Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Seasons of Remembrance

New visitors to the chronicles from the future may first wish to visit the past, by reading the earlier hologramletters. (see the older listings on the right, go to the bottom and click the link to the earlier hologramletters)

NOTE The following is an adaptation from the soon to be released book ‘Letters From 2030’. To register interest on its release, or to order a copy email Bob Williamson via this link.

Today would be a hologramletter bringing back many memories of a world in balance. A time that had, like the many species of fauna and flora been extinguished by catastrophic climate change events in the third decade of the 21st century.

He walked to the monitors to see the past as it had been through Anthony’s memories and how it now was at the HAARP compound.

January 31st 2030

Hi Bob

Do you remember Terry Jacks’ song, ‘Seasons in the Sun.’ This morning, I awoke with this now ancient melody playing in my head. Just like the chorus - our seasons - although they are not gone or altered and who knows when they will be sustainable again.

Normally it is right off to the kitchen/galley to start the meal for the early birds. In this I find much peace and tranquillity. A small sense of home and normality is found in preparing meals. With that ditty running through my brain however, I took some time for quiet reflection.

Closing my eyes, I was rapidly transplanted into the farmhouse where I grew up. The upstairs had five bedrooms, a full bath and a six-foot hallway down its center. That old farmhouse made the place I had on the Iowa River look like a starter kit. In my mind I ran through all the rooms and headed down the bannister staircase, pausing briefly, to glance out the stain glass window upon the landing. There before my eyes was my old dog Lumus, part wolf and part German Shepherd and there stood the old lilac tree in full bloom. A reminder of the blissful days of spring playing baseball, as it was the second base. Across the driveway and a narrow patch of the yard, which lead down to the nearest barn, was a field of winter wheat, glistening, golden in the morning sun.

Down the remainder of the five steps I flew. Walking now I saw the old gas stove: recalling the blower beneath it that spread its generous warmth while lying before it covered in a blanket, upon many a sub-zero winter afternoon, the air filling the blanket like a tent and escaping into the room about my head. Off to the side of the stove were two old oak sliding doors, which led to a formal dinning room we seldom used. I slipped into the kitchen bathed in the early morning rays of yellow sunlight. Looking out the screen door I inhaled the freshness of the air. Peeping into the adjacent room, converted from whatever its original purpose was, to become a plant symposium. I noticed my mother out the bay windows. Out the kitchen screen door I ran, leaping from the colonnade porch to land beside her. She was there tending to young seedlings in the hothouse.

Behind her were the old cellar doors. Another memory of a stormy night gripped me, when my sister and I, struggling against a tyrant wind, clinging to each other as we battled to raise one of the doors and descend into the safety of that underground haven; a haven that was shelter from tornadoes as well as a repository for years of canned produce. The memory of that stormy night in 1969 is a staunch reminder that Mother Nature and I are old friends for I was not picked up upon the wind and whisked unto the Land of Oz. . . . Flashing back to standing there beside my mother and the hothouse, I notice violets growing along the cellar doors. It must have been late April or early May.

I recall so clearly spring back then. You could count upon a gentle transition of temperatures from winter to summer. There was a steady and timely growth of the flora with a greening of the grass, budding flowers, blooming trees, and more budding flowers etc. It was a time when the patterns of nature, the biota and atmosphere were in sync, when the calendar and the weather were on the same page. Fall was filled with gradually cooling temperatures and leaves changing color and floating from the trees, when every evening and weekend was spent outside to reap the joy from whatever warm days were left, before leading into a winter of harsh skies and long frozen nights. Memories of ice-skating under a full moon fill my mind, not to mention anxiously awaiting snow days, an escape from school. There is a thought Bob, what will the childhood of the young remember kindly from this world our generation has bestowed unto them be? It was right then, the seasons, while under change in the early 1970's they still held the semblance of being sustainable and sweet. Of course I was 6-10 years old and my memories may be weak now, or altered in recall to create a more – Norman Rockwellian existence.

Before I floated back to the reality about me, I allowed myself a few more moments in the yard. I stood there batting collected Jonathan apples out into the orchard for the cows to eat. A heinous chore as a child, now a happy memory; see what I mean about recall. I then took a walk around the garden and marvelled at its glory. There were twenty rows of potatoes, twelve each of peas, green beans, horticulture beans (a soup bean). Of course there were the tomatoes, peppers, onions, corn, carrots, beats, cucumbers, lima beans (yuck), squash, pumpkins and radishes, with the rows themselves being nearly seventy-five feet long. The garden is still a very vivid memory. One does not spend twelve to fourteen hours a day as a child, upon a colonnade porch in the shade of an old oak tree shelling and snapping beans and soon, if ever, forget. It is like the memory of that closest barn, with its flaking white paint. A two-sided corn crib with a pathway built through the center for tractors to pass. I can still see the old ladder that leads up into the top, upon the bottom rung hung wires. These were used by me, the youngest in the family, who couldn’t hold a chicken up and pick it at the same time. We would raise and butcher anywhere from 300-600 chickens a year for the freezers. I never became a vegan, although I severely limited my intake of meat. For years I avoided chicken, now however, a chicken dinner sounds like a treat. I truly wonder if there is any left upon the planet? After the millions of migratory birds died and people still ignored the reality before them and wondered what was happening and why. How many bird species have been lost during this rapid climate change?

