And you know there is nothing worse than a raised hackle. Totally oblivious to the temperature of the room, NARA’s boneheaded move raised the hackles of more than a few Americans. Constitution, the Declaration of Independence and the Bill of Rights to be as dangerous as the Anarchist’s Cookbook, Rules For Radicals, and the dreaded works of Dr. The National Archives Records Administration apparently deems the U.S. The headline to Haley Strack’s article says it all: “National Archives Slaps ‘Harmful Content’ Warning On Constitution, All Other Founding Documents.” Since misery does indeed love company, I thought I would share this news item with you, Gentle Reader. There were still good memories to be made.Ĭarrie Classon’s memoir is called “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at .Ī column in the “Federalist” this week was enough to send any shiny, happy thoughts I might have had of a relaxing weekend out the window. Because even at the end, there was a brilliant red maple tree to look forward to. My grandma always looked for the good in change, even at the end, even when the change could not be a harbinger of anything but the end. I think that is how she got to be 100 years old. Our eyes left the drab little room, and we looked out at the tree, caught in the afternoon light, a brilliant blaze of red outside her window. “Oh!” my grandmother said, “Would you look at that tree!”
I felt the sadness and the finality of it, but that feeling did not have long to settle because, as my grandmother was wheeled into the room, she looked out the window at a brilliant red maple tree. She had to know (as we all did) that this was the last place she would live. There was a bed and a dresser, a handful of personal items, a couple of chairs for visitors, and little else in her room.
She moved into a place that, while it was not called a nursing home, certainly was. She was 99, and her health had finally begun to slip. I was there when my grandmother moved into her final home. Most of all, he knows we enjoy our life together and we will be together.Īnd, while I am excited, I wonder how many more new homes, if any, I will have in my life. He knows himself, and he knows what he likes. “I will enjoy it once I get there,” Peter assures me. Peter and I are both a little sad but both-in our way-looking forward to the move. This place is real, and so is his sadness in leaving.Ĭhange brings a combination of sadness and excitement. Peter believes me, but it’s not quite real. I told him how quiet it was, how there were church bells ringing in every direction, how friendly everyone was, and how nice the grocery store was. I took some pictures when I was there, with our furniture in place. He has not even seen our new place yet, so he is moving into a foggy, unknown future, and I know that is hard for him. Peter ran a summer camp as a young man, and this home is like his campsite he wants to leave it better than he found it.Īnd Peter is sad. It has not been as hard as I feared, sleeping on a futon and eating off a few leftover plates, as Peter painstakingly prepares the house for sale. All our furniture has been sent ahead of us, and we have been more or less camping in our home. He never regretted it.īut now Lori is gone, and we have decided to move closer to my parents and Peter’s family. Lori was his bossy older sister, and so he did. Lori drove by the house and sent him a text. He wasn’t sure how much he could afford, but he bought this condo in the town where his sister, Lori, lived, sight unseen. This is the home Peter bought as a single person, when he retired a bit early. We are packing up the last of our possessions and heading across the country in a few days. “I’ll always have good memories of this place.” My husband, Peter, is looking around our empty living room.
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