I was out of the country for 30 days, and so much changed while I was gone that I sometimes wonder what country I returned to. I'm grateful for days like today, for small towns like Geneva, Florida, and for people like the members of the
Greater Geneval Grande Award Marching Band (GGGAMB), which assembles once a year for the town's Independence Day parade. I am so sick of (and sickened by) the strident, angry voices that exacerbate and exaggerate our differences, and refuse to see the humanity of anyone who disagrees. But this is the America I know and love: where diversity enriches rather than divides, and our widely differing political and social views in no way hinder our friendship, our celebration, or our working together in common cause.
Saturday, July 4, 2015 at
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For those whose feedreaders caught it early, note that I've updated the post to include
Wow! Congratulations, Mom!
Wonderful! Thanks for posting this on a Sunday when I could watch the whole thing guilt-free!
Those are some good memories. 22 years ago. Tony was directing with cigarettes sticking out of his ears and Rhonda brought her parrot to rehearsal.
And I used to be embarrassed by that kind of thing, but now I think it's great!
It is a not-atypical Florida Sunday afternoon: dark and raining, with the wind rising and "thunderstorms capable of producing quarter-sized hail" heading this way. I had been enjoying a dose of Chesterton (
Tremendous Trifles) on the back porch, and under the influence of my gently rocking swing and the soughing of the rain had fallen into a sweet sleep after closing the book on "The Extraordinary Cabman."
Reading Chesterton is like playing with the balance board I was so kindly given for my recent birthday: great fun, but a bit challenging to the vestibular system.
I propose to narrate the incident of the extraordinary cabman, which occurred to me only three days ago, and which, slight as it apparently is, aroused in me a moment of genuine emotion bordering upon despair. ... My best friends are all either bottomless sceptics or quite uncontrollable believers, so our discussion at luncheon turned upon the most ultimate and terrible ideas. And the whole argument worked out ultimately to this: that the question is whether a man can be certain of anything at all.
The wind shifted. The gentle rain now falling on my closed book and my closed eyes urged me to shake off sleep and head indoors, whereupon I read Joyful's extraordinary words: "Thanks for posting this on a Sunday."
I shook away the shreds of sleep that clung to my brain: I was certain I had posted it yesterday, indubitably a Saturday. But lo, there was the timestamp: Sunday, July 5, 2015 at 12:41 am. "In your dreams," my mind replied. It could only have been in my dreams; Porter will attest that I was safely and soundly asleep at that hour. I shook my head once more. Can a man be certain of anything at all?
Sure we can. My feet settled firmly on
terra firma and I promptly reset the timezone offset that I had set six hours ahead when posting from Switzerland.
I looked at the strange cabman as he lessened in the distance and the mists. ... [I]t gave me pleasure to remember that my sense of reality, though it had rocked for an instant, had remained erect.
I love you, Mom! I had actually assumed you posted it on Saturday and was going to write "Thanks for posting this when I could read it on a Sunday" but I did check the timestamp and thus phrased it the way I did.