Hometown Heroes

Posted on November 11, 2025 by Cindy Blackstock

I live in a small town. Banners decorate the street lights downtown showing veterans in uniform and a notation of when they served. I have never looked into participating in the program as it is my understanding that the locale where the banner is hung is within the hometown of the veteran. As I have shared several times, my father was career Navy. What I might not have shared is that he was born in a very rural area where there are still no street lights or sidewalks. Fortunately, my father is enrolled in the US Navy Memorial in Washington DC. When it was established, he took pride in knowing his time in service would be immortalized. His picture is there, in uniform, smiling for prosperity.

Again, living in a small town doesn’t always give one the opportunity to appreciate the information that is shared on the banners. There are few street lights here and I don’t often have the opportunity to stop at a red light and take in the name and timeframe of service. The subtext varies, but many of them note the individual was missing in action or killed in action. It is hard to believe that a small town could have made so many sacrifices.

Today may be observed as Veteran’s Day but the sacrifice made by our brave service members is something that we should carry with us for more than just one day. I look at those pictures, frozen in time, and think about those same individuals walking down these very same streets. Their clothing may have been different but I imagine their dreams were much the same as ours. For some those dreams were transformed to a greater sacrifice that gives us the opportunity to comfortably walk down these same streets safely and securely.

I imagine the Hometown Heroes program will continue to flourish. I hope it does. It’s a wonderful way to pay tribute to those who served. Our gratitude may be nudged by those banners fluttering in the breeze but I hope that is not the only thing. I also hope that remembrance is a part of us always, and not just one day in November.

The Greatest Generation

Posted on November 9, 2025 by Cindy Blackstock

(It is not lost on me that Tuesday, November 11, is Veteran’s Day. I posted this blog over two years ago in lieu of Memorial Day. I have never forgotten the experience, nor the man, and felt strongly about sharing it again. I will pick up my figurative pen and post something more on Tuesday in honor of our veterans.)

An elderly man was pushing his shopping cart through the check out and I didn’t realize that I was blocking his exit. His white hair was neatly trimmed and combed into place. I noticed that although it was spring, he was wearing a flannel shirt. It looked as if the tags had recently been removed as it appeared new. Work pants completed his outfit. His cart contained two boxes of Cheerios and a bag. He politely let me know that he was trying to move around me and I stepped to the side. With a smile I asked him if he had a license to operate his shopping cart.

What I thought was a humorous passing comment opened a conversation that I didn’t anticipate. Not knowing if he misunderstood my remark, he chose to tell me that he was 99 years old and has been able to maintain his driver’s license. I didn’t get a sense that he said it in a condescending way but rather with understated pride. I could see that he was someone that didn’t take his independence for granted.

Although I have played our conversation over in my head several times, I am still unable to remember how he introduced the fact that he was a veteran of WWII. He was an infantry soldier and it has left a mark on him that is evident to this day. Ironically, he was soft spoken, yet his words suggested that during those years he experienced hell on earth. He spoke of the heat and the bugs and how collectively it had played havoc on their health. There was no relief at night as they slept on the ground and the morning dampness only added to the damage to their skin. However harsh the environment might have been, it played only a small part of what they contended with regularly. His battalion saw heavy fighting and heavy losses. With pride he shared that there was a monument erected as a result of their service.

If he shared the particular information identifying his battalion or the actual location where he fought, I don’t recall. I do feel I heard what was important. Here was a man who selflessly put his life on the line for what he believed. I had been given the perception that he questions why he was able to survive when so many others didn’t. He has done more than survive as he anticipates celebrating his 100^th birthday by the end of summer. He has had many years to reflect upon his life and what his purpose might have been as he made his way on this journey. After our conversation came to an end he smiled and said he was going home to read his Bible.

I don’t know who this man is and I am certain I will never see him again. I know nothing of him other than what he chose to share. I have no name to identify him and no way to congratulate him on his anticipated 100^th birthday. He could say the same of me. Yet the universe felt it was necessary for our paths to cross. An elderly man was able to share a part of his life that was traumatic yet deemed necessary. Although I was a receptive audience, I look at myself and wonder what the purpose might have been.

