Friday, July 17, 2015

Mixed Messages

Today, as I sat to write, I see posts on Facebook about the shooting of Marines by another Muslim. It gave me chills to think that early yesterday morning, before the killings occurred, I posted the postcard that displayed the Marine Hymn. It was a card from WW II. It was bought by my uncle Raymond Dale Miner, who was a Marine. There was no inscription on the rear, so I have to assume that it belonged to him and that he gave it to my grandparents.
God bless all who are in our military, striving to put themselves between enemies and the citizens of the United States. Lord, keep them safe. Put a hedge of protection around them, whether on foreign soil or in America and in her cities. Let the leaders make it easier for them to stop our enemies and support the veterans who once put themselves on the line.

The other thing that I was thinking about was about the menagerie that marched through our linen closet over the many years. Some were claimed by my children; Amanda, Andrew, and Anna. Towels caused the most contention. Colors caused the first confrontations, with purple being the most desired. Once my wife Cindy and I discovered that three children and only one type of towel, caused much consternation, we bought three of the same color or design. At least it gave them all a chance if it turned out to be something that sparked their interest.
Towels designed with Teddy bears and red ribbon collars, now threadbare still claim a resting spot on the shelves. Blue, yellow and red cats graced the plush towels. One cat clad cloth is hanging on the clothesline outside now. It waves in the breeze with all of its furriness shed. I know that there were Barney the Purple Dinosaur wash cloths and I know that there were others linens, plain, colored and patterned. Some were abstract and others were prints. Almost all have been worn to the point that they have been relegated to the rag bag of memories.
A few remain to still hang out as the wash is done and to wave in the thoughts and memories of my family’s memory.


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