All history is about the past. So all history is fiction. History is also very subjective. Get two people at one event and they will have two differing stories. Share these stories with others, and soon, you’ll have as many stories as you have people. Time allows for distortion of facts.

And those events that seem momentous now may be less so in ten, twenty, thirty years from now. My historical perspective is limited by age. For instance, no one twenty years younger than me knows who Spiro Agnew was, or cares. Everyone should care. And twenty years from now, no one twenty years younger than them will know who Donald Trump is. No one should care.

Mt Village

I do at times wonder if my far, far left sentiments, which I make note of in my dispatches, are going to be used against me. Will all I or anyone else writes become public knowledge? And will this public knowledge result in my going to prison or my being executed?

And the BLBP – will the books, and the history they contain, survive what’s ahead? What’s ahead? Right now it does not look good for those who value democracy. I suspect if you did a person on the street interview, and asked them for a definition of democracy, every answer would be different. And if all the answers were the same, it might not fit with the official definition, whatever this might be.

Am I going around in circles? Maybe so. Maybe not.

You’d think that we’d have put the dark ages behind us and moved on in our thinking. You’d think. Or you’d not think.

It was a very, very long day, starting early at the hotel and ending late. There is still snow on the ground, but spring is in the air. It usually happens later in the year; everyone gets intent on doing a billion differing things. In town, there are now many events going on near simultaneously. For us, on May 4, we have three events that day. I am trying to orchestrate it all, and also deal with the incoming and outgoing books. It gets to a point later in the day when I think that I can do no more. So what do I do? I do more.

And in the evenings, I am not sure that I’ll make it through the next day. But then I end up with what I call morning energy, a full tank of gas in a manner of speaking. And this tank lasts me until late afternoon.

The horses. I must change my schedule so that I can spend more time with them. I must, I must, I must.

Breakup, for real, is happening. The snow is melting in the pen - -twice we’ve gotten additional snow on top of the crud – but I think that now the crud is here to stay, until I rake it up. And the horses are shedding.

I will say to myself, I told you so, tomorrow night.

Next: 100. 4/11/24: I Will Run No Race Before My Time