It might be natural to think of the greatest generation during this Memorial Day weekend. How many of that population never had the opportunity to grow old? They experienced the Depression and made it through to the other side. They did their part in the sky, on land and sea. For those not serving, they kept the home fires burning with ration books in hand. They raised families where many of their offspring let their hair grow and questioned the necessity of war. Yet this resilient group of people continued to move forward. Every day their numbers dwindle and their lives full of service and sacrifice go with them. I felt like I was given a gift to have a window into this stranger’s life. By accepting this gift I feel I must pay it forward. I chose to make payment by honoring this individual, those like him, and most importantly, those who gave their lives. This blog doesn’t scratch the surface of recompense for their sacrifice but it comes with a profound sincerity.

See You, Hubbell

Posted on September 29, 2025 by Cindy Blackstock

Lately I have noticed that entertainers that I grew up watching and listening to, are making their transition. Their names catch my attention and depending on my attachment I usually let out a slight gasp or sigh. The level of my connection usually matches the level of my vocalization, never anything loud or close to a shriek. I can’t think of anyone, outside my family and friends, whose death would truly impact me. That being said, when we lose entertainers in the future, the like of Alan Alda or Elton John, I will bemoan the loss of their talented offerings. I will remember the years of enjoyment they gave me. That is much of what I felt with the recent loss of Robert Redford. Although he was up in years, he like the others, appeared immortal to me.

I mentioned in a previous blog that I recently joined with my former classmates for a reunion. It was a landmark occasion and it has been decades since we gathered to accept our diplomas and embarked upon our adult adventures. We shared stories and laughter over the weekend. I was surprised that Robert Redford was highlighted in a few of these stories. I’m not proud but will admit we would regularly sneak into the drive in theater. We would maneuver through a farmer’s field, adjacent to the theater’s lot. I can remember going that route to see The Way We Were more times than I could count. It was worth it to see Robert Redford on the big screen. The farmer became wise to our bad habit and one night he sprang up out of his crops and pointed a rifle at us. I was just happy it came after the run of The Way We Were was complete.

That was not the only exposure we had to Robert Redford. In our senior year we traveled to New York City for a conference. Although our school won an award, none of us were present to accept it. We were making merry in the Big Apple. One of the most outstanding memories was the night we crashed the premier of the Great Waldo Pepper. What possessed us as unruly teenagers to walk into a New York theater as a premier showing was letting out, is beyond me. It net us quite the reward for being so brash. We found ourselves up close and personal with Robert Redford, Paul Newman and John Denver. Seared into my memory is how Redford flashed that famous and charming smile. So much time has passed that all three of the celebrities are now gone yet at the time of our reunion we would still have Redford for three more days.

I offer this as a remembrance of a talented individual and how I had the good fortune to have a brief experience when my life intersected with his. He doesn’t need my accolades yet in his lifetime he realized he was in a position to make contributions to aid others. Redford initiated the Sundance Film Festival to give those lesser-known film artisans an opportunity to explore and highlight their talent. Why not follow his lead? Maybe we can offer brightness and optimism to others not by Sundance but by Dancing in the Sun. It can be our way of lifting others by acknowledging them and offering praise. It won’t cost us a thing other than taking the time to share a positive thought. It would be a wonderful habit to establish. There will be no awards and no one will look at us and say we remind them of Robert Redford. Wouldn’t it be wonderful though, at the end of our lives, we could smile and say that was The Way We Were?

Reunion

Posted on September 14, 2025 by Cindy Blackstock

As a blogger, I consider myself fortunate that inspiration comes easily and in a timely manner. I knew this week I would be focusing on my class reunion. What I didn’t know is what emotions would be elicited after seeing my former classmates. Decades have passed since we embarked on our own personal journeys and our paths were different from one another. I have admitted to initially being a cynic where reunions were concerned. For the longest time I felt our connection was random due to being the same age and having parents with a desire to have us attend parochial school. I couldn’t imagine what else would have brought us together. Now that I have a bounty of life experience under my belt, I appreciate that what I thought was random was actually a collective of those with whom I have a shared history.

