My New Year’s resolution is to continue putting in my two cents, but not be surprised when I get back a nickel in change. SC 😉

Check out "Grandpa Shannon's NDE" (near death experience) on You Tube. ;)

We the people have been through a lot.

We the people have been through a lot. Sometimes it's difficult to remember, we’re all on the same side. We have a history together, and like it or not, we have a future together too.

We all want the same things. We want our family to be healthy and happy. We want a sense of security. We want a sense of achievement. We’re most happy when we feel successful and appreciated. We’d like to feel proud of our achievements. We’d like to feel proud of our country.

As 2023 concludes, we look ahead to the challenges of 2024. And make no mistake, it will be challenging. Twelve months from now, regardless of what occurs in the meantime, we will set off on a new course. There will no doubt have been some surprises. We can’t know what the future holds. Lord only knows; we will leave it in His hands.

Our best hope as we approach the days ahead is to take a breath, accept our differences, and remember always, we want the same things. Let’s focus our energies on our mutual goals. Let’s reach out to those around us and work together to make certain everyone feels appreciated for their efforts. Let’s be just, merciful, and humble. Let’s be kind and forgiving and lift up those who face the future with us. SC

  

One nation, under trump, ununitable, with liberty and justice for no one.

 It's just a nightmare. WAKE UP!

America: To Be, or Not to Be?

My little footprint on the Internet is not much of a platform, but it’s my platform, and I intend to use it to make my voice heard. My mom and dad were members of “The Greatest Generation”. They encouraged me to use my own voice and my own head. I owe this to Mom and Dad.

Back in the 1950s, when I was a kid, with the exception of the country’s Native Americans, who it seems have been here forever, it was fresh in the minds of most people that their families weren’t originally from here. They’d arrived here from foreign shores. In order to do so, they’d made sacrifices, unimaginable sacrifices, and they’d faced hardships. They counted their blessings. They considered their citizenship to be one of those blessings. They appreciated their freedom. They appreciated the opportunities those freedoms provided, and they appreciated the veterans whose efforts had made those freedoms possible. They were patriotic.

Their families had arrived in this country with little or nothing, and they felt entitled to nothing beyond the promise that America and democracy provided, that if they worked hard and participated in the preservation of our fragile Republic, great things were possible. They knew it was so; they’d seen others prosper. They were prepared and entirely willing to defend their freedoms and their democracy against all threats, both foreign and domestic. The United States of America and all the benefits inherent in the amalgamation of our states are only possible as long as we remain united, and the welfare of all our citizens is entirely reliant on the preservation of our Union. When that is gone, America is gone.

Throughout my life, the veterans and those who Tom Brokaw referred to as “The Greatest Generation,” comprised a large part of our citizenry. As their generation has faded away, America’s diverse cross-section of humanity has been transformed. The fabric of our great nation has coarsened, and our edges have frayed. Our appreciation and comprehension of Freedom, what it means, and what it requires, has been largely lost. For many, the patriotism of our forefathers is a foreign and incomprehensible concept.

Not until recent years has it occurred to most of us that, minus America’s time-honored institutions and those who continue to support them, it’s entirely possible that the America of our country’s founders and generations of veterans and patriots may cease to exist.

Call me a fearmonger. Call me what you will. As we prepare to vote in the 2024 election, it’s not about partisanship. It's about citizenship. It's about preserving democracy and a government of, by, and for the people. Vote for Republicans. Vote for Democrats. Vote for Independents. For now, at least, it’s a free country. Vote as your heart and conscience dictate, but for God’s sake, vote! Vote for those who support law and order. Vote for those who support truth, justice, and the American way.

Don’t be deceived. Those who today threaten insurgency and violence in our streets are not patriots. They are insurrectionists. Those who today decorate their yards and trucks with confederate flags and Nazi swastikas are not organizing to strengthen America and its principles of liberty and justice for all. They’re organizing to end it.

Shannon Thomas Casebeer

 

I am Pro-Privacy

 Here’s a defensible resolution to our most divisive and polarizing issue. I am both pro-life and pro-choice. I am pro-privacy. A woman’s medical history should be between she and her doctor. It’s no one else’s business. Its private, and her right to privacy should be federally protected and enshrined in our Constitution. SC

 privacy rights act - Search (bing.com)

By popular demand- GLAD DAYS LONG AGO, now on Amazon Books

Many books are intended to provide escape through a long, convoluted plot which is fully appreciated only at the conclusion. This is not that kind of book. Glad Days Long Ago is an invitation to escape with me to another place and time. This little primer is intended merely as a pleasant stroll, to be enjoyed a few steps at a time, anytime, and often. Share it with others who might benefit from a good leg stretching.   

 Glad Days Long Ago is a collection of short stories and reminiscences. It’s an assortment of unrelated windows into my life and time; a compilation of just over 40 pieces I’ve written over a thirty-year period. As a result, the compositions are written in a variety of styles. Beyond the fact that they are nostalgic windows into the past, my past and the distant past, they are unrelated. The books only flow is the fact that it reflects my life and my interests, from my childhood to the present. The book has no plot, and no villain, other than time itself, and times exasperating inclination to run out.  

