From a 10-Year-Old Bicentennial Kid to Today

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This year America turns 250. Amazing  I’m getting old  

In 1976, I was 10 years old and a fifth grader at SBJ Elementary School in Orange Park, Florida. Double digits. My school did the Bicentennial up big and I’ll never forget it. Everything was red, white, and blue. There were programs, decorations, activities, songs, and projects. For a kid who already loved Halloween and Christmas -any excuse for a celebration-it was absolutely magical. Left a deep impression on me. 

There was something special about being young and feeling connected to something so much larger than yourself. I probably didn’t understand history or democracy or what 200 years really meant, but I understood the excitement, the feeling of community and the desire for celebration. 

And that probably fed my love of traditions and holidays, which has sustained me in many ways over the years. 

I grew up, began raising my own family, and July 4th became one of those traditions we celebrated. Cookouts, fireworks, photos, the kids growing up. 

This year I am an empty nester so decorating for holidays feels unnecessary, but I added a July 4th tree to my collection despite that. I’ll never stop appreciating celebration. 

In 1976 as a kid, America felt uncomplicated to me. Today of course, is different. I’d be lying if I said I’m not worried about the country.

The division we are experiencing is deep. People are quick to assume the worst of each other. We’ve become better at starting arguments than solving problems. Disagreement equals disrespect. It feels hopeless at times.   

I’m getting older and more reflective which is probably why I’m thinking about that 10-year-old girl at SBJ Elementary in 1976, excited to celebrate, excited to belong to something bigger than herself. I still remember how that felt, and it meant something. 

So, this is my post to commemorate my young self, and the 250 year old country I live in and believe in, still. 

Memorial Day: Remembering Tim Porter

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On Memorial Day, I often think about the USS Stark. My brother was aboard when it was struck by two missiles in May 1987. He survived. That fact has shaped how I experience this day, and while I am always grateful he survived, I am also always aware of the 37 sailors who did not come home.  

I also think about Tim Porter. Tim and I knew each other briefly before he shipped out on the Stark for that fateful voyage. It wasn’t a long relationship, but I’ll never forget who he was. In May of 1987, I was on my honeymoon in California when the attack happened. We didn’t have access to info back then like we do now. It was much later that I learned that Tim was in the water for 10 hours before he was rescued, and called a miracle. 

I remember being relieved to learn that Tim had survived the attack at the time. Much later I also came to understand that he carried a heavy burden afterward, the kind that survivors sometimes carry when they are left asking why they lived when others did not. Survivor’s guilt that he never got over. And then I heard that he died by suicide, and the sadness I felt then has stayed with me all these years. 

There isn’t much more to say than that, at least not in a way that makes sense of it. I was compelled to write this post to memorialize him because when I tried to google him, nothing came up. He deserves to also be remembered, so here is his post. I’ve gone to the annual memorial ceremony in Mayport, Florida a few times. He is memorialized there- in the news clippings they’ve saved, and the exhibit they set up. But apparently there isn’t anything online, which is why I wanted to create this post on my blog. Tim Porter was on the Stark, he survived, but later died. I think he was from Georgia. If I go back for another Mayport memorial I will update this post with more info. I do have one picture I’ll add here that describes his time in the water after the attack.  

So, on this Memorial Day, I remember the crew of the Stark, my brother among them, and I remember Tim too.