Our gatherings this weekend were evidence that our conversations reflected our current status in life and we have not been stagnant. Years ago we spoke of higher education and opportunities. With the addition of years, we shared news of our profession, marriage and children. It is not an exaggeration to note that the greater portion of our lives is behind us. Now we speak of retirement and those who proudly wear the title of grandparent. There was such a sense of joy to be in one another’s company. No competition, no cliques, nothing but cohesion and acceptance carried us. Time has not tarnished our relationships and it was so easy to share conversation and memories.

There appeared to be an overriding opinion, spoken by many. We were fortunate to live safely in our little communities, untouched by danger and unrest. Even though the world was facing difficult times, we felt privileged to grow up where and when we did. Although somewhat naïve, we might not have recognized that there were some classmates that were challenged by issues at home. At the time we weren’t aware and if we were, I doubt we would have had resources to offer support. Everyone put on a brave face and met life with a belief that faith would safely bring us through it. Constantly reminded of the golden rule it would take years to take it to heart and develop a profound sense of empathy. Being in the company of my classmates proved that they have not only acquired empathy but admirable traits and personalities.

After all these years we made up for lost time in a period of two evenings. Laughter ensued as memories were shared and stories repeated. We recalled the times we pushed the envelope, and reveled in our immortality. We recognized the loss of classmates who were not as fortunate to enjoy a long life. The loss of parents and some siblings have become the norm. How will we choose to honor our connection in the future? I have the sense that those students, who once wore uniforms and walked silently in double file, will choose to continue to figuratively walk with one another. The scenery looks different than it did as angst filled teenagers but the unity we enjoy will help guide us through the next stages. Who better to understand than one with a shared history?

Cheated

Posted on September 8, 2025 by Cindy Blackstock

I believe in life after death. I don’t share that to impose my beliefs upon anyone. I do so to explain the basis of this blog and why, after a certain experience, I felt cheated. I believe in eternity and that life goes on in an energetic or soul-based way. I know for certain this is the result of being raised in a Christian home. In my case, the veil has always been thin and I know the presence of loved ones, those who have gone before, are not far removed.

I have had procedures and operations that had me flex my faith muscles and pray that I would be healthier when coming out on the other side. Never did I expect a routine examination to bring me close to crossing the line. There was a time that I hadn’t been feeling well and a friend offered to drive me to an appointment. The facility wasn’t close and I was grateful that I didn’t need to deal with the distance and traffic. Upon our arrival I left her behind in the waiting room and made my way to an examination room. I don’t recall exactly but I am sure I shared my recent health concerns with the doctor. At some point during the examination, I see darkness enveloping me and the room. Before all this darkness beset me, I faintly remember hearing the doctor ask me if I was okay. Without warning I went into sudden cardiac arrest.

While I was under, the doctor frantically called for a crash cart. He was new to this location and didn’t know where this equipment was kept. He began chest compressions on me to keep my blood circulating. My friend, still sitting in the waiting room, was aware that an emergency was taking place down the hall. In her wildest imagination she could not have envisioned that I was the one causing the commotion. The steps that were taken were successful. My heart beat was restored and I regained consciousness. As I opened my eyes, I was surrounded by a group of people that were not there when the darkness enveloped me. I felt stunned and awkward. I was informed of the events that took place and the group of people, staring at me so intently, soon dissipated.

Once totally revived I was given time to recover and become more alert. As time passed, I began to wonder if my episode could be considered a near death experience. It saddens me to think that my encounter only offered me a solo trip into darkness. My parents weren’t there to tell me I had to go back, there was no bright light, and there was no out of body experience. I felt cheated. Where was the warmth and love others have expressed upon their return? I do not have a death wish and am grateful that my cardiac arrest was reversed and I didn’t suffer any lingering effects. Still, I wonder. Did I not meet some critical threshold that would determine if I had almost died. I don’t want to think, when the reality of death should occur, that it brings a dark void. It goes against everything I have ever believed. Maybe this was not a test run and possibly my feeling of being cheated is misplaced. I don’t want to tempt fate and feel it is wise to leave this to be continued, hopefully far into the future.

