One's attempt at an autobiographical sketch says two things about him; first, he is endowed with more than an adequate measure of ego and secondly, he is probably running out of constructive things to do. There may also be a third reason for such reprehensible conduct and that is that he has attained the unequivocal, where zest has turned to dove; thus he resorts to the creation of a soap opera utilizing the irrepressible ego as the centralizing theme.
Nostalgia is a pleasantry for all those who have survived more than one change in lifestyle. What is better during the idle hours than to turn off the constructive, logical and creative portions of the cerebellum and allow the memory banks to recreate the scenes of times gone by as they are etched in the mass of nerve ends we call a brain.
Now there has been, from time to time, serious question as to whether those nerve ends cradled in the bucket I carry on my shoulders really adequately performed the desired and assigned function, and as you peruse the attached, you will understand why such questions arose. Now if I can only prevent anyone from using the results of any EEG, I may escape the final determination. As Mr. Lincoln is supposed to have said, "It's better to have people believe you are a fool
than to open your mouth and prove it". Well, as you continue to read, maybe an EEG won't be necessary after all.
I guess the reason for this, after own amazement and amusement, is to leave a record, for me primarily, when memory fades. I have in my possession a letter written by my great grandfather, I believe, in German and I have a copy of a letter written by Merle Hershey after he was shot down over Japan in World War II. These things become nice to have, like a yearbook or photo album. I never took many pictures and many I had have disappeared in a dissolution action, so the next best is to write it.
Will it ever be done? Probably not, probably won't ever be typed, but then its for me anyway; or anyone with idle time.
There are some heroes here. There are same not so heroic, some malice and some kindness, despair and hope. There is little worthy of posterior remembrance but if value exists to those interested, it may be that there is in every life, this one included, the capability of success and of failure, of proper evaluation and stupid mistakes, of smiles and . . . . .
Now there I go, lapsing into philosophy and never even took the subject. That is what comes from reading Omar Kayaam.
"From out of the past come the thundering hoof beats of the great horse Silver, the Lone Ranger . . . .Oh hell !