Last Friday evening on the streets of Gettysburg: the people came with their pockets full of money and the will to throw it around. Such is American summer in the place. Turning the Honda off the Baltimore Pike just past the Jennie Wade House and Museum- where a teenage girl baking bread for Union soldiers once took a stray bullet to the lower back/ the only certified civilian death across three days of hard fighting here- I cruise the minivan down Steinwher Avenue trying to maintain looking at the road but that is a battle in and of itself, you know.
This reminded me of the old adage that every person dies twice: Once when they stop breathing, and again when their name is uttered for the last time. Maybe you won't find Lanich as long as you're looking for him, Because you're looking for him. And maybe he's grateful for that.
It’s the ordinariness of it that gets me. It’s just another small Pennsylvania town in just another valley by more of the same old mountains…just ordinary people with ordinary lives doing and thinking and feeling perfectly ordinary things, not ghosts yet but just people being people. And then history happens.
Beautiful. As always your writing gets my brain whirling. Life. Your writing is life. Observing. Pondering. Dissecting. Living. Pictures wrought in words. Thank you, man.
"I look hard for the out and out patriotism in these stories but I never find it."
Dude. Same.
This reminded me of the old adage that every person dies twice: Once when they stop breathing, and again when their name is uttered for the last time. Maybe you won't find Lanich as long as you're looking for him, Because you're looking for him. And maybe he's grateful for that.
I never thought of it like that..But the more I think about what you’re saying here, the more it makes sense. I like it. Thanks for the notion. :)
It’s the ordinariness of it that gets me. It’s just another small Pennsylvania town in just another valley by more of the same old mountains…just ordinary people with ordinary lives doing and thinking and feeling perfectly ordinary things, not ghosts yet but just people being people. And then history happens.
Beautiful. As always your writing gets my brain whirling. Life. Your writing is life. Observing. Pondering. Dissecting. Living. Pictures wrought in words. Thank you, man.