Dogwood flower, on a cold rainy day in the spring.
You may be an artist, a writer, a someone, a nobody, a bricklayer, or a masseuse, but in the end we are all historians. Whether we leave a record of ourselves, through a drawing, a novel, short story, essay, a cornerstone in a building, or touch someone with a a healing hand, it’s all a part of history, and each participant makes a mark on that moment in time. Our communications, whatever form they may take – others will be the recipients of the message.
Shirley Baker’s words ring true.
What is history if it is not an imagined past – a collection of facts which are viewed and interpreted in the light of our own experiences.
And another quote.
My journal may prove completely worthless and a waste of time. Yet, as a historian, I must satisfy the impulse to record what is happening around me.
Mila 18 by Leon Uris
In the morning, I drove by a bunch of pale yellow daffodils, sitting beside the road, in the culvert, all alone, they stood out in their vanity, among the weeds. Further down the road, the gate to the cemetery was wide open, on this cloudy day. Gray stones popped up against green grass. Littered with small American flags, some commemorated heroes of the past. This is where Amelia, from Gurleyville, was buried. Then, I came upon the old barn, dull and dreary, with a caved in roof, almost completely collapsed, a telling sign the structure’s end is near. And there was a wooden fence, by a house. Unpainted, with dried ivy growing up its side, it made me wonder if the plant will ever come alive. Simple words, are these, from notes to myself, of the things I saw through the lens of my eye.
April is gone. Now, it is May. Splashes of color paint the landscape, in the pouring rain. Garlands of pink cherry blossoms hang down against green trees, like ornaments, on a proscenium stage. Tiny yellow leaves appear, on trees, as babies, waiting to mature.
Sunshine jolts my moody spirit, where deep thoughts reside. It illuminates the sky, and all below. The moon shuns its glare, when night falls, at the end of the day. On Earth, May will stay, until June arrives.