<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19761747</id><updated>2012-02-16T14:40:14.123-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Views From The Youngest Son</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Red</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='33' height='14' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7415/1962/320/The%20Red%20Hairing.0.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>14</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19761747.post-116489316216953905</id><published>2006-11-30T07:24:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-11-30T07:26:02.183-06:00</updated><title type='text'>Memories</title><content type='html'>Memories that flood my mind.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Some I wish I could forget and some I am glad I can’t.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The ones of good bye cloud my mind.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Memories are all that’s left when time has taken your loved ones away.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Our children’s memories are what we make every day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The time and effort we make with them will last longer than any toy and when we are old we can share in the stories of the past.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We will live on to our grandchildren and great grandchildren, the memories will be shared.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/19761747-116489316216953905?l=viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/feeds/116489316216953905/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=19761747&amp;postID=116489316216953905&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/116489316216953905'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/116489316216953905'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/2006/11/memories.html' title='Memories'/><author><name>Red</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='33' height='14' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7415/1962/320/The%20Red%20Hairing.0.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19761747.post-116056889429386361</id><published>2006-10-11T07:12:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-10-11T07:14:54.313-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Soul Mate</title><content type='html'>When your eyes meet, your heart beats as one. Faster and faster in perfect rhythm. When you are not together, they are always with you in your thoughts. There is a strong need to fill the void that once was filled. The feeling of being lost overwhelms your whole being. The search can last for life times, in this one or the next, in constant search, until your hearts beat as one again. Then you feel complete and one with the universe.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/19761747-116056889429386361?l=viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/feeds/116056889429386361/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=19761747&amp;postID=116056889429386361&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/116056889429386361'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/116056889429386361'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/2006/10/soul-mate.html' title='Soul Mate'/><author><name>Red</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='33' height='14' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7415/1962/320/The%20Red%20Hairing.0.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19761747.post-115936000452021258</id><published>2006-09-27T07:23:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-09-28T18:31:56.053-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Reflections</title><content type='html'>There comes a time in your life when you reflect on your past and wonder, is this where I should be; Is this the person which I wanted to become? The answer is yes, I have been cheated on, lied to and double crossed, but there are no regrets. Because that has made me who I am and I have stayed strong in my convections. I believe in God, don’t drink, smoke or do drugs and I love life and enjoy children even in the bad times. In the reflection in a mirror I see myself as a lucky man because I have had this love of my life twice, once when I was young and again now.&lt;br /&gt;She smoothes the rough edges of the bad times. She was always in my mind. She kept me comforted through the hardest time of my life. I could close my eyes and see her smiling face and that made me feel good. In the good times when the sun was in my face and looking at the ocean alone, she was there beside me. God does answer prayers He brought my love back to me. I see love in her eyes. I taste love one her lips and I feel love from her heart. Her words fill my mind with love, how can I be so favored by God to give me this gift. The gift of eternal love.&lt;br /&gt;I don’t know how long God will give us but for me I will love her for as long as I have air in my lungs. When we are in heaven I will know what true love is and even eternity won’t be long enough for us. The mirror also shows me a bright future, one filled with adventure and wonderment. To share it with my love, to laugh together cry together to feel the rain on our skin. To breathe fresh air of some distant place is something I will always cherish. In our old age as we hold hands and watch the sunset and sun rise, no regrets of the past. I thank God for the life he has given me.&lt;br /&gt;There are still lots of pages to be written in my life and my wife and our children and parents will fill theses pages. Everyone has a book of life. Some pages are all blank, some are short stories but ours will filled from cover to cover and have more pages than the leaves on the ground in fall.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/19761747-115936000452021258?l=viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/feeds/115936000452021258/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=19761747&amp;postID=115936000452021258&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/115936000452021258'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/115936000452021258'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/2006/09/reflections.html' title='Reflections'/><author><name>Red</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='33' height='14' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7415/1962/320/The%20Red%20Hairing.0.