 

 

 

My story, although autobiographical to some extent, is a fictional parable about youth, innocence, faith, heritage, nostalgia, patriotism, and growing old. It contains humor, bitter sweet reminiscences, and glimpses of a distant day when life seemed simple, summer was perennial, and childlike faith assured tomorrows joys. 

 

To my beloved ancestors, and the faith and fortitude that drove them to pursue their dreams, this innocuous little parable is affectionately dedicated.

 

THE AUTHOR

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

INTRODUCTION

 

Each and every day, each and every one of us, regardless of our circumstances, has a choice. We can squander our time fingering old welts, second guessing past decisions, and tormenting ourselves over the poor choices of others; or we can embrace a new day brimming with opportunities for doing justly, loving mercy, and building foundations for a bright new tomorrow. Time is precious. Choose wisely.

 

My name is Shannon Thomas Casebeer. I was born in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of Northern California and raised on a little piece of paradise called Reservoir Hill.  Idyllic childhoods are mighty few and mighty far between. I was blessed. Near the top of Reservoir Hill, on the banks of the historic South Fork ditch and overlooking the snow-capped Sierras to the north, the coastal range to the west, the Sacramento valley to the south, and Miller’s pear orchard to the east, were the homes of my mom’s parents and her dad’s mother, Meda Eliza Camp Daniels.

 

Meda’s Husband, my great grandpa, Asa Wilder Daniels, arrived in Placerville in 1888, purchased 40 acres on Reservoir Hill, operated a freight service, and served for some time as Justice of The Peace. Meda’s father, Asa Steven Camp, arrived in Hangtown with his father, Clark, in 1849. Together they filed several claims in order to try their hand at prospecting, and then, after accompanying his father safely home, Asa returned to Placerville in 1854. 

 

I have many vivid memories of walking the tree lined lane from my home on Mosquito Road, up the hill past my great grandma’s home and on to the home of my grandma and granddad Daniels. Passing Great Grandma’s window, I was occasionally waved down and invited inside to warm myself by her wood range and snack on the candied figs which she’d dried in the sun before steaming and coating with sugar. 

 

My favorite room was the kitchen.  Even now I can close my eyes and picture it in every detail just as it looked those long years ago. I can see the old wood range and hear the clanking of its lids as Great Grandma painstakingly brought the range to life. I remember how the nickel handles and black cast iron stove-top shone in the flickering light of the coal oil lamp as she polished them with a wax covered bread wrapper. I smell the sulfur and see the flash and flutter of the wooden match as she lit the crumpled newspaper. I hear the cast-iron clink of the dampers being opened and the crackling of the fire as Grandma carefully fed kindling to the growing flame. I remember peeking in through the open dampers at the glowing embers on the grate, watching their light dancing on the wall, and gazing up at the warming oven in expectation of the golden-brown treasures that would soon be steaming inside. On a few occasions I recall sitting in her lap in the old rocking chair. 

 

The wood range would crackle and pop pleasantly and Great Grandma would carefully unfold and read aloud from the same little muslin book that had mesmerized my granddad as a child. Time with Granddad was always a special treat and rarely did a summer pass without Granddad seeing to it that the entire family enjoyed a series of camping trips high in the Sierras, where Granddad had camped with his family all his life. 

 

All variety of kith and kin accompanied us on these woodland adventures, including Granddad’s brother and sister, and of course his mom who camped with us until age 93.  As a little girl, Great Grandma’s mom, Laura Ellen Oldfield Camp, had crossed the plains by covered wagon, making the trek from Wisconsin to old Hangtown back in 1854, when the rut riddled boulevard west was often impassable, and Native Americans still thrived on vast herds of migrating buffalo. Camping was in our blood.

 

We camped much as the family had for generations. Granddad had built red wooden sideboards for his 1941 Chevy, so the little pickup was well prepared to house all the essentials of camping, and with the addition of a canvas cover, provided snug sleeping quarters at night.  I remember well crawling from my own sleeping bag at first light in order to join my grandparents in the cozy bed of the old Chevy. I remember Granddad’s beaming smile and mass of disheveled gray hair as he peeked from under the covers. I recall how snug and warm it felt crawling under that down comforter after kicking off my moccasins on the tailgate, the feel and smell of the canvas cover rustling in the mountain air and gazing at stars through silhouetted pines.

 

Once the fire was lit, Sis and I would dress quickly and join the rest of the family, warming our backsides at a stone lined campfire and anticipating the smell of coffee brewing in the graniteware coffee pot and the aroma of pancakes and bacon sizzling on Great Grandma’s griddle.  Stellar Blue Jays called from the canopy of old growth pines. The welcome sun cascaded down through the lush boughs of evergreen. Off in the distance rainbow trout snatched Mayflies from the cobalt blue surface of the pristine mountain lake. And my mind’s eye envisioned my granddad’s granddad crossing the country by covered wagon long ago when Indians roamed these hills. 

 

Such were the days of my childhood, when life seemed simple, summer was perennial, and childlike faith assured tomorrows joys.  Treasure your memories; keep them fresh, and never take them for granted.  Even our memories can fade with the harsh glare of time.