- Published on
It Hasn’t Been Easy
We know it hasn’t been easy.
We know there are times when it’s tough,
We know that things aren’t always fair,
But that doesn’t mean it should be this rough.
The journey should be a lot smoother,
And life should play by the rules.
Time passes too quickly
In everything except when it heals our wounds.
Some days are better than others.
Some are a little bit worse.
Sometimes everything works out okay.
Sometimes it’s hard to get past the hurts
With all our hearts,
We wish we had more answers
We want to let you know how much we care.
We wish the path ahead were
Clearer to see, and we could walk beside
You all the way there
We want you to have a guardian angel;
Someone to watch over you.
We want you to listen closely to your heart,
For it will always speak the truth.
We want you to have faith in tomorrow.
It will guide your steps today
And we know that things haven’t been easy
But we know things will be okay.
by Author Unknown
We know it hasn’t been easy.
We know there are times when it’s tough,
We know that things aren’t always fair,
But that doesn’t mean it should be this rough.
The journey should be a lot smoother,
And life should play by the rules.
Time passes too quickly
In everything except when it heals our wounds.
Some days are better than others.
Some are a little bit worse.
Sometimes everything works out okay.
Sometimes it’s hard to get past the hurts
With all our hearts,
We wish we had more answers
We want to let you know how much we care.
We wish the path ahead were
Clearer to see, and we could walk beside
You all the way there
We want you to have a guardian angel;
Someone to watch over you.
We want you to listen closely to your heart,
For it will always speak the truth.
We want you to have faith in tomorrow.
It will guide your steps today
And we know that things haven’t been easy
But we know things will be okay.
by Author Unknown
- Published on
Tomorrow
He was going to be all that a mortal should be
Tomorrow.
No one should be kinder or braver than he
Tomorrow.
A friend who was troubled and weary he knew,
Who’d be glad of a lift and who needed it, too;
On him he would call and see what he could do
Tomorrow.
Each morning he stacked up the letters he’d write
Tomorrow.
And thought of the folks he would fill with delight
Tomorrow.
It was too bad, indeed, he was busy today,
And hadn’t a minute to stop on his way;
More time he would have to give others, he’d say
Tomorrow.
The greatest of workers this man would have been
Tomorrow.
The world would have known him, had he ever seen
Tomorrow.
But the fact is he died and he faded from view,
And all that he left here when living was through
Was a mountain of things he intended to do
Tomorrow.
By Edgar A. Guest: “Collected Works of Edgar Guest” (1953), page 72
Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest was born on 20 August 1881 in Birmingham, England. He immigrated with his family to the United States of America in 1891. From his first published work in the “Detroit Free Press” until his passing in 1959, he penned some 11,000 poems that were syndicated in 300 newspapers and collected into more than twenty books. Mr. Guest is reputed to have had a new poem published in a newspaper every day for more than thirty years. He became known as ‘The People’s Poet,’ writing poems that were of a sentimental and optimistic nature. Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest passed on at 77 years of age on 5 August 1959 in Detroit, Michigan, United States of America.
He was going to be all that a mortal should be
Tomorrow.
No one should be kinder or braver than he
Tomorrow.
A friend who was troubled and weary he knew,
Who’d be glad of a lift and who needed it, too;
On him he would call and see what he could do
Tomorrow.
Each morning he stacked up the letters he’d write
Tomorrow.
And thought of the folks he would fill with delight
Tomorrow.
It was too bad, indeed, he was busy today,
And hadn’t a minute to stop on his way;
More time he would have to give others, he’d say
Tomorrow.
The greatest of workers this man would have been
Tomorrow.
The world would have known him, had he ever seen
Tomorrow.
But the fact is he died and he faded from view,
And all that he left here when living was through
Was a mountain of things he intended to do
Tomorrow.
By Edgar A. Guest: “Collected Works of Edgar Guest” (1953), page 72
Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest was born on 20 August 1881 in Birmingham, England. He immigrated with his family to the United States of America in 1891. From his first published work in the “Detroit Free Press” until his passing in 1959, he penned some 11,000 poems that were syndicated in 300 newspapers and collected into more than twenty books. Mr. Guest is reputed to have had a new poem published in a newspaper every day for more than thirty years. He became known as ‘The People’s Poet,’ writing poems that were of a sentimental and optimistic nature. Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest passed on at 77 years of age on 5 August 1959 in Detroit, Michigan, United States of America.