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19761747.post-115676594144916865</id><published>2006-08-28T06:50:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-08-28T06:52:21.460-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Time</title><content type='html'>Time how mysterious you can be. It moves so fast and so slow. In a blink of any eye 10 years can pass and then in time of sorrow a blink can last a year. A short time for love and laughter is better than a life time of pain and sorrow. We cannot control time but we can make it a friend or foe. We can chose to make the best that time has given us or fight it to the end. I choose to make it a friend. Most things in life that are wondrous only last a short while. The sunset or sun rise, so I choose to stop and enjoy those moments.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/19761747-115676594144916865?l=viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/feeds/115676594144916865/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=19761747&amp;postID=115676594144916865&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/115676594144916865'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/115676594144916865'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/2006/08/time.html' title='Time'/><author><name>Red</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='33' height='14' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7415/1962/320/The%20Red%20Hairing.0.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19761747.post-114985365644667140</id><published>2006-06-09T06:45:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-06-09T06:48:33.366-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Where has the innocence gone</title><content type='html'>Where are the days of youth&lt;br /&gt;Where is the time of innocence&lt;br /&gt;Why must children become old before their years&lt;br /&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;Lost forever never to return&lt;br /&gt;Oh how I wish to see the world through the eyes of innocence&lt;br /&gt;Serendipity, please find me and show me the lost years of youth&lt;br /&gt;The time grows near when innocence will be lost at birth&lt;br /&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;Children of days gone by knew life in a simpler time&lt;br /&gt;Over are the days of simple pleasures&lt;br /&gt;Memories of innocence is left behind&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/19761747-114985365644667140?l=viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/feeds/114985365644667140/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=19761747&amp;postID=114985365644667140&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/114985365644667140'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/114985365644667140'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/2006/06/where-has-innocence-gone.html' title='Where has the innocence gone'/><author><name>Red</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='33' height='14' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7415/1962/320/The%20Red%20Hairing.0.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19761747.post-114907582827003936</id><published>2006-05-31T06:42:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-05-31T10:22:11.376-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Strings</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="justify"&gt;The strings of life are like a web. The same web that catches the love of your life also holds all the things we want to let go of. Bad memories or people who strain your life to the point of breaking this web. If we could only clip the string that hold the anger and all the things that clog up the web of life. Allow the web to flow free in the breeze and feel the sun and allow itself to be attached to strong trees that will allow it to stay strong and ever present. If only people with love and devotion be allowed to remain. What a wonderful life we would weave.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/19761747-114907582827003936?l=viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/feeds/114907582827003936/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=19761747&amp;postID=114907582827003936&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/114907582827003936'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/114907582827003936'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/2006/05/strings.html' title='Strings'/><author><name>Red</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='33' height='14' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7415/1962/320/The%20Red%20Hairing.0.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19761747.post-114683015023967236</id><published>2006-05-05T06:54:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-05-05T06:55:50.250-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Ever Present</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="center"&gt;Your love is ever present&lt;br /&gt;It surrounds me, fills me&lt;br /&gt;Intoxicates my senses&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When we are far away&lt;br /&gt;I carry your love in my heart&lt;br /&gt;You’re ever present on my mind&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can feel your thoughts enter my mind and slowly warm my body&lt;br /&gt;I feel your skin next to mineI carry your love with me and in me all the days of my life&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/19761747-114683015023967236?l=viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/feeds/114683015023967236/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=19761747&amp;postID=114683015023967236&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/114683015023967236'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/114683015023967236'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/2006/05/ever-present.html' title='Ever Present'/><author><name>Red</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='33' height='14' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7415/1962/320/The%20Red%20Hairing.0.