Freebo's Blog

At age 67 I can't read my own handwriting anymore, so traditional letter writing is something I do not miss.   And my clumsy, tremulous, barely legible block printing is so laborious that I get bored before I finish a single post-it note for the fridge.  I am delighted that email (and blogs too, although I can live without the snarky shorthand of texting and Twitter) came along while my generation of Mesozoans is still lumbering around the planet, brittle joints greased by chondroitin.  In the last fifteen years or so, I have written a hundred times more than I had written in my first half century.  Sure, I freely admit that most or all of it has probably been balderdash...

 

The Centennial has resurrected all sorts of stories from the past, some nostalgic, some apocryphal, some ironic, some bittersweet.  Yet there is one that may never be surpassed for its poignancy.  It is the tale of the last day of Betty and Emil.  Some historians and old-timers in the town mention it as one of the saddest ones ever told.  I respectfully disagree.  To me, although I still weep at the memory of the deed, it was one of the bravest and most noble events in a long, long time...