CROSSROADS

I was born into Depression-like poverty in a coal-mining town in Eastern Kentucky during the Presidency of John F. Kennedy. My family was the best. My parents grew up during the Great-Depression and, like all of that generation, their lives were molded by it. My brothers and sisters were the most loving, decent, hard-working people I ever met in my life. In that life, like many Americans, I’ve experienced despair, hardship, and unspeakable grief. Those things are part of life. As Jefferson said, “the art of life is the art of avoiding pain” and “he is the best pilot who steers clearest of the rocks and shoals with which it is beset.” Fortunately, success and happiness also ventured into my life. Like many Americans, family, an ethic of hard work, and perseverance have always been the foundations of anything good that ever came my way. Make no mistake, I’ve got a lot to be thankful for.

We all reach a point in our lives when we know that the days behind us out-number the days ahead. I’m years past that day, closer, in fact, to shuffling off this mortal coil. Once we get to that place, some of us become increasingly mindful of the future fates of those we care about. A few months ago, I became a great-grandfather. Although I have no memory of either of my great-grandfathers, I hope I’ll be around long enough to give my great-grandson something at least to remember me by. Ever since his birth, I’ve found myself ruminating about the world through which he’ll make his way, and I’m pretty disgusted at it.