Rose Mary Clarke’s Story Archive

What Time Is It?

Morning is when I’m awake and there is a dawn in me . . . To be awake is to be alive . . . We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn. — Henry David Thoreau, … Read More

July 4, 2017, Part 2

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! — William Wordsworth Oh dear! It seems as if Christmas were only a few weeks ago, and it’s already July 5 as I write this. There’s a trunk in … Read More

July 4, 2017

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d, As home his footsteps he hath turn’d, — William Wordsworth I’m bummed out by all the carping, sniping, finger-pointing, nit-picking, hype, and … Read More

Pages of Life

“Time is but a stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it, but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is.” —Henry David Thoreau    Walden Last week I wrote about turning flip-flops through time. The capacity that humans have of venturing into the … Read More

Turning Flipflops

I recently crossed that great divide between seventy and eighty years old. Seventy isn’t so bad. Some people even call it middle age. (Bet me!) It no longer has the distinction of great longevity because many people live into their nineties or reach one hundred. The last parent of the … Read More