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Kymberlie Ingalls is native to the Bay Area in California. She is a pioneer in blogging, having self-published online since 1997. Her style is loose, experimental, and a journey in stream of consciousness. Works include personal essay, prose, short fictional stories, and a memoir in progress. Thank you for taking a moment of your time to visit. Beware of the occasional falling opinions. For editing services: http://www.rainfallpress.com/

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Remembrance Of Hope

There is something to be said for the open road on a quiet, starry night when the winds whisper and the radio serenades me. 

Right now my husband and I are somewhere on the edge of Nevada and Utah as we embark on a much-needed trip to the homeland of cheese curds and football fanatics.  It’s Grandma’s 90th birthday and it’ll be a fair family occasion.  Wisconsin is a beautiful change of scenery with its lakes and green woods. 

Many are asking why we elected to drive rather than fly.  One friend understood, lamenting that he loved the drive home to the south when he visits, but also likes the idea of arriving in one afternoon on a plane.  Thankfully, Roger and I share a love of road trips, so the decision to drive even with the high price tag at the gas pump.  It’s an especially difficult decision as business owners to take the extra time, but watching my husband enjoy himself behind the wheel of our truck tells me it was the right thing to do. 

That, and he flat out refused to fly with me.  I tend to get a little uptight around planes, and this wasn’t the weekend to be getting into skirmishes with airport security. 

Our nation is in a horrible place today with its politics and economy, but we are still free to drive our broke asses across the country and take in every touristy sight along the way.  We are free to speak out about the injustices around us, free to spend our money foolishly while complaining about our government doing the very same.  We are free to support or rally against our military that has been at war since the nightmare that attacked New York City ten years ago in September. 

Yes, it really has been ten years.  The Kennedy assassination of my generation.  Waking to the news that would alter our freewheeling ways forever.  As with the Japanese and the African American races before them, Middle-Easterners became the new enemy to the American public right here on our own land – their home.  Families were ripped apart by death and enlisting soldiers; flags and yellow ribbons splashed across our nation in a sudden patriotic rainbow. 

We all came together as a family that day for those who died, and for those who survived. As all families have their dysfunction, we are in such a state now.  Wishes of peace, and of war, have separated us into battle camps here at home.  This mess we’re in is destroying us – it’s like being on a speeding train that’s going to derail and we have no means to stop it in time.  Sometimes I hear the screeching of the wheels on the steel rails in my sleep. 

Everything we have worked for has slowly died or withered away.  “Don’t let them win!” has been the battle cry, because the message of the 9/11 attacks was to hurt us financially.  Just like a Texan does, Cowboy George came riding in whooping and hollering, dropping bombs and our money along with them.  As God Bless The USA faded on the radio, and the economy began to tank, we turned on each other.  Now that Osama has gone down, the black guy in charge is back to being Public Enemy #1.

Where is that American bond now?  Where is the brotherly love that gave others hope on that day, the day when our skies were dark and our streets were drowned in destruction?

As the white lines blur past us in the night, I’ll be reflecting on what was lost that morning at summer’s twilight – parents, sons and daughters, hopes and dreams.  I’ll take photos of the factories, the corn fields, the hills, mountains and lakes and mostly I’ll be thankful that I have the freedom to write these words.  I don’t support war, nor do I support our involvement in the affairs of other countries, but our men and women are there whether I agree with the reason or not.  They are far from home and deserve my gratitude. 

Yes, there is something to be said for the open road on a quiet, starry night.

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