1st TAKE/2nd LOOK: #18
Another Parade? Really? Small Town America will save Big City America. Hopefully.
You don't always have to have the most amazing story. It's learning to share the story you have that counts.
Pretty much sums up Compass Star Wordsmith, right? Although a cynical listener would probably utter a word of disbelief, I assure all of my readers that all of the adventures I recount in these reminiscences here have all been lived by one person. Me.
No captions. This post was intentioned to be a bit more. But not after today. I walked to the cemetery this morning to visit my family buried there. American flags signified the Veteran gravesites. I gave my due respect.
I entered the church to say a few prayers for me. And for you. And for all of the known and unknown (to me) human beings that cross my path during my day to day.
I walked the entire parade route, from staging area to the final orange cones. I observed less than 200 people in a 10 or 2 block area. Including the cops, volunteers, and spectators. How pathetic, I thought.
Then I got home to discover that another psychopath has defiled yet another parade. Yet another celebration of humanity. The beat goes on.
The motto I live by the motto is
EVERYONE CAN COOK
and I apply that imploration to most endeavors in my life. So, that being said
EVERYONE CAN TELL THEIR STORY
and Substack is the perfect place to start sharing it.
Not a lot to talk about today that brings joy to the heart. I could dig up a bunch of quotes and proclamations from the past, but it’s all so hollow now. What will break through? What will make a difference? What can possibly make a difference?
LOVE.
Just love the person you hate. Yeah, it’s gonna be hard. Yeah, it’s gonna require you to shut up and kiss butt. Yeah, and just think. If the guy you hate is doing the same thing to you, because he’s the guy that hates you, it’s a completion of the circle. Of love. Not hate.
Just a thought today. On this greatest day of freedom the world has even known.
How do you celebrate Freedom?
Ric
The o apposite of love isn't hate; it's ignoring the person. If the other person acknowledges that I exist, there's hope.
We attended parades in our small town in Ohio, slightly closer to Dayton than to Cincinnati. There was always a healthy crowd, people applauded every entrant in the parade, it was fun. My wife worked in the food bank that operated in our sister town just five miles away. It lay along the Miami River and its wealth had faded when water mills gave way to coal-fired plants.
I worked as a volunteer translator with the local court system. We had a large community of Salvadoran illegals in the area; my Spanish was still excellent. I wound up establishing a program with a nearby university's Spanish Club and the County Bar Association to get each illegal and his family a sponsor, and for the bar association to help with basic immigration issues. I had an arrangement with the prosecutor and judge for a short dance before each trial.
The judge would ask me if I was confident in my ability to accurately translate the meaning of communications. I replied, "Yes, your honor, with the exception of any questions touching on immigration status." The prosecutor would move that any questions on immigration status be ruled out of order. Everybody agreed.
This was self-interest. The number of high-speed chases dropped immediately as word spread that getting arrested for a traffic violation wouldn't involve deportation. We also had the local police carry my phone number in case of an arrest. We got a handful of Haitians as well, and my French was still good enough to handle simple stuff. No more.