A few weeks back (it seems like ages ago) on a hot hot day that happened to be the Fourth of July, when I was just coming out of the Colony House, where there's a very cool-if-modest ongoing exhibit featuring letters from prominent Americans, and I'd been marveling at the differences in their handwriting and the legibility of their handwriting and the importance of their handwriting, and I found myself standing behind a naval officer who was looking out over a bustling patriotic scene in Washington Square involving a cannon salute re-enacted by the Newport Artillery Company, it occurred to me that it's not all fun and games. This man's view was different from mine (even though I was standing within inches of his right ear). That's always the way, of course — people view the same scene in different ways, and history in fact is ongoing — but it just struck me at that moment. And I was struck again later, on that same hot day, as I was heading down Memorial Boulevard behind some other apparent officers to Easton's Beach below the Cliff Walk. It's not a new thought; it's a very old thought. And it's not just the contrast (in views, motivation, experience); that's a given. It's that time really does (dare I say it??) march on ...
