Happy Birthday Blog (and Sam too!)

Happy Birthday Blog!  Exactly one year ago, on the 176^th birthday of Samuel L. Clemens, this experiment was born. My blog is one! One year old. I shake my head in wonder and amazement that a full year has passed since my first post.  Folks, quite literally, it seems like yesterday that I published a post titled “First Official Blog - With Mark Twain.”  I did, if you’re the type who checks these things, have one post before that, but it was only  “A Test” as you can see.

Since then I’ve published a total of 32 posts, which doesn’t quite match my original goal of a post a week. That is partly due to the education I received in this first year.  Writing can be a tough and frustrating endeavor. There are more ideas flooding into my head than words pouring out. In the little anal corner of my world that wants all things perfect, I relentlessly research for accuracy. I write, then write again, and yet again.  Writing, dear readers, takes time.  But then, I'm not the sharpest knife in the draw either.

Writing is also a very rewarding exercise.  I have learned new things and I have grown in many respects.  I see things differently now.  Writing compels you to do that.  It forces you to think, and to consciously look at the world in a different way.  Why, it’s kind of like you’re sitting on a Fence Post, and an eclectic one at that.  Hmm, how’s that for a Blog name? Clemens once wrote that travel is fatal to prejudice.  In part, I think the same can be said for writing.

Putting words on paper I have found to be great therapy.  It has afforded me a release, a catharsis if you will.  It took me to places I could not imagine.  Writing unburdens the soul.  It frees the spirit.  It brings order to your universe.  It empties your well, and there is joy in seeing it fill again, and again.

One funny characteristic of this, or any blog I presume, is that I have no idea who is reading my little published musings.  The “stats” provided by the blog host consist only of the number of visits the blog receives and the country of origin. 

Many, many thanks are due to the following:  Good ‘ol USA, Russia, Germany, Ukraine, France, Canada, Malaysia, Brazil, the UK, China (uh, could we borrow a couple of bucks?), Vietnam, Armenia, and from way down under, Australia!   It boggles my mind that someone in Australia actually reads this thing!  And – Vietnam?  The internet, what a concept. For you statistical types out there, the USA accounts for 81% of my visits, while 2^nd and 3^rd place go to Russia (yo, comrade!) and Germany (ein bier bitte) respectively.  

And, for what it’s worth, I just passed the 1,000  mark on the “visit” list.  That is actually better than I thought I would do. With rare exceptions, I certainly have not publicized the Fence Post.  I’m not famous or widely known like Maureen Green (see: Why Blog – Part 2, 10/23), so there was never any automatic following happening here.  Who would ever find me anyway?  Basically, I am star #EM-269 in the Andromeda constellation.  So, all in all, I’m pretty happy that this little corner of cyber space has been visited over 1,000 times.

I can’t wait to see how all this changes over the next year.  I can’t wait to see what thoughts find their way into my head.  I can’t wait to see the words unborn.  That’s what’s really cool about this – I have no idea what’s around the next corner.  Let’s go see! 

  

Mark Twain Quote:  “We write frankly and fearlessly but then we “modify” before we print.”

Rocky Mountain High

The first indication comes via the window, the scene growing larger as the plane descends.  Its full and breathtaking import only reveals itself when you are able to stand in an open space and turn completely around, slowly.  On one side, a flat, almost barren plateau stretches eastward, unchanged for as far as the eye can discern. It does not look favorable for farming, or much else, save for some cattle that appear to be making a living off it. Look west and you behold, north to south, from horizon to horizon, an unbroken chain of majestic mountains.  And above it all, an unblemished blue sky holds a sun that bores into you with an intensity not found at home ….“back east.”

The contrast is striking, the scale is immense, and yet, in a strange way, the mountains almost look like little mounds of tightly formed clay you could just reach out and touch.  Several of the peaks are jagged and raw, topped with blotches of white snow that look to be simply dusted on for effect. Some have no snow at all, and sit below their larger cousins. 

When you look hard, in certain places, it becomes evident that there isn’t just one or two “lines” of mountains that, once crossed, lead to fertile valleys and flat plains.  These mountains run deep as they stretch to the west. There is no easy path through them.

There is a remarkable absence of vivid color.  The eye beholds muted shades of green, grey, black, and brown.  In another odd way, it is impressively….unimpressive.  This panorama is what floods the eye from a distance of about 25 miles.  That feeling quickly disappears when you approach the mountains.  Once at their base, at the foothills, you gaze upwards, unable to absorb it all. Tiny cracks in the line tempt the voyager to enter. Stunning landscapes greet you as you do. As you venture up higher and deeper into the mountain, you get the distinct feeling you are about to be swallowed up in a forbidden, mysterious, unexplored wilderness.  And you are left to wonder, which paths yield a successful and safe way through the mountains?  Which lead to disaster? 

It’s easy to tell now, with roads leading the way.  But I immediately tried to imagine just what the very first pioneers must have thought and said when they were in this exact same position.  I don’t know the colloquialism of the day back then, but I must believe that it was something very close to “WTF, what do we do now!”   I have a new found respect for these brave souls, and can only partially imagine what they went through.  Were they tough?  You betcha.  We can’t hold a candle to them.  Whenever we feel whiny and speak of our trials and tribulations, we should think of them, and know that our troubles are melted butter compared to what they experienced. 

Oh, where am I, by the way?  Why, Denver, Colorado, of course. The blog title gives you the answer. This huge metropolitan area (depending on how one measures the “Denver area,” it now supports 2.6 million - 3.1 million souls) seems like some one just plopped it down in the middle of nowhere.  My theory is that the first weary pioneer to reach the site of this future city took one look at the mountains and said, “OK, this’ll do,” and promptly built himself a cabin. Trip over.  