- Published on
To Know All Is to Forgive All
If I knew you and you knew me -
If both of us could clearly see,
And with an inner sight divine
The meaning of your heart and mine -
I’m sure that we would differ less
And clasp our hands in friendliness;
Our thoughts would pleasantly agree
If I knew you, and you knew me.
If I knew you and you knew me,
As each one knows his own self, we
Could look each other in the face
And see therein a truer grace.
Life has so many hidden woes,
So many thorns for every rose;
The “Why” of things our hearts would see.
If I knew you and you knew me.
by Nixon Waterman: “Boy Wanted: A Book of Cheerful Counsel” (1 January 1919), page 78
Nixon Waterman was born on 12 November 1859 in Newark, Kendall County, Illinois, United States of America, as the son of Lyman Waterman and Elizabeth Waterman. He lived on a farm until he was 20 years of age, teaching school during the winter months, and began his newspaper career at 21 years of age in the mechanical department of a country weekly in Creston, Iowa. Mr. Waterman was married on 14 March 1883 to Nellie Haskins of Menasha, Wisconsin. Weary of being a press operator, he tried his hand at other branches of the business, and made rapid progress. He first won flattering recognition as a newspaper editorial writer in Omaha, Nebraska. He moved to Chicago in October 1889, where he supplied the editorial page of the Chicago “Herald” with witty and catchy rhymes printed under the caption, “Small Change,” which were copied in publications across America. When the proprietors of the “Herald” started the “Evening Post,” he was one of the coteries selected to create for that venture the conditions of popularity with the public. After seven months on the “Post,” he went back to the “Herald,” but a year later resigned to work for “Puck,” “Truth,” “Youth’s Companion” and other popular weekly newspapers and magazines. Nixon Waterman was a newspaper writer, a poet, a book author, and a Chautauqua lecturer. His first wife Nellie Waterman (maiden name Haskins) passed on sometime in 1940, and in November 1940, he married Grace Sanford Leavitt. Nixon Waterman passed on at 84 years of age on 1 September 1944 in Canton, Norfolk County, Massachusetts, United States of America.
If I knew you and you knew me -
If both of us could clearly see,
And with an inner sight divine
The meaning of your heart and mine -
I’m sure that we would differ less
And clasp our hands in friendliness;
Our thoughts would pleasantly agree
If I knew you, and you knew me.
If I knew you and you knew me,
As each one knows his own self, we
Could look each other in the face
And see therein a truer grace.
Life has so many hidden woes,
So many thorns for every rose;
The “Why” of things our hearts would see.
If I knew you and you knew me.
by Nixon Waterman: “Boy Wanted: A Book of Cheerful Counsel” (1 January 1919), page 78
Nixon Waterman was born on 12 November 1859 in Newark, Kendall County, Illinois, United States of America, as the son of Lyman Waterman and Elizabeth Waterman. He lived on a farm until he was 20 years of age, teaching school during the winter months, and began his newspaper career at 21 years of age in the mechanical department of a country weekly in Creston, Iowa. Mr. Waterman was married on 14 March 1883 to Nellie Haskins of Menasha, Wisconsin. Weary of being a press operator, he tried his hand at other branches of the business, and made rapid progress. He first won flattering recognition as a newspaper editorial writer in Omaha, Nebraska. He moved to Chicago in October 1889, where he supplied the editorial page of the Chicago “Herald” with witty and catchy rhymes printed under the caption, “Small Change,” which were copied in publications across America. When the proprietors of the “Herald” started the “Evening Post,” he was one of the coteries selected to create for that venture the conditions of popularity with the public. After seven months on the “Post,” he went back to the “Herald,” but a year later resigned to work for “Puck,” “Truth,” “Youth’s Companion” and other popular weekly newspapers and magazines. Nixon Waterman was a newspaper writer, a poet, a book author, and a Chautauqua lecturer. His first wife Nellie Waterman (maiden name Haskins) passed on sometime in 1940, and in November 1940, he married Grace Sanford Leavitt. Nixon Waterman passed on at 84 years of age on 1 September 1944 in Canton, Norfolk County, Massachusetts, United States of America.
