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Don Amend

My past seems to be coming back to haunt me the past couple of years.

It’s Sunday evening as I write this, and writing a column is not what I anticipated I would be doing right now.

My plan was to be doing just the opposite, relaxing with a book, a cup of tea and a little soft music. I could do that because I had a column all ready to turn in.

A reader told me the other day that she was looking forward to seeing what I would say about the Nov. 4 election.

Once again, it’s politics time here in good old Wyoming.

It seems it’s always politics time here in the land of the free. We barely finish washing the noise of one election out of our ears before the next campaign begins, and disgruntled losers, prospective candidates and loud-mouthed commentators resume shouting at us.

For the past few days, I’ve been studying a little American history.

Little is a bit misleading here, since my study comes from a PBS series on the Roosevelt family, and the Roosevelts’ place in American life is hardly little. On the contrary, the two Roosevelts dominated the first half of the 20th century and left a giant footprint on our history as a nation.

It has been rather quiet on the political front in Wyoming this month.

That’s not too surprising, given the state’s political makeup. Everybody knows that most of the Republican candidates will be voted in November, so why get excited about it.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve encountered a mysterious stranger.

I’ve spent considerable time with this guy since we first met, but I’m having a bit of trouble learning to understand him.

My how time flies.

Recently it dawned on me that a decade has passed since I became a employee of the Powell Tribune.

I missed the anniversary of the January day in 2004 when I, a mere lad of 59, turned on a computer in the Tribune office for the first time.

Recently, I received a directive from the chairman of the board of directors that governs my domestic partnership.

The order, an indirect consequence of a trip to Billings a few weeks ago, was a simple one, and my wife issued it in one succinct sentence: “Something has to go.”

The other day, I opened a book my parents gave me more than 60 years ago.

For most of those six decades, “50 Great Americans,” the book was forgotten, left behind when I stopped living with my parents. A few years ago, I found it, and it has occupied a shelf alongside “Winnie the Pooh,” “The Wizard of Oz,” and other literary reminders of my childhood ever since.

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