No, it’s not the giant plasma blob thrown off by the sun that grazed the corner of the Earth’s atmosphere and passed into oblivion (we hope). Nor is it the Republican primary. And, it isn’t the letter I received from my credit union that said, “As you will turn 70.5 this year, you should begin spending the money you set aside in your investment account. We are going to inform the IRS of this event.” (I am paraphrasing).
No, all of the above is disconcerting enough, but the end I refer to is my final semester which began this week, and will put a crimp in important things like writing my blog posts.
I am working diligently to complete the last of the three books I have read for my class. That is three of 13. Undoubtedly, the professor will have us undertake much writing in addition to the reading. Reading and writing. That’s what makes history.
Although much of my undergraduate history (21 hours) is American history, this is only my second graduate level class in American history. Heretofore, my concentration has been in European history from 1200 forward or what historians call the modern age that began with reform in the Catholic Church and the Renaissance, not the discovery of the Americas. For all you non-historians, there was no Dark Ages, nor even a Middle Ages which suggests a Dark Ages.
History is one continuous thing, and the Americas, however unique they may seem, are the children of the old world, which includes the Eurasian land mass from England to China, and all its sorrows and joys. In history these days, we learn that we are all connected, or as the children’s song has it. “It’s a small world after all.” But it has always been thus.