- Published on
Little Things In Life
Too often we don’t realize
what we have until it is gone;
Too often we wait too late to say
“I’m sorry - I was wrong.”
Sometimes it seems we hurt the ones
we hold dearest to our hearts;
And we allow foolish things
to tear our lives apart.
Far too many times we let
unimportant things into our minds;
And then it’s usually too late
to see what made us blind.
So be sure that you let people know
how much they mean to you;
Take that time to say the words
before your time is through.
Be sure that you appreciate
everything you’ve got
And be thankful for the little things
in life that mean a lot.
By Regina Riggs
Too often we don’t realize
what we have until it is gone;
Too often we wait too late to say
“I’m sorry - I was wrong.”
Sometimes it seems we hurt the ones
we hold dearest to our hearts;
And we allow foolish things
to tear our lives apart.
Far too many times we let
unimportant things into our minds;
And then it’s usually too late
to see what made us blind.
So be sure that you let people know
how much they mean to you;
Take that time to say the words
before your time is through.
Be sure that you appreciate
everything you’ve got
And be thankful for the little things
in life that mean a lot.
By Regina Riggs
- Published on
The following are three versions of one poem.
Time's Paces
When as a child I laughed and wept,
time crept.
When as a youth I dreamed and talked,
time walked.
When I became a full-grown man,
time ran.
When older still, I daily grew,
time flew.
Soon I shall find in traveling on,
time gone.
by Author Unknown
The above poem was based on the poem that follows.
Time’s Paces
When I was a babe and wept and slept,
Time crept;
When I was a boy and laughed and talked,
Time walked.
Then when the years saw me a man,
Time ran.
But as I older grew,
Time flew.
Soon, as I journey on,
I’ll find time gone.
May Christ have saved my soul, by then,
Amen.
by Guy Pentreath (1902 - 1985)
The above poem was based on a yet earlier poem shown below.
Time’s Paces
When as a child I laughed and wept,
Time crept.
When as a youth I waxed more bold,
Time strolled.
When I became a full grown man,
Time ran.
When older still I daily grew,
Time flew.
Soon I shall find, in passing on,
Time gone.
O Christ! wilt Thou have saved me then?
Amen.
by Henry Twells (1823 -1900): “Hymns and Other Stray Verses” (1901)
Time's Paces
When as a child I laughed and wept,
time crept.
When as a youth I dreamed and talked,
time walked.
When I became a full-grown man,
time ran.
When older still, I daily grew,
time flew.
Soon I shall find in traveling on,
time gone.
by Author Unknown
The above poem was based on the poem that follows.
Time’s Paces
When I was a babe and wept and slept,
Time crept;
When I was a boy and laughed and talked,
Time walked.
Then when the years saw me a man,
Time ran.
But as I older grew,
Time flew.
Soon, as I journey on,
I’ll find time gone.
May Christ have saved my soul, by then,
Amen.
by Guy Pentreath (1902 - 1985)
The above poem was based on a yet earlier poem shown below.
Time’s Paces
When as a child I laughed and wept,
Time crept.
When as a youth I waxed more bold,
Time strolled.
When I became a full grown man,
Time ran.
When older still I daily grew,
Time flew.
Soon I shall find, in passing on,
Time gone.
O Christ! wilt Thou have saved me then?
Amen.
by Henry Twells (1823 -1900): “Hymns and Other Stray Verses” (1901)
- Published on
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
By Robert Frost
Robert Lee Frost (rŏbꞋərt lē frôst/frŏst) was born on 26 March 1874 in San Francisco, California, United States of America. He was the quintessential American poet and a leading American poet of the twentieth century. He had the remarkable ability to write poetry about nature and the sights and sounds of rural life in New England that was deeply philosophical and unforgettably beautiful, much of it written while he lived on a farm in New Hampshire. His poetry collections include “Mountain Interval” (1916), “West-running Brook” (1928), “A Further Range” (1936), “Steeple Bush” (1947), and “In the Clearing” (1962). Robert Frost passed on at 88 years of age on 29 January 1963 in Boston, Massachusetts, United States of America.
