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I recalled an incident my mother once related about Mr. Franklin. In his business he dealt with a lot of people every day yet appeared to stay remarkably well, rarely falling prey to any "bug" going around. One day my mother asked how he managed to do that. His interesting reply was that every now and then during the day he would simply pour some rubbing alcohol over his hands. In light of all the instant hand-sanitizers on the market today, many containing alcohol, Dock Franklin was evidently a man ahead of his time! The ride back home didn't take very long (we opted to make the return trip on some of the newer roads), but it gave me time to reflect on the afternoon. It had been a good one. The faded, sepia-toned memories in my mind had, for a few hours that day, taken on a new life and color and vibrancy. Somehow I felt reconnected and renewed. Those old roads had served to reinforce a link with my past and provide me with a sentimental journey that I needed, perhaps more than I knew. And because of that, I'm glad some of those old roads can still be found. Innocents Lost In the still of the night, lowings deep and distressed Drift through my bedroom window, and I know Without seeing that the truck has visited The farm up the hill, and mothers cry. I turn off the lamp, stretch myself out. Across the double bed their cries scrape a nerve, Something which cannot be retrieved. I toss and turn, as to the slaughterhouse I ride. Wrong choices, stungun to the temple Of all we thought we had. I never meant to hurt you. For what do we know of prods we resist? Looking back, it's easy to see what was At stake, the bloody dismembering. —Rusty Freeman 11 ...

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