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Peter Lewis Reads "Gaining Perspective Among the Bluets"

From Audio: TDSP 2-3: Gaining Perspective Among the Bluets

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station description If you’re a dad (old or young), have a dad, are married to a dad, or just know a da... read more
‎The Dad Story Project
Duration: 05:43
Peter Lewis, host of The Dad Story Project, relays a deep connection he shared with a man he had never met while reading his story "Gaining Perspective Among the Bluets."
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Peter Lewis, host of The Dad Story Project, relays a deep connection he shared with a man he had never met while reading his story "Gaining Perspective Among the Bluets."
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today's story is titled gaining perspective among the blue. It's Mhm. Yeah. Mhm. Spring is the time for love. They say. Birds sang, flowers, bloom horses run and leap peepers peep in the wet places and couples hold hands without gloves. All is fresh and new again renewed and expectant. A hillside of flashing blue. It's the first wildflowers of May here in Maine Drew my eye as I drove home one fine spring day along a winding country road. So I pulled over and turned off my engine. I found myself in front of an old cemetery and I got out to wander and breathe the new sweet air and take a few moments just to pause. Life had seemed frantic lately and I needed to stretch my legs and clear my head. Their padding along. In the silence of this place, I began to hear echoes, echoes of the stories of families spoken between the rows of old granite headstones, echoes of struggle and success, love and loss of determination, hard work and sacrifice. The entirety of each single life chiseled in a simple dash between dates. The dates alone told the stories The honor of a 19 Year old man dying in 1864. So all men could be free the sadness of Children too Weak to withstand the influenza epidemic of 1918. Yeah. The tears for a father who went to France in 1944 but did not come home the joy of a january Birth in 1900 at the cusp of a new century and a beautiful mystery of a couple together for 60 years. There were flags and wreaths and metals and plastic flowers and words of tenderness and faith. And between them all the tiny blue it's bloomed. I walked carefully with my hat in my hand. At the very back of the cemetery, at the crest of a small hill framed by a tumbled stone wall and under a procession of towering pines stood a line of the very oldest stones. The ground was shaded and soft, carpeted in cool moss and wintergreen and pine needles. Two plain granite monuments, tall, thin, spare new England rectangles stood side by side, weathered and worn and etched with spreading green liken. I stopped. The knelt then read Samuel and Sarah, husband and wife. A line of four smaller stones stood next to them, stretching north. Their sons and daughters. None of the Children lived past 10. Two Sons died, one June, their first names chiseled simply into the same chunk of rock, one just above the other. A daughter, Hannah Died six months later. On the day before Christmas wife Sarah and her youngest daughter died a few years later together on the same day the tiny girl was born. Samuel stayed on and toiled and lives for another four decades alone. I imagined him coming here each spring through those long decades to straighten the stones, tears in his eyes. I stared at the granite and the names and the dashes and the dates and the blue it screw around me and their blossoms nodded in the breeze. Cemeteries have a way of putting things in perspective. I began to think of this man in front of me, Samuel of how he lived and of all he loved and lost in comparison. My troubles of today seemed so petty. Yes, life is but a dash from here to there. But we so often fill it with stuff that doesn't really matter. We worry too often and we presume too much. We expect our water to run and our homes to get warm. When we spin the dial, we have antibiotics and the weather channel and instant messaging. We live almost without care or worry and we assume each of our Children will live to adulthood and thrive. As I stood and watched the single line of headstones, I realized that spring is not the only time for love. That through all the seasons and all the years and decades, even after heartache and great loss, love can still go on and on. Samuel. Help me put this all in perspective for all the stones of his family stood perfectly straight in the earth except for his, which leaned slightly and gently toward the others. Yeah.
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