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19761747.post-114622524232517897</id><published>2006-04-28T06:53:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-04-28T06:54:02.336-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Road of Life</title><content type='html'>On the road of life we choose which road we travel and some choose the autobahn early in life. It is a fast straight and no curves road and life tends to pass by them very quickly. Others choose a road with a few bends safe curves and not as fast although it is safe it lacks the trill of speed and excitement of taking a change. While still others take the scenic road, less traveled. It is very slow but it allows you to see the wonders life has to offer. The trill of watching the sun rise the excitement of the beauty of all that God has made.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/19761747-114622524232517897?l=viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/feeds/114622524232517897/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=19761747&amp;postID=114622524232517897&amp;isPopup=true' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/114622524232517897'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/114622524232517897'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/2006/04/road-of-life.html' title='Road of Life'/><author><name>Red</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='33' height='14' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7415/1962/320/The%20Red%20Hairing.0.jpg'/></author><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19761747.post-114558245176758143</id><published>2006-04-20T20:18:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-04-20T20:20:51.780-05:00</updated><title type='text'>The Purple Burro</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="center"&gt;Who is to blame for the purple rain&lt;br /&gt;Lets blame it on the purple burro&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt; For he has no name&lt;br /&gt;But the purple burro say’s&lt;br /&gt;I am not to blame&lt;br /&gt;Just because I am purple&lt;br /&gt;And I have a name&lt;br /&gt;Purple Burro is my name&lt;br /&gt;But if it isn’t you…&lt;br /&gt;Then who can we blame&lt;br /&gt;What about the purple cloud&lt;br /&gt;That is where the rain came from&lt;br /&gt;The purple burro looked up&lt;br /&gt;And all around and said&lt;br /&gt;There is nothing to blame&lt;br /&gt;It is just rain that happens to be&lt;br /&gt;Purple like me&lt;br /&gt;So I will just enjoy and accept it&lt;br /&gt;Like my friends accept me&lt;br /&gt;The purple burro&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/19761747-114558245176758143?l=viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/feeds/114558245176758143/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=19761747&amp;postID=114558245176758143&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/114558245176758143'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/114558245176758143'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/2006/04/purple-burro.html' title='The Purple Burro'/><author><name>Red</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='33' height='14' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7415/1962/320/The%20Red%20Hairing.0.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19761747.post-114497899127677640</id><published>2006-04-13T20:42:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-04-13T20:44:17.016-05:00</updated><title type='text'>For My Mother</title><content type='html'>I am who I am because of you. The lessons you taught, the love you gave. You always there to mend the cuts and bruises of life. You, always believing in me and encouraging me to travel and see new things, experience life. You, never wanting me to be anything other then who I wanted to be. I didn’t truly know how special you were until I was grown and realized that you were more then the just giver of life. Mother you never asked for anything in return for your love, only to be loved. You always enjoyed long walks with us kids running about playing. In my youth you were always smiling and kept all our bad times inside. Only after I became a father did I know how poor were. How much you did, making three meals from two. Mending clothes to make them last. But you, dear mother never complained. If we really wanted something special you always seemed to find a way to make it happen. You gave so much when there was nothing for left for you. And still you did not complain. I wish every day I could have one more day with you, to tell you how much you mean to me. To tell you that I love you. But you have gone on to be with your mother. I take comfort in knowing that one day I too will come home to you. We can walk the streets of heaven, I will hold your hand in mine one more time. See your smile one more time. That would be what heaven is. Until then, please know I love you&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Forever your son&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/19761747-114497899127677640?l=viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/feeds/114497899127677640/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=19761747&amp;postID=114497899127677640&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/114497899127677640'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/114497899127677640'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/2006/04/for-my-mother.html' title='For My Mother'/><author><name>Red</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='33' height='14' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7415/1962/320/The%20Red%20Hairing.0.