Dear Reader,
It always seems perfectly clear to me what we’re doing here. But it may have been a while since I spelled it out in plain English, so I can’t blame you if you’re confused.
My friend Dan Blank advises writers to make sure we have our Key Messages honed. I think he means there ought to be some central tendency to what we write—that with which we ultimately are most concerned.
You may have noticed that this blog is titled “Reflections.” By this I mean these essays are not mere recitations of fact. Whatever the content may be, I have thought about it, at least a little bit, and now present to you my particular perspective on it. So these are truly reflections of my thought processes.
You may have noticed this blog is subtitled “Seeking fresh meanings from our common past.” By that I mean to suggest that I want to find out what we can learn from our history that may give us fresh outlooks in our present lives.
Everything grows out of something, Dear Reader. Nothing comes from nothing. To know where we have been, I submit, is to know our culture; and to know our culture is to know something big about ourselves.
When I first set up this website, almost six years ago, I tried to summarize these Key Messages, and the mission—if you will—of this blog by setting up a separate page titled “History—Who Cares?”
Recently I revised that little self-revelatory essay, deleted the special page it was on, and transferred it to the tab marked “Author,” which you can find at the head of this page. You could click on over there to read it, but just for this week I will save you the trouble and post the same essay below:
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The Past? Who Cares?
I care, that’s who.
My name is Larry F. Sommers.
My people are from Knoxville, a small town in Illinois. Two of my uncles died flying bombers to defeat the Axis Powers in the 1940s.
When my Grandma’s house was torn down in 1963, workers found under the siding boards a square-hewn timber cabin built by storekeeper John G. Sanburn in 1832. This cabin was restored to its frontier appearance and can be seen today on the Public Square in Knoxville.
I lived in Streator, Illinois, birthplace of astronomer Clyde Tombaugh, who discovered the planet Pluto . . . and of author Clarence Mulford, who created the cowboy character Hopalong Cassidy. As a boy I haunted the Streator Public Library—a lovely classical building donated by Andrew Carnegie—where I read science fiction by Lester Del Rey, Robert Heinlein, Isaac Asimov, and Arthur C. Clarke.
I was twelve in 1957 when Sputnik, the first man-made satellite, was launched. I mourned because the Russians had done what Americans were supposed to do.
I attended high school in Kenosha, Wisconsin. Our history teacher, Leo Gebhardt, was on a first-name basis with the Founding Fathers: “. . . and just then,” he would say, “when our new country needed its credit stabilized, who should come along? Your friend and mine . . . Alexander Hamilton.”
I lived through the Cuban Missile Crisis, the assassination of President Kennedy, and the Vietnam War. I have seen how such events can live on as skywritten myths, having a shaky attachment to facts.
In middle age, I became a Christian, coming into line with a 2,000-year tradition of saints, sinners, scholars, artists, musicians, and freedom fighters.
Our lives—ALL our lives—are part of history, and history is a part of our lives. That’s why I write.
T.S. Eliot wrote:
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
I want to go where we’ve been before, yet see it with fresh eyes. Why not come along?
Blessings,
Larry F. Sommers
Your New Favorite Writer