Chocolate Peanut Butter

Posted on August 24, 2025 by Cindy Blackstock

My friend and I had stopped at a local coffeehouse for lunch some time ago. The location was named for the trainline that ran through town. The atmosphere there is warm and inviting. An old house was converted to become one of the town’s newest eateries. If you are fortunate, while dining, you can experience the train traveling at a high rate of speed almost within arm’s reach. That particular afternoon we chose reasonably healthy meals. Before we left, mainly out of curiosity, we checked out the dessert menu and witnessed the most fabulous creation of baked delights: chocolate peanut butter cake.

The description of this cake demands a paragraph all its own. First, the cake was more of a layered torte. It was cut to the size of a graham cracker, although much thicker. Upon the first layer of cake a decadent filling of peanut butter was piped in a swirling fashion. This was capped with another layer of cake and peanut butter, until there were a total of three layers of cake. Upon witnessing this dessert offering it was no longer the train ringing in my ears, but rather the ethereal voice of angels. Yes, as cliché as it seems, it truly appeared to be a heavenly feast. At that time the feast was for our eyes alone, but a plan was hatched.

I have always considered chocolate peanut butter the best mood altering substance. It can be candy, it can be cake, it can be ice cream, it really doesn’t matter. It simply has to be a combination of chocolate and peanut butter. Although my thighs think it should be outlawed I feel pleased that my vice is not illegal. Knowing that the coffeehouse has such a fine example of dessert I knew it would not be long until there would be a rationalized excuse to consume a piece. We agreed, not only would there be a future order, but we would make it our meal. Gleefully we left the coffeehouse knowing that one day we would return to find a stacked confections of chocolate and peanut butter alongside steaming cups of coffee at our table.

That day arrived and we were seated just prior to lunch. Several of the tables were taken and no one took notice as our coffee was brought and our order was placed. The waitress was a bit concerned that the cake might still retain its chill from refrigeration. After all, she stated, no one has ever ordered the cake so early in the day. The chatter among the other diners was brought to a halt as two plates stacked with the sinful indulgence made its way to our table. The waitress, aware of the diner’s thoughts, announced that we were having dessert for lunch. Whispers were exchanged and heads turned. Those who followed the stride of the waitress settled on us with looks of both humor and envy. Our escape to find comfort among the calories did not go unnoticed. I suspect that our mission, so successful in our minds, might have a life of its own as others either recounted what they witnessed or chose to one day follow in our footsteps.

As we left the coffeehouse the sky opened and the drizzle turned to rain. With our goal met we understood that the issues in life would remain but our diversion was helpful. Our lips found it just a bit easier to curve into a smile and laugh at the world with the remnant of that cake upon them.

Iron Man and Rusty Tears

Posted on August 11, 2025 by Cindy Blackstock

Those who have been fans of Ozzy Osbourne might recognize the title of a Black Sabbath song and make the assumption that this blog is a tribute. That could easily be a misconception as I was never a fan of Ozzy’s. Heavy metal, head bangers and biting bats never had a place in my life. As a teenager, behind my bedroom door, my orange stereo with the polka dot speakers would play a more mellow genre of music. I think my brothers might have thought about planning an intervention to lessen the grip of Elton John and have me give equal time to some of my other favorites. Without admitting it, my brothers’ constant guitar riffs might have been a way to drown out my selections. Again, Ozzy was never found among my choice of James Taylor, Carole King and the harmony of America. So now, upon his death, why do I find myself crying?