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19761747.post-114441084811008025</id><published>2006-04-07T06:51:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-04-07T06:54:08.126-05:00</updated><title type='text'>The First Time</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="justify"&gt;The first time I saw your face was the first time I fell in love. Then you were gone, that was the first time I felt I had lost a most precious gift. Then we meet again and that was the first time I knew we were meant to be. Each time we were together my love was renewed. The first time I meet your daughter, it was the fist time I felt the love of a child and it was the first time I felt love only fathers know. The first time we said good bye was the first time I knew what a heart broken felt like, pain mixed with never ending love. Then as time passed the memory of meeting you again filled my thoughts. At night before I closed my eyes I prayed that they would behold you again. That my aching arms would be eased by your soft skin, that your lips would quench my never ending love for you. The first time I sent an e-mail, it was to you and all of the fear of rejection was gone when I received my first e-mail from you. For the first time in a long time love was back in my life, after many years when we meet, my heart filled with love. My soul was complete when you said I do, that was the first time I knew my dreams and prayers had come true. Now every time I wake and you are there I feel the love I felt the first time I saw your face.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/19761747-114441084811008025?l=viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/feeds/114441084811008025/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=19761747&amp;postID=114441084811008025&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/114441084811008025'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/114441084811008025'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/2006/04/first-time.html' title='The First Time'/><author><name>Red</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='33' height='14' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7415/1962/320/The%20Red%20Hairing.0.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19761747.post-113763512674242754</id><published>2006-01-18T19:44:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2006-01-18T19:45:26.753-06:00</updated><title type='text'>brother</title><content type='html'>When we were young and life was simple we played like there was no tomorrow. Then we grew up and away. Why does this have to be this way? You’re older than me, so I chase you around. But your life is full of much. For me years go by and I try to be the brother you need but there is not room for me. There came a time when there was no tomorrow. Now you’re gone and now all I have is memories of when we were young.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/19761747-113763512674242754?l=viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/feeds/113763512674242754/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=19761747&amp;postID=113763512674242754&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/113763512674242754'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/113763512674242754'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/2006/01/brother.html' title='brother'/><author><name>Red</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='33' height='14' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7415/1962/320/The%20Red%20Hairing.0.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19761747.post-113433800061373211</id><published>2005-12-11T15:34:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2005-12-15T21:47:07.923-06:00</updated><title type='text'>things that irk me</title><content type='html'>Hello Merry Christmas. One of the things that irks me is having to silence my freedom of speech. If I were Jewish I would say Happy Hanukah, or African it would be happy Kwanzaa. Lets all be correct in all things. Our country was founded on freedom of speech and freedom to believe in what ever religion we want. But in the quest to be “politically correct” we have to become mindless robots without any say in how we teach our children; what we believe in and what our forefathers fought and died for. Today as I was Sam’s Warehouse, an older gentleman said “Happy Holidays” and I said Merry Christmas back. A large smile came over his face, and like two allies having a secret meeting, he said Merry Christmas back, then added Thank you. Is it a shame to be a Christian now days? Why does it cause so much trouble to show the Bible in public places? We sear an oath in court to tell the truth, even non Christians have to do this. All our laws are based on the Ten Commandments, our country has prospered and has grown so fast and has became the model that all countries are now aspiring to be. But without God, we are doomed. I believe in freedom of speech and religion. I will not stop you from practicing yours so don’t stop me in mine. Life is too short to have our rights trampled on.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/19761747-113433800061373211?l=viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/feeds/113433800061373211/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=19761747&amp;postID=113433800061373211&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/113433800061373211'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/113433800061373211'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/2005/12/things-that-irk-me.html' title='things that irk me'/><author><name>Red</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='33' height='14' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7415/1962/320/The%20Red%20Hairing.0.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19761747.post-113431533800078265</id><published>2005-12-11T09:34:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2005-12-15T21:44:55.983-06:00</updated><title type='text'>one beginning</title><content type='html'>Life as the youngest son of four boys, you would think that with just two years between each of us, we would be inseparable. Growing up this was true, but as we got older this changed very fast and was very confusing to me. Because I could not see them any other way then as my older brothers, that I wanted to be like. I could not understand why they did not want me around anymore. Why they would chose to go with their friends and leave me alone.