We were young and brave, weary of the win-proof war that divided our nation and lingered on, refusing to quit. From the middle of the middle of a generation, we were culled from a socialization of boys in the fifties and sixties when patriotism, a simpler-era behavioral manifestation now derided as “Murica,” was inherent, natural, and prevalent. We all wanted to fly. Forty years is long enough for an instance of reflection. It’s exactly that time-distance this week from the moment I arrived in Pensacola, Continue reading →
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