Thursday, October 23, 2008


There's a poem about trees and there are poems about winter; there's poetry about whose woods they were and answers about strange thoughts on the darkest day of the year, but this photo says it all. If only Frost could have seen this scene. Robert Frost. How do I know he hasn't seen this, the way the snow fell on the evergreen, the path where a neighbor passed by and then passed away in late afternoon. The wonder of the winter then, the way the winters since have been, those footprints long ago, melted and forgotten by most everyone but his son. It was a winter of long ago, one nobody recalls, like most winters. Winters are never remembered the way the springs are. The footprints are best lost in the winter snows. Did he know there would be no more springs in store for him? By R.L.Huffstutter

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My dad's dad, my grandfather, was nine years old when President Lincoln died from an assassin's bullet. Most people think I am speaking of my GREAT GRANDFATHER. NO, I am referring to my dad's father, my paternal Grandfather, Robert Levi Huffstutter, born in 1856. What does this information have to do with my profile? It might help the reader understand that I have a sense of being much older than I am in that only one generation seperates me from President Lincoln. This causes me to respond differently to society and many current events. In many respects, this is to my benefit, in other respects it dates my mindset. Perhaps this is the reason I value the moral standards and idealogies of older Americans, the men who were the soldiers and sailors I saw when I was a small boy,the men and women who fought a war for freedom without any doubts posted by a media with a questionable lack of national unity and purpose.