Then I was back in the barracks. Jay was stirring around looking up at me he asked, ‘you all right, you got a dazed and stupid look on your face?’ Realizing my son knew nothing of my childhood and early home life. I simply smiled back and said, ‘never better.’ As I was heading out the door, he gave me a questioning look, as per my sanity. A look I have seen before and suspect I will see again.

Today Bob! Today I cornered the Rev. Ted Haggard. I suppose I am still feeling somewhat giddy over reliving my past this morning. So forgive me, the writer/artist wants to play. So let me relate to you what happened in a novel fashion . . .

“Ted,” Anthony called out. Ted, seeing him started to turn around and head down the hallway. Anthony had been a fan of Science Fiction in his teen years. He had devoured everything written by Frank Herbert after reading the Dune series. Over the years he had practiced the use of Voice, finding that it actually worked. So, slipping into what he called his drill sergeant voice, he barked out. “Ted! Stop. We need to talk.” A slight vibration was seen cruising through Ted as he froze in his tracks and turned around.

Remarking sarcastically Ted said, “What can I do for you-fearless-leader.”

Oh crap, Bob. Patricia/Katey just came in. We had a momentary lost of power down in the remote horticultural centers. Patricia had shifted their power source to the back up solar arrays. I am heading down with her to the security center to see what is up. I will fill you in later.

...Bob, one of the relay stations out in the mountains was blown up. Jay and Max came into the command center just when Patricia pulled up the image. We had to talk them down from wanting to mount an immediate exploratory mission. It is a given from what I saw that this was the work of the marauders. I suspect they are growing suspicious from rumors floating about that there is an underground outpost nearby, well, that and the fresh produce baskets and plots we have put out. I calmed down Jay and Max, they will go out tomorrow night, the two of them, and set up a surveillance post in the region. I told them under no circumstances are they to be seen. They are not to eliminate anybody, unless they are seen. We want to give off the impression that the relay stations’ power system, while live, does not go anywhere populated. It is a damn good thing that those stations and lines stop at the bottom of the mountain, then are buried deep underground. I doubt the marauders will go to the effort of digging them up and tracing them back here. The plan is to scout the area out, find out what is going on for sure and only conduct repairs if we are 100 percent certain this was not marauder related. I have been reassured that our power supplies are not in jeopardy and there is still ample backup solar power should we need it to replace the geothermal.

Max - now he is new to the unit. I have my suspicions to tell you the truth. I am still not convinced that he is not a mole. Jay and the squad have really taken to this dude. The Sci squad and The Others avoid him like a plague. He is in his early fifties, was a navy seal and in a special force’s unit for the LAPD, or so he claims. He did prove valuable in researching Ted although. He lifted his prints so we could conduct a search on him. The good reverend Ted is a convict. Not to mention his name is not Ted. I will relay this all to you in the next transmission.

For now Bob, even here at the HAARP compound, I am once again reminded that power is a luxury. It is amazing, having been here for less than two years, and once again I take this for granted. It wasn’t that long ago that we traveled north by night, using solar powered yard lights, to guide our way. Of course we outfitted them with black snap covers for easy dousing of the light. We relied upon magnesium fire starter kits I had collected over the years to start fires for cooking and heat. It is almost like we went from being civilized to hunter-gatherers and back again. If you can call what we did and how we lived as civilized? I don’t. With regret I forget that any survivors in the badlands are stuck in a hellish futuristic survivor reality. A reality that even writers like Frank Herbert failed to convey to us.

Until the Saga of the Good Reverend Ted then.

He has come around by the way.

It is time to create a new religion from the chaos of man, with reverend charlatan leading the way. It is time to create a religion based upon sustainability and being a part of Gaia’s cycles.

As always, winging it without a prayer. Foflol.

Your friend Anthony.

He replayed the scenes of the seasons in balance and reflected on the prophetic words of John F Kennedy in the 1960’s “The Supreme Reality of Our Time is Vulnerability of our Planet"


  1. It never ceases to amaze me as I follow these letters what it might be like. I hope it doesn't come to this, but if it does, I feel like I can sort of prepare for it by your stories.

  2. Please Lord let it not come to this! We must take action and hope for the best while preparing for the worst. Sad.