"We all are kindred souls. Each--the rarest spirit, who both lives and leaves the rarest gift: a rarefied story. Embrace the essence; hold close the mix. Bask in the light of the word and the moment! Singularity is all around us. As we joke, share an idea, or hold hands in the minute. As we ascend. Then as softly are gone."

Welcome to this profile page and thank you for visiting! Perhaps the briefer and apropos bio will be my own FG memorial, this but a vain precursor.

For now, suffice the intro to say that I am at once two things: stunning success and stupefying failure--a churning but unified whole, just shy of a hot mess. I discovered early on that there are also two ways to live a life - one is as though nothing is a miracle; the other is as though everything is a miracle. The chosen latter summons my gratitude, and I am nothing if not genuinely grateful to God, my wonderful wife and family, and many of those who have received FG digital and/or even fragrant flowers from me, and the greater many who have not. Grateful for the miracles, every one.

Contributor was educated, such as he is, at Centre College of Kentucky only briefly and Eastern Kentucky University at length, is a retired government employee, and is powerfully grateful for a wonderful white wave and a knowing dragonfly. His interests are Scottish poetry (though as for that, poetry of many origins and method), English literature, theatre, music, art, and history. He is also grateful for the magnificent examples of those exceptional people who have guided, inspired, and awed him during and since his childhood in Danville, Boyle County, Kentucky and the world.

Following are favorite scripture, general comments, and selected verse for those courageous and inquiring souls having a few moments to spare. I am a prospector of hand-me-downs and hope you may find something personally of value, perhaps, that you can take with you.

"They that love beyond the world cannot be separated by it. Death cannot kill what never dies." William Penn

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight. Do not be wise in your own eyes; fear the Lord and shun evil." Proverbs, 3:5-7, NIV

"Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all the earth! Serve the Lord with gladness! Come into His presence with singing! Know that the Lord, He is God! It is He who made us, and we are His; we are His people, and the sheep of His pasture. Enter His gates with thanksgiving, and His courts with praise! Give thanks to Him; bless His name! For the Lord is good; His steadfast love endures forever, and His faithfulness to all generations." Psalms, 100; 1-5, ESV

"Have no anxiety about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God." the Letter of Paul to the Philippians

This contributor is honored to join the ranks of so many who quietly and purposefully remember those upon whose shoulders we stand. Herbert Spencer's well-known saying, "What I need to realize is how infinitesimal is the importance of anything that I can do, and how infinitely important it is that I should do it," may pay homage to our individual need to contribute--it's our privilege--to remember, particularly in the shadow of Edmund Burke's observation that "people will not look forward to posterity who never look back to their ancestors." Time, trail, and that we made a meaningful difference are important to each of us, genealogist or whomever, and I think that civilization's choice to preserve its personal history helps to preserve civilization.

About FG: When a soul passes from our midst, left behind is the story of the choices and endeavors--yes, the tribulations, and as well the loves and aspirations, the contribution to perhaps the multitudes and to the special few. In the myriad of moves that we make, we leave in place and time the indelible marks of our being. Whether others note in any database may be of less mark than men measuring significance; because truth and acts remain so long as the universe exists and changes not an iota. For those who agree with this holding, and even those who may not, the offer that our mere touches of the keyboard transcend the here and now and return or reintroduce us to that other place and time though ever so fragmented--and dear bygone faces and their stories--is special indeed. To remember and honor those who have gone before us, those who have personally led us, or reared us, educated, or paid a kindness forward, or perhaps have loved us--that is what leads me to this database of transcendence; verily as their souls--their stories live on. In this mix, we living connect -- breath, beat, and keystroke. Hearts of hearts, together again . . . awaiting the daybreak.

FG contributors/collaborators have permission to appropriately and empathetically use anything I have placed on FG. It is not necessary to give me credit; we engage for the common good. However please do credit any source(s) that I have credited for the respective submission to observe permissions granted to me and to aptly honor other contributors' work and their individual credit wishes. The idea is that each memorial can be designed to bring and present a circle of family and supporters together therein honoring the whole circle of souls who "belong" to the honoree.

Transfers: FG is a community effort. We have responsibility in good faith for memorials in our temporary care. You may be better able than I to maintain a select memorial for whatever reasons. Please ask!

FG Administrator: Upon this member's death, if possible, please transfer memorial and images management to Contributor 47558988. Thank you.

Remembering John Dryden:

"To My Honored Friend Sir Robert Howard on his Excellent Poems" (Excerpt)

by John Dryden (1631-1700)

" . . . this is a piece too fair

To be the child of Chance, and not of Care.

No atoms casually together hurl'd

Could e'er produce so beautiful a world."

Remembering Mary Cornelia Hartshorne:

"Fallen Leaves (An Indian Grandmother's Parable)"

by Mary Cornelia Hartshorne (1910-1980), (Choctaw Nation)

"Many times in my life I have heard the white sages,

Who are learned in the knowledge and lore of past ages,

Speak of my people with pity, say, (")Gone is their hour

Of dominion. By the strong wind of progress their power;

Like a rose past its brief time of blooming, lies shattered;

Like the leaves of the oak tree its people are scattered.(")

This is the eighty-first autumn since I can remember.

