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

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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.