I was in the fourth grade and out on the playground at recess when we saw one of the teachers come out of the school crying and huddle with other teachers there. Instantly, they were all either crying or looking stunned. It was very frightening for me/us to see our familiar, in-charge adults in such a state. They told us there on the playground that President Kennedy had been shot . . . and I think by that time had died, but I'm not sure. I remember looking up at the sky for "enemy planes" that might start dropping bombs on us at any moment. Remember, this was after the Cuban Missile Crisis and many schools, including mine, had monthly "duck & cover" safety drills. The fire alarm would go off and we had to either crouch under our desks or file into the hallway and sit on the floor with our bookbags over our heads. It was a frightening time for us all. And then to hear that some "bad guys" had managed to kill our beloved president made me ~ made a lot of people, kids and adults alike ~ feel very vulnerable and unprotected. A side note to this: I was born and raised in Michigan on Lake St. Clair, which was near Selfridge Air Force Base. The house directly across the street from us was owned by the Air Force and usually housed one of the higher up doctors stationed at Selfridge who had enough seniority that he got the big house off base. During the Cuban Missile Crisis, a doc lived there with his German born wife, Helga, and their children. Helga was so frightened, having lived in Germany during WW2, that she had a bomb shelter for them dug in the front yard of their home. This was a major event in our neighborhood at the time! Right after it was finished, Helga showed it to my mother and me. I remember that it had a very thick metal door. There were metal walls and narrow bunks on each side, and a tall shelf unit filled with cans of food and drinks. I recall asking her, "Will you let us come down here with you guys if our town gets bombed, so that we can be safe, too?" She smiled and said that no, we had to get our own bomb shelter. That this was just to keep her own family safe. My parents had no intention of getting one and thought Helga was over-reacting, although they could understand why. But, I have to tell you, all of this had a very big, very frightening impact on me as a young kid . . . some of which is with me still, and probably always will be. Lynn This post was edited by lynninnewmexico on Tue, Nov 19, 13 at 10:43

When Someone Takes Their Own Life by Norman Vincent Peale In many ways, this seems the most tragic form of death. Certainly it can entail more shock and grief for those who are left behind than any other. And often the stigma of suicide is what rests most heavily on those left behind. And my heart goes out to those who are left behind, because I know that they suffer terribly. Children in particular are left under a cloud of "differentness" all the more terrifying because it can never be fully explained or lifted. The immediate family of the victim is left wide open to tidal waves of guilt "What did I fail to do that I should have done? What did I do that was wrong?" To such grieving persons I can only say, "Lift up your heads and hearts. Surely you did your best. And surely the loved one who is gone did his best, for as long as he could. Remember, now, that his battles and torments are over. Do not judge him, and do not presume to fathom the mind of God where this one of His children is concerned." A few days ago, when a young man died by his own had, a service for him was conducted by his pastor, the Rev. Warren Stevens. What he said that day expresses, far more eloquently than I can, the message that I'm trying to convey. Here are some of his words: "Our friend died on his own battlefield. He was killed in action fighting a civil war. He fought against adversaries that were as real to him as his casket is real to us. They were powerful adversaries. They took toll of his energies and endurance. They exhausted the last vestiges of his courage and strength. At last these adversaries overwhelmed him. And it appeared that he lost the war. But did he? I see a host of victories that he has won! For one thing -- he has won our admiration -- because even if he lost the war, we give him credit for his bravery on the battlefield. And we give him credit for the courage and pride and hope that he used as his weapons as long as he could. We shall remember not his death, but his daily victories gained through his kindnesses and thoughtfulness, through his love for family and friends, for animals and books and music, for all things beautiful, lovely and honorable. We shall remember the many days that he was victorious over overwhelming odds. We shall remember not the years we thought he had left, but the intensity with which he lived the years he had! Only God knows what this child of His suffered in the silent skirmishes that took place in his soul. But our consolation is that God does know and understands!"

Wow....what an amazing list of people.... too many of them no longer with us or active here. It is nice to remember some of their names and their struggles that we shared. Thanks for the memories.

I guess I'm a sentimental old fool (at 53, LOL). Here is my experience... I have a few picture books printed online and they are great. However, IMHO, they can't compare to actual printed (or developed) pictures. I was tasked with writing a biography of my M&D's life, and believe me, it wasn't short! To do this I used verbal accounts from my M&D; a few thousand slides from my M&D, GP's and Great A&U; hundreds of photographs; my Great Aunt's daily journals; and tape recordings we sent from overseas to my GPs'. I digitized and transcribed almost all of it. Even though the slides were decades old, the digital quality was amazing. The scanned photographs, even the old, old, B&W's, were generally good quality. I only used a few pictures that were taken with a digital camera. The best part of the whole process was the obvious telling of their life story by my parents to me. As an adult you hear stories you weren't aware of as a child or wouldn't have been privileged to. The second best was handling the old photographs. Actually feeling them in my hands, turning them over to see if there was any writing on them, thinking of all those who had looked at them before me. Right up with this feeling was the handling of letters and my Aunt's journals. It's as if I could re-touch family members deceased through the pictures, letters, and journals. The nostalgia cloaked me with love when sifting through the pictures, holding each one in my hand and remembering. The biography is now complete and published. It's an amazing story and there are pictures, journal excerpts, and even conversations from the tapes that were transcribed (like when my sister was born and my Dad got the other four kids' reactions and my Mom talked to my Grandparents right after the birth). This is a long winded way to say that I prefer, much prefer, holding and looking through actual photographs to looking at the pictures printed in a book. If they are in a photo album, you can still take them out, look at the back, handle them, scan them, kiss the faces of your loved ones, hold them next to your heart. It's just not quite the same, for me, when it's a picture printed on a page of a book.