There. I've pushed the door open....
Just a cool breeze silently brushing my face.
Hmmm.
Let's go.
Observation 1 ~ Humans love to tell their story.
The "why" to this is a puzzle of made of human psychology and a myriad of obvious pieces.
I won't attempt an answer. We'd have some agreements. Let's leave it at that.
THE STORY BEGINS ... in no general order.
Time is arbitrary in the end... and where one starts only matters to listener.
The storyteller lives in the tale that is at once now and all that has passed ... in the same moment.
. . . . . . .
I was born in 1951. Don't remember the experience. Probably just as well.
I was my mother's second child. Born with a place in the small hierarchy that favored me.
The rest of that story I will share later.
Today I decided to create a place to tell my story. The reason hidden in the flimsy shroud that encircles my consciousness.
Now recently found in the Philippines said to be from 40,000 years ago.
It appears there have been lots of stories over the past 400 decades. Using decades as a measure I think helps us understand the time past. Ten decades ago World War 1 was raging. Few still living remember that.
. . . . . . .
I'll be 7 decades old soon. (pause... breathe ...)
My mother was born on a farm in Washington State near Chehalis, on the southern border with Oregon. It was 1918. Her great-grandfather had brought his family west on the Oregon Trail, oxen pulled covered wagon. There are stories of encountering Indians and the hard journey.
They homesteaded. 1850's. Magilbra begat Benjamin begat Clinton begat Lois.
