We began, sometime back, this long goodbye. One by one, they've unclasped their hands from ours and slipped away. Their hearts, having beaten their allotted number of times, grew tired and stopped.

We children and grandchildren are always caught by surprise. "Not yet!" we cry out "It's too soon! We aren't ready." We are never ready.

The world rolls forward all the same.

And we are left with the sweetness and bitterness of life stinging in our eyes. Our throats grow tight, stuffed with things we meant to say but didn't, and now it's too late.

They were a generation of mostly farm kids, and the sons and daughters of small shopkeepers, the children of immigrants, of fishermen, of lumberjacks, of furniture makers.

Enough of them to mention were blacksmith's kids. Eighty years or so ago, farmers still used mules and horses to plow and harrow fields. Eighty years or so ago, it was mostly families and not corporations that owned farms.

Farm children learned early about birth and death. They helped the newborn lambs and calves struggle to their feet.

And they saw the son glint off their father's ax as it fell. They watched hens' headless bodies flail the dust, fighting what had already happened. When their mother set a plate of fried chicken on the table, the children knew the price of their dinner.

They were the depression kids. They grew up in a make-do era, spare of excess. Nothing that could be repaired or patched was thrown away. Many had just two pairs of shoes, one for everyday use and one for Sunday. Many owned not even that.

But they had learned to value what they had. And when called to defend it, they went. They were young men and women full of dreams, ready to begin their lives, build homes, have children. All of that they put aside for war.

They believed in things like freedom and democracy and right and wrong. And they were unashamed to say so. They believed in personal honor, in keeping your word and in living up to what is expected of you.

They fought in World War II and then again, many of them, in Korea. They froze and sweltered and bled. They looked into the shattered faces of friends. When it was over, they didn't all come safely home.

But those who did, set about their lives with renewed purpose. They married and had children. With hard work and frugality, they saved money for a family car. They bought homes in the suburbs, vacation trips to Yosemite, braces for Junior's teeth, piano and ballet lessons, a console stereo and, in time, a big square television set for the living room.

They voted in elections. They read their newspapers. They paid their bills. They joined in civic organizations. And then, it seemed in no more than the drawing of a breath, 40 years went by.

It is less by the signs of age that we know them as by their resoluteness at whatever comes. They have seen much, and they long ago determined what mattered and what didn't.

As a generation, they have done hard things and lived through sorrow. They have rebuilt and gone on. They have shown fortitude and forbearance. And we have leaned on their strong arms all our lives.

We may never see their like again.

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Author Unknown....