The media has been inundated with Ozzy’s life story. Unless you have been living under a rock, there has been no way to miss the good, the bad and the ugly. He has led a life of extremes. He is not the only one who has fallen down as a result of addiction and infidelity. His language was salty enough to make a sailor blush. Yet when others have walked these paths, they are not the fodder of major news stories. Ozzy’s mistakes were made on the world stage and the admissions he made were just as large. What I missed by avoiding his music and reality show was the man behind the entertainer. It turns out the Prince of Darkness was actually a generous and loving family man. He especially relished time spent with his children and grandchildren. Is the Osbourne family unique? In many ways, yes. Who among us find cameras following our every movement? I am certain there is no one in my circle who boasts the same balance in their bank accounts. Yet, even as a proverbial rock star, he appears to have been very human.

I have been wondering why I, so new to all this information, have had such a strong reaction to his death. I sobbed as I watched the family make their way to Black Sabbath Bridge. Their pain and loss was so clearly evident in their countenance that I believe anyone would be hard pressed not to be moved. Seeing this video repeated several times over brought the same reaction. I had an overwhelming feeling that my tears had been stashed away, lying in wait for the appropriate time.

Tears bring us into this world. A mother excitedly waits to hear that first cry. Childhood tears can be the result of skinned knees. Those that might make themselves present during the teen years can express hurt feelings from not being accepted by a certain social group or maybe a fleeting first love. Adult tears may be produced from an entirely profound depth. The tears I found coming so easily to the surface due to Ozzy’s death were unexpected but still profound. It’s as if they were rusty, returning to the surface deep from the well. There are those, like Ozzy, who leave something tangible behind for the world. That is countered by the reality that fame and money can’t buy you health or a longer life. Then there are the rest of us who were also given the precious gift of life, whose lives might not be as grand but are every much as important. Life is fleeting and there comes a time when do-overs become rare. If I have learned anything from Ozzy’s transition is the importance of doing what you love. Now is the time. With this knowledge I will wipe my tears and instead give a salute to Ozzy and be a Dreamer going through Changes.

Also Known As

Posted on June 15, 2025 by Cindy Blackstock

With the Father’s Day celebrations taking place today I am reminded that it has been 35 years since my father was here to enjoy them. Although I was an adult when he left us and made his transition, I will always feel like I was robbed. When thinking of him, I realize that it’s the little things, so often forgotten, that continue to put a smile on my face.

My father had two careers where he wore a uniform daily: the US Navy and that of a correctional officer at a local prison. He never held a position in law enforcement proper and I shudder to think what might have happened if he had. He had a propensity for giving nicknames to those around him and I am afraid to think of how an All-Points Bulletin might have read if he were given the opportunity to pen one. Criminals would have donned new and distinctive aliases.

His ability to produce unique monikers came to him honestly. His father, Newton Levigger, answered to the name Pat. If there was a story behind the origin of his nickname, my grandfather took it to the grave with him. His sons, my father and his brothers, followed suit by giving each other animal names. My father was named Rooster as his hair was said to resemble the comb sported by the fowl. No photographs exist from his youth so I rely on my imagination to picture his curly hair standing at attention. I am relieved that neither the name nor the hair style remained. My one uncle was not as fortunate and he carried his name throughout his life. I never thought it odd that I had an Uncle Monk. I would have thought it strange if he had kept the full name of Monkey but apparently his nickname was given a nickname.

It is not unusual for a couple to have pet names for one another. I can still hear my father’s lingering southern accent refer to my mother as Sug, short for sugar, of course. Within our home my mother was not the only one to answer to something other than her given name. I bore the name Miss Priss while my youngest brother was referred to as Hambone. No one was safe from my father’s creativity as my brother’s friend, Jeb, would be greeted upon arrival with a boisterous “Jethro”.

You may wonder at this point if my father, whose flair with nicknames was so prolific, had one himself. Indeed he did. As a young man enlisting in the Navy he became Blackie, a name he would carry with him his entire life. Other than his family, I don’t remember anyone calling him anything other than Blackie. His given name, Henon, was unusual and often mispronounced. My mother, in humor, would call him He – non occasionally, but the usual was Blackie.