Again fall the leaves, born in April and dead by December;

Riding the whimsied breeze, zigzagging and whirling,

Coming to earth at last and slowly upcurling,

Withered and sapless and brown, into discarded fragments

Of what once was life; dry, chattering parchments

That crackle and rustle like old women's laughter

When the merciless wind with swift feet coming after

Will drive them before him with unsparing lashes

'Till they are crumbled and crushed into forgotten ashes;

Crumbled and crushed, and piled deep in the gulches and hollows,

Soft bed for the yet softer snow that in winter fast follows

But when in the spring the light falling

Patter of raindrops persuading, insistently calling,

Wakens to life again forces that long months have slumbered,

There will come whispering movement, and green things unnumbered

Will pierce through the mold with their yellow-green, sun-searching fingers,

Fingers--or spear-tips, grown tall, will bud at another year's breaking,

One day when the brooks, manumitted by sunshine, are making

Music like gold in the spring of some far generation.

And up from the long-withered leaves, from the musty stagnation,

Life will climb high to the furthermost leaflets.

The bursting of catkins asunder with greed for the sunlight; the thirsting

Of twisted brown roots for earth-water; the gradual unfolding

Of brilliance and strength in the future, earth's bosom is holding

Today in those scurrying leaves, soon to be crumpled and broken.

Let those who have ears hear my word and be still. I have spoken."

Remembering Kahlil Gibran:

"Fear" by Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931)

"It is said that before entering the sea

a river trembles with fear.

She looks back at the path she has traveled,

from the peaks of the mountains,

the long winding road crossing forests and villages.

And in front of her,

she sees an ocean so vast,

that to enter

there seems nothing more than to disappear forever.

But there is no other way.

The river can not go back.

Nobody can go back.

To go back is impossible in existence.

The river needs to take the risk

of entering the ocean

because only then will fear disappear,

because that's where the river will know

it's not about disappearing into the ocean,

but of becoming the ocean."

Remembering John Denver:

"Cold Nights in Canada" by John Denver (1943-1997)

"Up in a meadow in Jasper, Alberta

Two men and four ponies on a long, lonesome ride

To see the high country and learn of her people

The ways that they live there, the ways that they die.

And one is a teacher, one a beginner

Just wanting to be there, wanting to know.

And together they're trying to tell us a story

That should have been listened to long, long ago;

How the life in the mountains is living in danger

From too many people, too many machines;

And the time is upon us, today is forever,

Tomorrow is just one of yesterday's dreams.

Cold nights in Canada and icy blue winds,

The man and the mountains are brothers again

Clear waters are laughing, they sing to the skies

The Rockies are living, they never will die.

Up in a meadow in Jasper, Alberta,

Two men and four ponies on a long, lonesome ride."

and:

"It's in Every One of Us" by John Denver

"It's in every one of us to be wise.

Find your heart, open up both your eyes;

We can all know everything

Without ever knowing why.

It's in every one of us, by and by . . .

By and by."

Remembering Robert Francis:

"While I Slept" by Robert Francis (1901-1987)

"While I slept, while I slept and the night grew colder

She would come to my room, stepping softly

And draw a blanket about my shoulder

While I slept.

While I slept, while I slept in the dark, still heat

She would come to my bedside, stepping coolly

And smooth the twisted, troubled sheet

While I slept.

Now she sleeps, sleeps under quiet rain

While nights grow warm or nights grow colder.

And I wake, and sleep, and wake again

While she sleeps."

Remembering Dorothy Veronica "Dory" Previn:

"Come Saturday Morning" (excerpt) by Dory Previn (1925-2012)

"Come Saturday morning,

I'm goin' away with my friend.

We'll Saturday-spend 'til the end of the day.

Just I and my friend;

We'll travel for miles in our Saturday smiles.

And then we'll move on.

But we will remember

Long after Saturday's gone.

Come Saturday morning

I'm goin' away with my friend.

We'll Saturday-laugh more than half of the day.

Just I and my friend

Dressed up in our rings and our Saturday things

And then we'll move on.

But we will remember

Long after Saturday's gone."

Remembering Robert Burns:

"A Red, Red Rose" by Robert Burns (1759-1796)

"O my Luve is like a red, red rose

   That's newly sprung in June;

O my Luve is like the melody

   That's sweetly played in tune.

So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

   So deep in luve am I;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

   Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

   And the rocks melt wi' the sun;

I will love thee still, my dear,

   While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve!

   And fare thee weel awhile!

And I will come again, my luve,

   Though it were ten thousand mile."

and:

"John Anderson my jo, John" by Robert Burns

"John Anderson my jo, John,

When we were first acquent,

Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonie brow was brent;

But now your brow is beld, John,

Your locks are like the snaw,

but blessings on your frosty pow,

John Anderson, my jo!

John Anderson my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither,

And monie a cantie day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither;

Now we maun totter down, John,

And hand in hand we'll go,

And sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson, my jo!"