Diary picked up from the battlefield at Shiloh by a friend's Great-Great-Grandfather, then carried on though his imprisonment at Ft. Warren, for the rest of the War. Autographed by many fellow prisoners, and still treasured by the family.
Reading other folks’ blogs reminds me every day how my life has been enhanced, my spirits lifted, my experiences swelled in number and in diversity , like rich fabric enhanced by the strange skeins and colors and stitches of many gifted hands. Each day my mind and eyes are filled with beautiful and creative and scenic and majestic and precious views of places and things, and especially of people I'll never see save for in my thoughts and imagination.
Think of how the whole world looks on---captivated, in awe of a single diary scribed by hands now still, or a little notebook of centuries ago, written in a long-forgotten hand, or even those little notations beneath pictures in those big ole flappy black-paged scrapbooks with the pointy-cornered Kodak moments of times and occasions and folks remembered by fewer as the days go on.
What if THEY had had this magical medium, to send out thoughts at the click of a finger, leaving behind reams instead of close-scripted, blotted pages in one small journal. An ancestor settling our country, a pioneer matron who trudged with mixed weariness and hope beside those creaking wheels all the way to
or the folks-left-home awaiting word as the Wars claimed more and more folks
Imagine our joy at such remembrances of folks we've lost to time, and multiply by the joy we now have in all the people we'd never have met, and probably never will touch, in having such a diary of our own bygone days. In some ways, it's better than a Transporter.
Next week marks Five Years since I sent out my first post on here, and there's still an awe and mystery to the sending and the receiving, the cause and the effect. I'm just thinking about all my blessings today, I think, and you're high on the list, Dear Friends.