DON’T PUSH YOUR LUCK

A bit of detective juices running through your veins?

The phrase “ don’t push your luck” resounded, stuck,

stroked my curiosity.  A challenge if you will…

Such a pedestrian phrase .. but…  what are the origins

of this common retort, a throw away line?

So much of our techno orientation leaves us with the impression that

language is  new, modern, recently discovered.

Amazingly, the word luck, as quoted below in a Yahoo search, is 600 years old!

Imagine – will the phrase “internet technology” be in use 600 years from now?

luck

15c. from M.Du. luc, shortening of gheluc “happiness, good fortune,” of

unknown origin. Related to M.H.G. g(e)lücke, Ger. Glück “fortune, good

luck.” Perhaps first borrowed in English as a gambling term. To luck out

“succeed through.

Our “ phrase of the day “, refers to happiness and good fortune.  A pleading of

not taking these positive events for granted.  Enhance, cherish, and protect

that which makes life worth while. Be glad, thankful for the good things the

Creator has granted you.

Consider this.. the geneology of luck, a word we use everyday, has a family

 history of 600 years.A history which we have shared with our Dutch, English,

and Irish brethren for all of that time.

Reflecting on how the world has changed since the 15^th century, it is amazing

that a simple word like luck has survived and, more significantly, is in common

use. 

When posed with the question on day 1 of teaching World Teaching “ Why study

 history”, it is boring?”.  Examples such as the living history, yes   the living h

history of language and cultures brings to the frontal lobes, an explanation of

who we are as a people, a culture, a nation, a civilization. For example: did the

founding fathers write the Constitution purely from their imaginations? Or was i

t based on premise which were honed and codified over centuries?

 We are constantly bombarded with news referring to globalization and the g

lobal economy. How the world is becoming smaller. A seeming immediacy,  all

news, all the time.  

All that is true.

However, I believe many pundits have a narrow sense of history.  Of how our

language, tradition, and cultures have evolved.  Our  simplistic  example

regarding the word “luck”

illustrates that “ globalization has been with us for at least 600 years.  Perhaps

our Princeton and Harvard Grads who occupy the think tanks in Georgetown c

ould benefit bytaking note of the long view of history.

Leave you with :

An Irish Blessing

May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

All luck, all the time

A TRIBUTE TO THE GREATEST GENERATION

The unmistakable gutteral  roar of propeller driven  airplane engines

Grew louder, as these workhorses flew closer.

Not a movie, nor a dream, the sound, the roar is part of America’s DNA.

 

Cloudy, overcast, a replication of the long ago skies of Northern Europe.

Hidden, protected, the planes approach – somewhere above the cloud bank..

 

Clouds cast a grey blanket, then open for a few moments.

We can hear them, but where are they? Who goes there?

 Who breaks the silence of rural America?

 

The clouds answer the query and part for a  few moments.

Majestic and proud, these gladiators of the sky trundle  on

 carrying the memories of daring young heroes who would give the ultimate sacrifice.

Seven decades and counting – how the pages of history inexorably  turn.

 

We stand in the yard remembering the leather head coverings, the A on the jacket,

 and watch humble with crooked neck and searching eyes in silence . Whence they fly?

Our fathers generation  flew in these cockpits over Dresden  with flack left and right.

They helped make the  Furher hide in this death  bunker.

The flyboys who risked it all.. and made their country proud.

As Tom Brokaw named them “ The Greatest Generation”.

 

Humbled, respectful we are as these patriotic air travelers  cross overhead.

A seamless transition from air borne machines to living reminders  of victory

 sacrifice, and the saviors of western civilization.

 

One more time – “ God Bless America”.

AN ABANDONED RAILROAD LINE TALKS TO US

Some appear carefully placed side by side, like two
slumbering children. Others are strewn alongside the
long forgotten rail road embankment.
Gnarled thicket bushes cover them… visible only in
these barren winter days.
Railroad ties… seemingly an innocuous creation, tell us
the story of a time gone by.

A faint path crawls along the berm… Come and see if you
want says the earth. A rusted railroad signal, a bit of
rusted track, look closely for history.
We wonder, why was the track laid, who traveled here,
and where did they go?

Telegraph poles stand tall in the trees. Scattered like lost
soldiers. Some with cross beams still in place. Others
with Insulators glimmering in the sun.
A friend of our feathered compatriots has nailed bird
houses on some. If the now absent telegraph lines could
talk – oh what stories to tell?
Standing silently in their midst, we hear a voice
whispering to us –ask me, I’ll gladly share the stories of t
he men and women who made our country great.

A rusting grain elevator secretes another clue… the
echoes of hard working – hard playing
Midwesterners sing through the now barren trees.
The stainless steel silos, once proud holders of grain and
corn, bend and creak as the afternoon breeze saunters
through the now unplowed, dormant plains.
Workplaces for a once proud town the silos stand as a
tombstone, like the town, To a time and grandeur long
since past.

One never knows what surprise waits around the next
curve in the forgotten dike. A memorial to a fallen
friend appears in a small clearing, An American flag,
artificial red flowers, tastefully placed shiny pinwheels:
Two park benches sit beside each other like wisened old
friends. One is home to three bird boxes. The other,
Serves as a respite for the weary traveler. Sit down, and
your back rests against the engraved name and date of
the beloved one who has passed on.
park bench with a name and engraved date. Freshly
cleaned, maintained. A tribute to someone who made a
difference. Seemingly in the middle of nowhere USA.
Always in the hearts of those who love her.

We ponder who were the people who traveled these tracks.

Who talked via the telegraph lines.

Who loaded the train cars full of grain, and sileage .

Who dismantled the tracks and laid aside the wooden planks.

Who fortuitously left this area undisturbed,undefiled, a home for nature.

Nature who has now planted narly bushes and nests for cardinals

Nature who has created a sacred cove for a remembrance memorial.