“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” When Shakespeare wrote those words in the late 16th century, he had no idea how prophetically accurate that statement would be. Over four-hundred years later, the world has become an internationally connected stage. From Facebook Live, to Instagram Live, to TikTok, anyone with a smart phone can instantly broadcast every single moment of their day. We can see what they’re eating for breakfast, which outfit they’re wearing to work, or how well they perform the latest trending dance moves.
It’s hard to believe that as recently as a couple of generations ago, today’s cellphone technology didn’t exist and televisions were absent from most homes. Maybe the inability to publicly broadcast one’s every move contributed to the reasoning, but those who lived in the mid-20th century were very careful to protect the particulars of their personal lives.
As a child of the seventies, I was quite accustomed to not knowing my parents’ business and my mom painstakingly safeguarded her childhood memories, because that’s what she was taught to do. I knew the basic facts about her life: she was the oldest of thirteen children, her parents’ names were Henry and Sarah, and she moved to Mansfield, Ohio as a young girl, and that’s the gist of what I knew as a child, because kids weren’t supposed to know the details, on account of the fact that the devil was in the details.
One day, I overheard a conversation between my mom and dad, as they were discussing putting flowers on “Scotty’s” grave. Being the typical curious child, I waited for the opportune moment, then asked my mom who “Scotty” was. She immediately teared up and told me that he was her baby brother who had died during that summer of sorrow. Those words have haunted me throughout my life and, now, I invite you to learn the story of Clinton Scott “Scotty” Adkins…the story that was too painful for my mom to tell.
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