●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●
“The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost is a lyric poem in which a point of divergence, in this instance a fork in a road, is symbolic of the dilemma people face when they must make choices in life.
Diverged: branched out or headed in different directions.
Trodden: walked on.
Hence: from this time forward.
Fork: a place where one road splits into two roads.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
By Robert Frost
Robert Lee Frost (rŏbꞋərt lē frôst/frŏst) was born on 26 March 1874 in San Francisco, California, United States of America. He was the quintessential American poet and a leading American poet of the twentieth century. He had the remarkable ability to write poetry about nature and the sights and sounds of rural life in New England that was deeply philosophical and unforgettably beautiful, much of it written while he lived on a farm in New Hampshire. His poetry collections include “Mountain Interval” (1916), “West-running Brook” (1928), “A Further Range” (1936), “Steeple Bush” (1947), and “In the Clearing” (1962). Robert Frost passed on at 88 years of age on 29 January 1963 in Boston, Massachusetts, United States of America.
●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●
“The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost is a lyric poem in which a point of divergence, in this instance a fork in a road, is symbolic of the dilemma people face when they must make choices in life.
Diverged: branched out or headed in different directions.
Trodden: walked on.
Hence: from this time forward.
Fork: a place where one road splits into two roads.
- Published on
A Warm House and a Ruddy Fire
A warm house and a ruddy fire,
To what more can man aspire?
Eyes that shine with love aglow,
Is there more for man to know?
Whether home be rich or poor,
If contentment mark the door
He who finds it good to live
Has the best that life can give.
This the end of mortal strife!
Peace at night to sweeten life,
Rest when mind and body tire,
At contentment’s ruddy fire.
Rooms where merry songs are sung,
Happy old and glorious young;
These, if perfect peace be known,
Both the rich and poor must own.
A warm house and a ruddy fire,
These the goals of all desire,
These the dream of every man
Since God spoke and life began.
by Edgar A. Guest
Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest was born on 20 August 1881 in Birmingham, England. He immigrated with his family to the United States of America in 1891. From his first published work in the “Detroit Free Press” until his passing in 1959, he penned some 11,000 poems that were syndicated in 300 newspapers and collected into more than twenty books. Mr. Guest is reputed to have had a new poem published in a newspaper every day for more than thirty years. He became known as ‘The People’s Poet,’ writing poems that were of a sentimental and optimistic nature. Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest passed on at 77 years of age on 5 August 1959 in Detroit, Michigan, United States of America.
A warm house and a ruddy fire,
To what more can man aspire?
Eyes that shine with love aglow,
Is there more for man to know?
Whether home be rich or poor,
If contentment mark the door
He who finds it good to live
Has the best that life can give.
This the end of mortal strife!
Peace at night to sweeten life,
Rest when mind and body tire,
At contentment’s ruddy fire.
Rooms where merry songs are sung,
Happy old and glorious young;
These, if perfect peace be known,
Both the rich and poor must own.
A warm house and a ruddy fire,
These the goals of all desire,
These the dream of every man
Since God spoke and life began.
by Edgar A. Guest
Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest was born on 20 August 1881 in Birmingham, England. He immigrated with his family to the United States of America in 1891. From his first published work in the “Detroit Free Press” until his passing in 1959, he penned some 11,000 poems that were syndicated in 300 newspapers and collected into more than twenty books. Mr. Guest is reputed to have had a new poem published in a newspaper every day for more than thirty years. He became known as ‘The People’s Poet,’ writing poems that were of a sentimental and optimistic nature. Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest passed on at 77 years of age on 5 August 1959 in Detroit, Michigan, United States of America.
- Published on
I’m Counting My Blessings
I’m counting my blessings.
I’ve been gifted with another day
to experience being alive.
I choose to make the best of this moment,
and I vow not to take this day,
Nor its gifts, for granted.