Closer to the truth is a blend of opportunity and human tendency.  Denver was first “settled” in 1858, as a mining town, a product of the feverish gold rush.  The original settlement was at the confluence of the South Platte River and Cherry Creek, across the waters from the old seasonal encampments of the Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes.  Gold was the fuel, and water the life source, that brought people to this spot. Today, that same area is the site of Confluence Park in downtown Denver.

Denver is a clean city, and offers much in the way of entertainment, culture, food, arts, and sports.  Within sight of Confluence Park and downtown Denver, Peyton Manning flings spheroids through the rarefied air for the sum of 18 million a year - plus change, all in U.S. dollars.  Oh yeah, Denver also has money, and beer, thanks to one Adolph Coors, who got thirsty in this town back in 1873 and decided pure mountain water would make for a great brew. Today, their brewery facility in Golden, CO (right on Denver’s hip, heading west) is the largest in the world.  That’s a lotta suds! You can literally smell the brewing process before you can see the brewery.

And by the way, the official elevation for Denver is exactly 5,280 ft. – one mile, hence the name the “mile high city.” There’s a medallion to mark the spot.  My favorite part of the Denver area has to be the 850 miles (yup, that’s what they told me) in the bike/walk trail system, using the Cherry Creek Trail and the Platte River Trail as a primary starting place. Talk about your riverwalk!  Before this, I thought the one in San Antonio was the nicest I’ve seen, but this one will be hard to beat.   So many miles to bike!  If there is a heaven, this is where it hides.  It is also a very friendly city.  I did not meet one person who didn’t make an extra effort to be hospitable to this stranger.  And another plus - I never encountered “rocky mountain oysters,” so I was spared the necessity to politely decline this local delicacy.  There is a God. 

I saw but a small fraction of this magnificent community, as my stay was all too brief.  But my friends and I did put a wee dent in seeing all that the greater Denver area offers travelers. Denver is a place I liked immensely, and one I would love to visit again, and again.  Hey, they get 300 days of sunshine a year.  Syracuse gets only 161 days when the sun at least peeks in on us.  No wonder people are always smiling in Denver.  And I was one of them. 

Mark Twain Quote:  “A mine is a hole in the ground owned by a liar.”

Mr. President

While in Denver recently, I viewed a portion of the second Presidential debate with my hosts and some of their friends and relatives. 

My hosts, I should mention at this juncture, are African-Americans.  I had always thought  John and Angela were born in this country, but learned on my visit that they were born and raised in Sierra Leone, emigrating to this country for an education, a career, and a better life.  There will be more on them in an upcoming post.

We spent a day touring Ft. Carson and Manitou Springs, a delightful little town replete with inns, restaurants, and shops.  It reminded me of Old Forge, NY on a higher and grander scale-western style.  We visited a scenic park called “The Garden of the Gods.” You’d have to see it, I can not do it justice. 

This tour was courtesy of a Sgt. in the US Army stationed at Ft. Carson, who was a relative of my friends.  He had just come off duty and was due back at work early the next morning, yet he took hours of his precious time to guide us around. By the end of the day, I could easily see the pride this man took in his job, in the Army, and in his country.  And it was then, after our tour had ended, that I also learned he is a Muslim. Lesson noted.

We were invited to dinner at another relative’s home at Ft. Carson.  Dinner over, everyone, adults and children, settled around the television, all in preparation for the debate between The President and Gov. Romney.  As the debate started, there was no sound to be heard.  If little pins were dropped, you would had heard them clearly. 

I often wondered, what do persons of African –American descent really think of Obama? Largely silent, they invite speculation. Do they see him as just another person, another politician, another President?  For some, perhaps.  But for most, I thought they probably looked up to him in a special way because he is the first African-American to hold this high office.  They had every right to boast, yet my limited observations over the years witnessed only a quietness, and I was left to assume that their pride was silently there. 

But on this night, in this place, with this assemblage, I could clearly observe and feel, something. With the children, just as much as the adults, it was the unwavering focus of their attention, the look in their faces, that I had never before witnessed. The feeling was palpable, and deep.

These people were experiencing emotions that I could not read.  I do believe that they saw the one person who carried all of them on his shoulders, someone who lifted them up, and truly elevated them all to a place they never before imagined, but it was more than that.  There was still something I was missing. And then it finally struck me, that perhaps, just maybe, they had one more mountain to climb.

Reflecting on this, I did see in the higher calling of our nature, a reason for one to ruminate over for the re-election of the President, for reasons having nothing to do with politics, but everything to do with fulfillment, and history. 

The second term.  The United States of America, led by a black man, not just for one term, but for the full allotment given by law. I think that was the concern, hope, fear, and fervent desire that was present in that room.

This country had at long last broken the invisible barrier and elected a person of color, a minority if you will, to steer every man, woman, and child through the uncharted waters before us. Would it think enough of him to do it again?  Would it have the same unwavering faith so ingrained in the children and adults in this room? And ultimately, would it trust, not once, but twice, the leadership of this great nation to a black man?  Or would it reject that person, and on a higher level, that premise, to cast a shadow into the years to come?

In my admittedly limited world view, I thought that as a nation we had crossed that bridge, but that night in their faces I saw that there was still an unturned page. For these good folks, I think “the second term” would be the ultimate validation that this nation had finally reached the mountaintop.

Now, go vote on Tuesday, no matter your politics.  You owe it to both candidates.  You owe it to the future.

(PS.... for those who are repeat offenders, you will see some changes in this post, thanks to my ever vigilant editor. The principal one obliquely referenced the electoral college process, which really did not belong here, and deserves a separate post.  Others were simply improvements needed ... as Mark Twain said, more than once, the time to begin writing an article is when you have finished it to your satisfaction!

Mark Twain Quote:  “If we would learn what the human really is at bottom, we need only observe it in election times.”