The Passing of a Generation

In 1991, Mark Heard wrote the song “Worry Too Much.” The song was then covered by musician Buddy Miller:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AQ1ugRQgP7g

The lyrics of this song—and Miller’s performance of it—touch me greatly. In particular, I am moved by the stanza:

It's the quick-step march of history
The vanity of nations
It's the way there'll be no muffled drums
To mark the passage of my generation

As I write this post, I am mourning the passing of a friend who I think of as part of the Greatest Generation (those born from 1901-1927). Technically, this friend was in the Silent Generation, since she was born in 1933. But, to me, she had all the characteristics of greatness.

She was a wife, mother, grandmother. She worked and, later, became a philanthropist who gave generously, particularly in our regional community. She believed in the strength and power of women and, to that end, she supported and lifted up women. She was joyful. She knew how to laugh. She listened. She cared.

At her memorial service, people gathered to celebrate her. The church—lovely with stained glass windows that welcomed light from a gorgeous summer day—was a good place to remember her.

And, now, reality is settling. I know I will never again send her a quick email. We will not have lunch together. I won’t hear her laugh or see her light up when something interests her. My loss is nothing when compared to her family’s; however, there are many of us who—on the edges of her vivid life—who will always have a lingering sorrow.

This is my muffled drum...to mark the passage of a generation.

WORRY TOO MUCH (songwriter and lyrics by Mark Heard)

It's a demolition derby
It's the sport of the hunt
Proud tribe in full war dance
It's the slow smile that the bully gives the runt

It's the force of inertia
It's the lack of constraint
It's the children out playing in the rock garden
All dolled up in black hats and war paint

Sometimes it feels like bars of steel I can't bend with my hands
Oh, I worry too much
Somebody told me that I worry too much

It's these sandpaper eyes
It's the way they rub the luster from what is seen
It's the way we tell ourselves that all these things are normal
'Til we can't remember what we mean

It's the flicker of our flames
It's the friction born of living
It's the way we beat a hot retreat
And heave our smoking guns into the river

It's the quick-step march of history
The vanity of nations
It's the way there'll be no muffled drums
To mark the passage of my generation

It's the children of my children
It's the lambs born in innocence
It's wondering if the good I know will last
To be seen by the eyes of the little ones

Worry Too Much lyrics © BMG Rights Management