took Route 80 east when we left Markham. Living in central Illinois, even if you’re black, you had a sense of cornfields. You couldn’t go very far without seeing one. If you worked in state government, which most folks did in Springfield, you had conversations with farmers who talked about crops, bitched about the weather and their kids. We laughed as we talked about not expecting to see anymore fertilizer commercials.

The Journey: Goodbye Springfield

We left Springfield with two thousand dollars in travel checks and five hundred dollars in cash. The spinning bottle pointed east when it stopped. One of Carol's friends knew the owner of a radio station in Stamford Connecticut. So, that became our destination. We did not personally know anyone in that city. But the words we read in the full color brochures about the city from their tourist bureau described the essentials we wanted in our life. A great community life, good place to work and raise a family. The pictures showed happy people doing things in nice looking places.

August 2, 1986 was a usual bright hot humid central Illinois’ day. Our apartment, at least until the end of the day, was bare except for two boxes Carol was packing in the middle of the living room. They were filled with sheets, pillow cases, matching towels, washcloths and table place mats. The car was already sagging heavy. I figured the boxes would take up space and add more weight. I questioned taking those things. We could get those things wherever we decide to settle down.

She had a look on her faced that served notice there would be no discussion as she said, "I go, they go." I didn't argue. We didn’t need to add any more anxiety to leaving. After carrying one of the boxes to the car she told me her grandmother taught her to take personal stuff with you in the car when you move. No matter what happens you would be able to wash your body and sleep on your sheets. It was a way of carrying home with us. I smiled, and took the other box to the car.

Our car, a Peugeot 505, was a four cylinder, five speed automatic French car designed to be a luxury four-door sport's car. The smallest car I have ever owned. The gas mileage was great. The car's small interior would be our transportation, home and storage space until we found a place to live.

Finally, the apartment was empty and the car loaded. The bare rooms held nothing personal except our memories. Stripped of personality, the rooms seemed larger. My mind could see the colors and images that used to fill the spaces, but each blink of my eyes erased them leaving dark vacant places. Talking about leaving a place is a thought. Walking out the door of your home, knowing you are not going to return is a feeling of lost. The closing of the apartment door was like the lid of a casket coming down, the final act to a life. Our home was now just a collection of rooms for strangers to rent.

Our first stop, Carol's mother's house. She lived on the east side of Springfield, the black side of town, located across the railroad tracks at Tenth Street.

Her mother was a light skin, small frame woman witty and graceful with a smile on her face most of the time. Not this time though. Neither she nor my mother could understand why two smart people like us would do something so crazy. We had heard the word crazy a lot during the weeks before we left.

Finally, we were on Route 72 heading to Decatur. We had declined our Springfield's family and friends offers to spend the night with them. Since we were out of our home, we decided to hit the road rather than engage in long painful good-byes with them. We would spend the night in Decatur, about thirty miles east of Springfield with old friends of Carol. They would call us crazy, but feed and put us up for the night with few questions, and send us off with love.
Decatur was having a street fair downtown. We embraced the festive mood of the street fair as the first event of our adventure. We ate, drank and danced in the street like it was a going away party just for us.

The Journey: Leaving Thoughts

I thought it would be more difficult for Carol to leave Springfield than me. She was born and raised in the city, attended grammar and High School there. Grew up in a neighborhood of Italians, Jewish, and Black families. Involved in civic, community, and political activities. She was considered a successful black person by family and friends. Yet, it was she that suggested leaving Springfield.

I had a more difficult time leaving. It took me a while to understand. I was a state brat, born in Quincy, raised in Peoria and Chicago, Illinois. Joined the Navy traveled to strange and exotic lands. I was use to leaving. I had people love me, but not around me to form a support group since I was seventeen years old. Just me, my mind, heart, and soul. I faced the world on my own among strangers. Along the way, I was blessed to have people enter my life with guidance. Not many, but they showed up when I needed a clear thought. I had worked at job since I was twelve years old.