&lt;br /&gt;It started with my oldest brother, we will call him Blaine. He was strange even to me, when he was young he liked pain and fascinated with death; all sorts of death. While we were growing up he broke my nose and finger and gave me several contusions, of course he was just playing. I believe he was, because with him playing did involve causing pain He enjoyed to slowly kill small animals. I thought this was odd, but accepted it because I didn’t know any better. When I saw it I could not imagine myself doing that to animals, so I collected them and saved them from him. I liked different kinds of small animals, my favorite were two horn toads. I kept them for years, they lived in a large glass jar filled with sand, and we lived in the Mojave Desert. They were my pets until on one of the moves to Texas. During the trip my brother Hyme, the second to the oldest, turned them loose at one of the pit stops some where in New Mexico. I didn’t know it until it was time to feed them. Of course Dad would not go back, not that we would have ever found them again, but Dad was not the type to ever stop much anyway. You know pee in a bottle if you couldn’t hold it, but that’s another story. We had a lot of trips back and forth between California and Texas. I was born in between those states in New Mexico, a small town on the old Route 66. It was still a well used road back then, just a memory now.&lt;br /&gt;Now my brother Hyme and I were close, he was always trying to the peace maker, never on one side or the other. The shinning star, he played football, was in Who’s Who and got scholarships, one of which was to Princeton, he turned it down and joined the army, the day after our grand mother’s funeral. I think because Blaine has already moved out, to go to college and road bulls on the Rodeo Circuit. He was very good, but of course it did involve a lot of pain. He enjoyed the life he picked until a bad fall ended his career as a bull rider. He had fallen and landed on his shoulder. The doctors had to reconstruct it. From that time on he just kind of stayed in that era, not moving, just reliving those times. Now in his fifties, he is a recluse and severe alcoholic.&lt;br /&gt;Hyme was fun, always taking me to the movies when I was a teenager. When we were young we played hard and I would inevitably get hurt. Like the time he put me in the washing machine and turned it on. That hurts, but what the hell it was fun for a few minutes. Then there was the time we were playing chicken, he threw a spear and hit me in the foot, I could not move, my mom had to come and pull it out, it went all the way through my foot and into the ground. I learned at a young age how to get even with older brothers, hit them when they sleep, or are not looking. Hey I Know it was kind of wrong, but it got them to think twice before they hurt me again.&lt;br /&gt;Hyme was a Green Beret and became a military policeman. He hated the army so when his time came to re-enlist, he got out and married a woman spawned by the devil. No it’s not what you think, it’s not that I didn’t like her, she was evil and her main goal was to end the relationship between him and his family. She turned a once 250 pound 6 foot 2 ex-Green Beret into a 6 foot 150 pound P-whipped eunuch, more on this at a latter time. Now my brother Lloyd, third of us four, was a hippie by all the rules of that time; long hair, drugs and rock and roll. I leaned towards the long hair and just marijuana, never the hard stuff like Lloyd. He lived by his rules, he saw thing very different then any one else. I knew he did not start trouble but he didn’t run away from it either. He and I fought a lot, about what, it didn’t matter, he never wanted me to come along with him, never run with his friends, He did not have a lot do with me for a long time. I thought he didn’t like me, but as I got older and asked him these questions, it became clear to me that he didn’t want me around the dope and bad influences. He had a lot of bad friends that made it on the news for killing, big drug bust whatever, but he always seemed to escape the trouble some how. He ran away from home for a short time when he was about fifteen, but his money and friends ran out. So he came home and stayed until about eighteen. He and his girlfriend moved in and after a little while got married, but of course the life style stayed the same; beer, drugs and fair weather friends. You know the kind, as long as you are paying the bill they are there, but when you need them, they are gone. Lloyd and his wife, Angelina had 4 children, 3 girls and 1 boy. That did seem to slow down the drugs but not all. Angelina drank hard whiskey or wine never beer, she was a very quiet person. Half American Indian, dark hair and dark eyes, only spoke when she really had something to say. I will talk more later about that because twenty years later this life style ended their lives way too early. She died at 38 and he at 41, two years after her, hepatitis C and liver failure. The saddest time of my life, Lloyd had quit drinking after Angelina died but it was too late, he was to far advanced in this disease that was just beginning to being found. We had never heard or it before, the last two years was a good time for mine and Lloyd’s relationship. We got to see more of each other than ever before. We went on a few trips, he had to walk with a cane but that was alright, we had fun. I had taken him to the casinos in Louisiana the weekend before he died, and all the details still run through my mind slowly even to this day. He had told me of being scared to die and how much he missed Angelina. We got to say we loved one another, then I took him home not knowing those were my last words to him. I still miss him. I adopted his three youngest children, by this time his oldest was grown.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/19761747-113431533800078265?l=viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/feeds/113431533800078265/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=19761747&amp;postID=113431533800078265&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/113431533800078265'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/19761747/posts/default/113431533800078265'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://viewfromtheyoungestson.blogspot.com/2005/12/one-beginning.html' title='one beginning'/><author><name>Red</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='33' height='14' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7415/1962/320/The%20Red%20Hairing.0.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry></feed>
