The place we all call home.

It has been a long hard ride and I won't loose hope, this is still the place that we all call home. -D.B.

Trying to find the words in this heart of mine. To put my truth on paper when it bubbles up in so many directions. A time in my life, a long time ago, I was running so far from my roots that when asked what type of music I liked I would comment anything but rap and ofcourse anything but country. I like the person I am today. A person who knows who I am, where I have been and has a good clear picture of where I am going. It suits me better, to not follow but completely know myself. I would rather lead.
The opening weekend of our restaurant pushing 6 years ago now, I left a packed house with folks waiting at the door to be seated and a full staff to slip out to a Dierks Bentley concert. We had floor seats. I was beyond tired mentally and physically...opening a restaurant even in your twenties is a feat for the mind and body. I loved that place. The food, the people, the surrounding farming community...a step closer to knowing who I am and where I was going.
The year before I lost one of the most important people in my life....and life changed and I started chasing dreams..some might say rainbows.
But it was him I yearned to be more like. And driving in my truck down back country roads, windows down, kicking up dirt and the breeze riding through my hair..I find home. Knees in the soil breathing in the first tilling on a cold spring day. I find my roots.
Today I remember another part of me. The Mother land. Without her I can't change my course, I can't chase rainbows. Today I want to spend the day remembering not the freedoms that are slipping away or have lost, because that is for everyday to discuss. But today, on this sacred of days, I want to remember all of our roots, not just my own. I want my mind to drift to the sound of drums and the marching of redcoats along the Hudson passing my friend EB and Tommy's home, the line of soldiers like a train never ending. The ruins of homes burning behind them.
The brave lady, a young Mamma, who stood in my own doorway. The one I sanded and stained.. her hands gripping the trim as hot tears fall down her cheeks, and sons carrying bare essentials, and a single rifle follow the old indian road to Fort Edward to join up. My own soil, stained with blood. I will not forget. Will you?
Do you see their faces when you hop in your truck, windows down, country tunes loud, flying down the dirt filled road, corn on either side....they died for us here. They signed contracts at Mawneys, Reynolds, Fort Edward and Fortsville.
Today we honor those generations who will be eternally linked. Whose Grandsons saw the war checks, and who again headed off to war leaving behind Mothers, friends, whole towns scarred...to save this land, the land that we all call home.
Today no matter our position on gun control, no matter our thoughts on wire taps or gay marriage, no matter our thoughts on war. Men died. Men died because they loved us, because they saw this rural country, those back woods roads...they knew the smell of spring tilled soil, the sweat of hard work, they new the fresh feeling of freedom and tasted its sting as it washed over them. They new pride when they saw the flag carried above them.
Today, set it all aside and see with your eyes this hallowed ground. Stand today and look at the sky, and teach your children well the truth of freedom, let it wash over us as new.

Happy Fourth love!