Now I was going to quit my good job, take everything from our beautiful apartment sell or give it away if it did fit in a small car? Find a better life in another city we had never been? This was more than leaving! This was giving up everything that defined who we were. For what? That was the question we had to answer. Carol resigned her position. It took me a month to resign.

What will happen to us was an unknown, but it was the only option in our known world to discover different paths.

The Journey: Why leave?

When we took off on our journey the question most asked by family and friends was why? Why leave Springfield? By all accounts we were living a good life. We had good jobs, well regarded by the local powers, lived in a very nice apartment building. Springfield, Illinois is a government, political town. As the state capital of Illinois, the Governor, the state legislature, agency directors, and lobbyists were all located there. We were comfortable, both of us had ran for public office. I had served on the Peoria County Board and had several appointments by Presidents and Governors. Both of us served on government and community boards.

Why were we leaving? Our basic answer was that we had a belief in our skills and talent that we could go anywhere in America and make a living. It was after we were on the road a few days that we begin to really understand. I think the first inkling was in a cheap hotel after we had been on the road for three days. We noticed that we had not heard a phone ring in days. We started laughing. We couldn't remember a day not hearing a phone.

That's when we understood why we left. The feeling of freedom to take choices we make, not on what we were allowed to do or according to choices given us by others. It was exciting and scary. No family support network or friends. The two of us, our minds and prayers in a vast land filled with strangers.

Thought Blip: Magic/Illusion

Magic and illusion are not the same. though there are times when their results might seem to be. magic is not just the fantasy of old. thinking that way entraps you in a world of illusions. Things projected to you for your reflections to think something is real.

Magic is today as yesterday, making something real beyond ourselves, a thought outside our heads we created within our minds.

The beginning of an adventure

My wife (Carol) and I in 1986 quit our great jobs (I was a member of the Governor's cabinet and my wife a member of the Secretary of State's Front office) load what we could into a car, sold or gave away everything else, spun a bottle and took off in the direction the bottle pointed. Crazy, people said, our mothers told us first. For two black people to leave their good paying jobs, friends and family, support network and go off to America. It was dangerous. We believed that we had the skills and talent to make a living anywhere. It turned into a three year adventure story.

The bottle pointed east. So, began the journey. When travel across the country by car you begin to notice how the same things looks different as you travel. We left Springfield, Illinois on a bright sunny August day. Spending many years in central Illinois, farmer's country, you are use to seeing miles of corn and bean fields. Farmer's talk spice your conversations, like corn knee high by July good crop on the way. The further east we traveled the large fields of tall standing corn became small patches of midget corn stalks. Flat farm land took on more contour with rolling hills covered with trees.

Travel long distances with someone teaches you a lot about yourself and the other person. The places you go, the things you see, the people you meet add elements of wonder and adventure. But being inside a car for thousand of miles with one person becomes also a journey of self discovery. During that trip we learned what love was really about. Being confined to a car for long periods of time with someone clearly lays out your emotions. And if you don't get along, someone can be sitting on the side of the road. Love can express itself many ways, but its when you share pain, strange places and people, struggles and fears do you realize how much the comfort of love is. During that trip we learned we loved each other. I will be writing more about that trip, lessons learned, and the freedom we found.

Reason for a caring life

Feel free to join me as I ride the seams of my mind. The best view to see all sides of a point. So this first time I will ask a question and why it needs an answer. The question? Why don't people care?

We come from the same source. Born weak and fragile. Unable to care for our selves. Needing others to protect our lives. Even when we are older, we reach back for advise from those who care about us. Yet, Yet, inside of some us are dark areas we use to flee the world. Away from those who love us to those we want to be. Caring gave us life, kept us alive, and reason to become more human.

I think people don't care because they have forgotten what gave them reason to be. That they took caring as someone else's responsibility to them. We have all experienced moments of lost caring from our lives. Why would we want our everyday lives be wrapped around such moments?