Rural areas have become popular tourist destinations. People want to get away from their rushed life styles and relax in a slower paced environment. They also want to learn how to do agriculture related activities like milk the cow, plow the field and harvest the garden.
A writer once penned: “If we cannot learn from history, from what or whom can we learn?”
As I wrote this past weekend, having more than just a slight interest in the Civil War, knowing that we are remembering the 150-year mark of the conflict that ripped our nation apart, I recalled the bloodiest single-day battle in the history of the nation. It was fought on Sept. 17, 1862 — the Battle of Antietam. (The battle was known as Sharpsburg in the South. In the South the name of the nearest town was that ascribed to the battle. For example, the battle of Bull Run as it is generally known was known in the South as the Battle of Manassas.)
This has been yet another week with things buzzing as usual.
One of the things I enjoyed was the Elvis Presley impersonator who came to perform for us. He was really good and I believe he even outdid Elvis swiveling his hips. Plus — was kissing all the little old ladies. When he got to me, I extended my hand. I wasn’t as happy with my Coke as some of them were.
They have happy hour here every Friday evening and bring in entertainment. I never go, since I’m not interested in drinking and don’t usually know who the artist is for the evening, but I had to go see Elvis.
Growing up, I always had a gut feeling that I was somehow not related to my family. This feeling went on throughout my childhood, and even though I knew for a fact I wasn’t adopted, I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I was.
It wasn’t because my older sister and I would get in fights and she would tell me I was adopted to upset me. It was simply from the fact I didn’t feel like I looked like anyone in my family. While I know that to be untrue now, I couldn’t get over the fact that everyone asked if my two sisters were twins while no one even acknowledged I was there.
The years would pass, the hairline would recede and the genes in my body would start to take over, disproving my adoption theory and solidifying the fact I was indeed my parents’ child.
But even if I found out I was adopted, I can honestly say my love for my family would be the same. The handful of friends I had growing up who knew they were adopted felt the same way, and I believe one of those friends said it the best when I asked him about it.
“Why would I love them any different just because they don’t share genetics with me,” he said to me confidently. “They raised me, cared for me, loved me and were there for me. That doesn’t sound like anything to complain about now does it?”
That message has been in my mind for many years. I have always had a soft spot for adoption. I have never really wanted to have children of my own, when I could simply raise one of the millions on the planet whose parents don’t want anything to do with them.
Children everywhere need homes and families, and with November set as National Adoption Awareness Month, the next 20 plus days are going to be crucial in helping spread the word to help fight for orphans all over America and the globe.