My self directed post credentialling recovery program continues with daily doses of field work and pecking away at another project. This fourth someday to be 300 page primary historical document is not intended to be a memoir, but I guess that shoe fits pretty well. I just don’t like the word memoir. 

        The community I knew was gone or going. The MIC was getting ready to pull up what had been giant stakes holding up a massive tent for more than half a century...far more, unofficially.  Few know. 

         As a historian I struggled to wrap my brain around a century in which my community played a major role in creating outcomes...and the stuff needed to do so. The major obstacle was secrecy. Few knew.

         All gone now, maybe. Buffalo Bill’s  Wild West Show was gone long before I was born, and Grant too;  But they were both here before Marconi, and most people do not know any of this happened just inland of the New Jersey Beach I toddled on at the peak of the Cold War.          

 small bit of big history, the sub-marine view of an iceberg that had a teeny tiny tip we tried to cling to, until we were pulled under and learned how to survive there. 

           At times I think I was spared to tell the story, but all I can tell is my story. I chose to call it MAHI, but I cannot remember what I was never allowed to know, I can only guess. Historians guess. 

            I know that secrets are secrets, and that the beat goes on, just not quite the way it was, and not here, where I knew the sights and sounds but not the secrets, just secrecy.  Secrecy was all we knew...our normal. What we knew we knew not to share.  

            I am recovering...memories, and from sub-marine life...learning how to breathe above sea level. Therapy helped. Writing helps. I still work in the field every day up and down the coast. I do not know where the MIC moved on to, or what they are working on now. It’s not me, maybe.

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Comment by J.P. Hart on November 15, 2018 at 12:15pm

20K Road Trip~Flotsam Jetsam~
Dad and me tilled hugely orange heavy pumpkins. Sandhill cranes swung low swoo\ping\ish\ly then with giant strides trotted and leaped flapping wings bigger than kites. Disappearing they whooped barging into underbrush. Crew cut youngins and Sally Mae played sandcastle and serious toy soldier war games on the rim of that tractor tire, forming swales and berms with their chromium yellow machines. Going ack! ack! ack! We'd 12 Special Exports --- creek cold. Touched cans. Dad said copacetic. Downstream on a grapevine Tarzan yelled. CAVITATION! I cried out, yodled. All lazy afternoon Rembrandt remained busy with his pink hue etched on cotton-candy curvaceous clouds.
Back when cans wouldn't crush with bare hands.

Comment by Robert B. James on November 15, 2018 at 6:15pm

Ahhhh...JP, no sleet in them there canes, or cotton. Us beach kids always wanted to grow sumptin...more that maters over the septic.


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