Roy’s Sunday Letter, July 24, 2022
* The last day of rain for DFW was June 3. Rain west, south, north, and east....but not here. Trees are suffering, losing leaves they cannot support. We are supporting the trees, plants, and bushes that have added beauty and color to our home as best possible. The drought in western states is severe, long-lasting. Climate Change is no longer a theory. Good for younger people for not accepting the passivity of our non-leaders.
** A report this week on the growth of boomers creating "boommates," as an economic way of meeting the ongoing increase of expenses of staying in their homes. A secondary plus is the benefit of having someone else in the home during the elder times of a spouse's death and adult children now with their own families and not living near. In new and creative ways we see the redefining of "family."
* A news panelist presented information in a way I had not heard before.
There are 120 guns in America for every 100 Americans.
Law enforcement, mental health, and schools are all seeking answers to the all too often school, mall, and random shootings by young white men. A young mom here said she does not go anywhere without a backup, an exit plan. We do know the brain's frontal lobe is the last to develop. The frontal lobe is where impulse control, judgement, empathy for others, and emotional expression are developed, usually completed about the age of 25. In the meantime white young men with guns will continue to kill children, elders, couples, and the innocent ones of our unsafe world.
** My latest story is titled, "I Can't Go Back To Starbucks," my writing is about a young woman who worked at Starbucks through college, but is now facing the difficulty of finding the right first job. The story opens with her at a Starbucks table, staring at an employment form. A mall walker, an older gentleman notices, on his 3rd mall lap,she is still at the table, staring down at a piece of paper. He says hello....her life changed. That's the story.
Finally, let's talk about dreams, everyone's dreams. Researchers, for two years, interviewed young and old, all gender, race, and social and economic standing. Whether that person, family, or group of persons dreams, and what they dream about is important in directing their life. In general, our 8 yr. old dreams are more fantasy than a high school senior applying to colleges. Younger families dream for their infant, different
Roy, whatever dreams I may have include Beth, always
My dreams this past year or so frequently include my parents with me as a family unit. My mom died in 1993, at the age of 84. My dad sadly chose to take his life in 1977, at the age of 67. In my dreams, they are in their 50’s or so…..healthy and happy. I am unaware of my age, except that I am an adult. They are sweet and loving dreams. Sometimes I wonder if they are preparing me for death when I believe I will see them once again. Other times I think I have them just as a way of nurturing myself because I always wake up after them feeling loved and nurtured. I also wake up sometimes still talking to them (out loud).
Roy, did I pay you for me to get a book? I thought that I did, but I may have just dreamed that too. If I did not do so, then please remind me what to do. Was Venmo one of my options…..and if not, how about a credit card? I remember that you explained all of this to me before. I just don’t remember what you said or if I did anything about it. Help!
Thank you and blessings to both of you. Beth was my high school friend.
Amy (Trail) Bullet
Great letter. Story is cool. Dreams are always offering insights if we are aware. Thank you for sharing your thoughts!
I am reading your book, one paragraph at a time, one page at a time. Slow sips. Delicious, Roy and Beth.
You’re creating quite a lovely community.
❤️🌻❤️🌻❤️🌻❤️🌻❤️🌻❤️🌻❤️🌻❤️🌻❤️
I’m trying to think about how to tell the story of my father returning to his parents’ home in Pueblo, Colorado at the end of WWII. He enlisted as a college student, age 19 (sophomore year). Trained in Tennessee. Went over to England on a leaky old Scottish boat called the Moormach Moon. Served as a non-combatent in a medical corps attached to Patton’s army. Awakened by artillary bombardment at the onset of the Battle of the Bulge at 3 am somewhere in the Ardennes. Fled down the street of a tiny town, carrying the med unit’s Smith Corona, with a German tiger tank in hot pursuit; he managed to evade the tank by jumping into someone’s cellar – immediately threw up, he was still a kid. Later that day he killed a German soldier in hand to hand combat. His weapon? A Bowie knife his mother had sent concealed in a care package, in violation of the Geneva Conventions. He dreamed of that his entire life, nightmares. Helped liberate a small concentration camp, more nightmares. When the war ended, he travelled by train across Europe, a ship from France or England (I don’t know) to New York and then cross-country trains home. In the early morning hours of some morning in 1945, he arrived by train in Pueblo. He walked home from the depot, it was too late for busses, arriving sometime in the wee hours of that forgotten morning. He rang his parents’ doorbell. Of course there’d been no way to let them know he was coming. Jubilant welcome.