I appreciate the little things
that are too often missed, passed by.
I’m intent on seeing the beauty
that’s usually hidden in plain sight,
for I know that I’m blessed just to be here,
participating in life on Earth.
I give thanks for the tiny miracle today,
For perhaps there are no little things.
To live at all is miracle enough.
by Author Unknown
I’m counting my blessings.
I’ve been gifted with another day
to experience being alive.
I choose to make the best of this moment,
and I vow not to take this day,
Nor its gifts, for granted.
I appreciate the little things
that are too often missed, passed by.
I’m intent on seeing the beauty
that’s usually hidden in plain sight,
for I know that I’m blessed just to be here,
participating in life on Earth.
I give thanks for the tiny miracle today,
For perhaps there are no little things.
To live at all is miracle enough.
by Author Unknown
- Published on
Two Pictures
An old farm-house with meadows wide,
And sweet with clover on each side;
A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out
The door with woodbine wreathed about
And wishes his one thought all day:
“O, if I could but fly away
From this dull spot, the world to see,
How happy, happy, happy,
How happy I should be!”
Amid the city’s constant din,
A man who round the world has been,
Who, mid the tumult and the throng,
Is thinking, thinking all day long:
“O, could I only tread once more
The field-path to the farm-house door,
The old, green meadow could I see,
How happy, happy, happy,
How happy I should be!”
by Annie D. Green
An old farm-house with meadows wide,
And sweet with clover on each side;
A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out
The door with woodbine wreathed about
And wishes his one thought all day:
“O, if I could but fly away
From this dull spot, the world to see,
How happy, happy, happy,
How happy I should be!”
Amid the city’s constant din,
A man who round the world has been,
Who, mid the tumult and the throng,
Is thinking, thinking all day long:
“O, could I only tread once more
The field-path to the farm-house door,
The old, green meadow could I see,
How happy, happy, happy,
How happy I should be!”
by Annie D. Green
- Published on
Memories
A little house with three bedrooms and one car on the street,
A mower that you had to push to make the grass look neat.
In the kitchen on the wall we only had one phone, And no
need for recording things, someone was always home.
We only had a living room where we would congregate,
Unless it was at mealtime in the kitchen where we ate.
We had no need for family rooms or extra rooms to dine,
When meeting as a family those two rooms would work out fine.
We only had one TV set, and channels maybe two, But always
there was one of them with something worth the view.
For snacks we had potato chips that tasted like a chip,
And if you wanted flavor there was Lipton’s onion dip.
Store-bought snacks were rare because my mother liked
to cook, And nothing can compare to snacks in Betty Crocker’s book.
The snacks were even healthy with the best ingredients,
No labels with a hundred things that make not a bit of sense.
Weekends were for family trips or staying home to play,
We all did things together - even go to church to pray.
When we did our weekend trips depending on the weather,
No one stayed at home because we liked to be together.
Sometimes we would separate to do things on our own,
But we knew where the others were without our own cell phone.
Then there were the movies with your favorite movie star,
And nothing can compare to watching movies in your car.
Then there were the picnics at the peak of summer season,
Pack a lunch and find some trees and never need a reason.
Get a baseball game together with all the friends you know,
Have real action playing ball - and no game video.
Remember when the doctor used to be the family friend,
And didn’t need insurance or a lawyer to defend?
The way that he took care of you or what he had to do,
Because he took an oath and strived to do the best for you.
Remember going to the store and shopping casually, And
when you went to pay for it you used your own money?
Nothing that you had to swipe or punch in some amount,
Remember when the cashier person had to really count?
Remember when we breathed the air; it smelled so fresh and clean,
And chemicals were not used on the grass to keep it green.
The milkman used to go from door to door, And it was just
a few cents more than going to the store.
There was a time when mailed letters came right to your door,
Without a lot of junk mail ads sent out by every store.
The mailman knew each house by name and knew where it was sent;
There were not loads of mail addressed to “present occupant.”
Remember when the words “I do” meant that you really did,
And not just temporarily ’til someone blows their lid.
T’was no such thing as “no one’s fault; we just made a mistake,”
There was a time when married life was built on give and take.