Although given this fine example from my father, the names bestowed upon my son were seriously lacking in many ways. Once, while on vacation, we saw a bounty of Milkweed plants. His father and I kiddingly began calling him Milkweed. It was a name that made him, as a teenager, cringe upon hearing it. It has become more of a joke and now brings a smile as opposed to a grimace. There is nothing I can create that rivals the name my father often called my son. It was never meant to offend and was spoken as an endearment. Since my father has been dead for over three decades no one since has uttered the nickname conferred upon my son and it might be for his benefit. I doubt seriously he would want the name Shit Bird to follow him through eternity.

When Dad Speaks

Posted on May 18, 2025 by Cindy Blackstock

My father has been gone for more than half my life. Every so often my mind wonders what it would have been like to have had him remain longer in our lives. My thoughts don’t allow me to have him age although in reality he would have hit the 100 year old mark by now. In my imagination he would still be able to perform those handy man tasks that were common place. More importantly, I could ask him questions about our family or his youth, things I wasn’t prepared to ask earlier in my life. Once again, I could hear the soft southern accent that he never lost.

Years ago, when traveling to New Orleans, my father came to me in a dream. I recall he was wearing his dress blue Naval uniform and we were at the mobile home where we had spent a summer. We were there only temporarily as he was recruiting in a town far removed from where we called home. At some point in my dream, I became aware that death had robbed me of his presence and I clung to him. With tears in my eyes, I begged him not to go. I soon woke up and realized I was sitting upright in bed with my arms outstretched, tears still flowing. I could feel his arms around me. Although I was more than grateful for the visit, I realized he didn’t speak. Comforted by his presence, I wanted more. I wanted to hear his voice.

I hadn’t given it much thought growing up, but I never heard my parents argue. My mother commented, after his death, he never raised his voice to her the entire time they were married. I am not so naïve to think that they didn’t argue but it wasn’t something that we heard. In reality there could be a deafening silence until things were settled. My mother was the main disciplinarian and you knew when she was angry with us. My father would remain even keeled when he was making a point, advising me when I had done something wrong. He would tell me what he thought and then finish his comment by saying, “you know”. His simple comment would have a devasting affect on me. I felt so very small. I did know, I knew not to repeat the transgression.

Very often, as I share my thoughts in these missives, I don’t hesitate to reveal what lesson I might have learned along the way. With the advent of technology, we now have the capability to record the unusual and exciting to the mundane. I wish I had the opportunity to record some of the ordinary things that my father would say to me. Would I have had the foresight to record him when he would ask me to put my pinky in his glass of ice tea, just to sweeten it a bit? Would I have known that I would miss his rendition of the Shake and Bake commercial when the little girl would say, with a very pronounced southern accent, “And I helped!” I continue to feel the love and the longing for my father and I wish I could have preserved his voice. I would love to hear Dad speak one more time. You know?

A Thought on Mother’s Day

Posted on May 11, 2025 by Cindy Blackstock

Mom,

You have been gone for several years now, but that hasn’t lessened the love I continue to feel for you. I can hear your voice in my head, recalling the many lessons you have imparted during my life. You always made me feel that I exceeded the dreams you held for me. I also am cognizant of the worry I caused you. Your concern over the sacrifices that came with being a Navy wife, walking through burnt out buildings with the Red Cross and living solo as a divorced woman. All these life experiences were possible because you taught me to have faith, both in a higher power and also myself.

Although many celebrate today with flowers and other tokens of love, I have no reason to fall victim to the commercial trappings of the day. I can celebrate with my heart and head. I know you are there to receive the thoughts and love I send your way. I will embrace the tangible reminders of you by looking in the mirror and seeing your face, cooking without the benefit a recipe or humming a familiar tune. For nine months you carried me and then continued with support and comfort, always with love. I will continue to carry you with me, in my heart, until the end of my life.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Love, Cindy

Harvesting Life

Grateful for Every Step of the Journey

Category Archives: Memories