There was a time when just one glance was all that it would take,
And you would know the kind of car, the model and the make.
They didn’t look like turtles trying to squeeze out every mile;
They were streamlined, white walls, fins, and really had some style.
One time the music that you played whenever you would jive,
Was from a vinyl, big-holed record called a forty-five.
The record player had a post to keep them all in line,
And then the records would drop down and play one at a time.
Oh sure, we had our problems then, just like we do today,
And always we were striving, trying for a better way.
And every year that passed us by brought new and greater things,
We now can even program phones with music or with rings.
Oh, the simple life we lived still seems like so much fun,
How can you explain a game, just kick the can and run?
And why would boys put baseball cards between bicycle spokes,
And for a nickel red machines had little bottled Cokes?
This life seemed so much easier and slower in some ways,
I love the new technology but I sure miss those days.
So time moves on and so do we, and nothing stays the same,
But I sure love to reminisce and walk down memory lane.
by Author Unknown
A little house with three bedrooms and one car on the street,
A mower that you had to push to make the grass look neat.
In the kitchen on the wall we only had one phone, And no
need for recording things, someone was always home.
We only had a living room where we would congregate,
Unless it was at mealtime in the kitchen where we ate.
We had no need for family rooms or extra rooms to dine,
When meeting as a family those two rooms would work out fine.
We only had one TV set, and channels maybe two, But always
there was one of them with something worth the view.
For snacks we had potato chips that tasted like a chip,
And if you wanted flavor there was Lipton’s onion dip.
Store-bought snacks were rare because my mother liked
to cook, And nothing can compare to snacks in Betty Crocker’s book.
The snacks were even healthy with the best ingredients,
No labels with a hundred things that make not a bit of sense.
Weekends were for family trips or staying home to play,
We all did things together - even go to church to pray.
When we did our weekend trips depending on the weather,
No one stayed at home because we liked to be together.
Sometimes we would separate to do things on our own,
But we knew where the others were without our own cell phone.
Then there were the movies with your favorite movie star,
And nothing can compare to watching movies in your car.
Then there were the picnics at the peak of summer season,
Pack a lunch and find some trees and never need a reason.
Get a baseball game together with all the friends you know,
Have real action playing ball - and no game video.
Remember when the doctor used to be the family friend,
And didn’t need insurance or a lawyer to defend?
The way that he took care of you or what he had to do,
Because he took an oath and strived to do the best for you.
Remember going to the store and shopping casually, And
when you went to pay for it you used your own money?
Nothing that you had to swipe or punch in some amount,
Remember when the cashier person had to really count?
Remember when we breathed the air; it smelled so fresh and clean,
And chemicals were not used on the grass to keep it green.
The milkman used to go from door to door, And it was just
a few cents more than going to the store.
There was a time when mailed letters came right to your door,
Without a lot of junk mail ads sent out by every store.
The mailman knew each house by name and knew where it was sent;
There were not loads of mail addressed to “present occupant.”
Remember when the words “I do” meant that you really did,
And not just temporarily ’til someone blows their lid.
T’was no such thing as “no one’s fault; we just made a mistake,”
There was a time when married life was built on give and take.
There was a time when just one glance was all that it would take,
And you would know the kind of car, the model and the make.
They didn’t look like turtles trying to squeeze out every mile;
They were streamlined, white walls, fins, and really had some style.
One time the music that you played whenever you would jive,
Was from a vinyl, big-holed record called a forty-five.
The record player had a post to keep them all in line,
And then the records would drop down and play one at a time.
Oh sure, we had our problems then, just like we do today,
And always we were striving, trying for a better way.
And every year that passed us by brought new and greater things,
We now can even program phones with music or with rings.
Oh, the simple life we lived still seems like so much fun,
How can you explain a game, just kick the can and run?
And why would boys put baseball cards between bicycle spokes,
And for a nickel red machines had little bottled Cokes?
This life seemed so much easier and slower in some ways,
I love the new technology but I sure miss those days.
So time moves on and so do we, and nothing stays the same,
But I sure love to reminisce and walk down memory lane.
by Author Unknown
