This old world didn’t send out invitations, for you young men and women — no fancy cards with gilt edges, no polite “RSVP” for the grand show of existence. Most of us tumbled into this big, roaring, wonderful room we call the earth by pure mischance, like a prospector stumbling on a claim he never filed. We didn’t ask for the ticket, nor the rough ride that brought us here. For me, it was a near thing from the start – kicking and screaming down the birth canal, fighting the dark tunnel like a wild mustang bucking a blizzard, half sure I’d never see the light of day. The doctor later said it was touch and go, but touch I did, and go I didn’t. I came bawling into a world brimming with hope and promise, only to find shadows waiting, the old evil that prowls every path, sniffing at every soul like a wolf at a campfire.

Yet here’s the queer part, the part that makes a man stop and scratch his head in wonder: so many of us, battered and bruised by the trail, still manage to turn our faces to the light. We don’t just endure – we spit in the eye of despair and keep marching. There’s a music in it all, you know, a deep, thundering song that vibrates from every atom, every grain of dust, every frozen peak and roaring river. We may not hear it with our ears — Lord knows the wind howls too loud sometimes — but we feel it in our bones, that cosmic tune that started playing the moment we drew our first breath. It’s the spirit singing within the breast, filling every pore with the wild harmony of the universe, the same music that set the stars to wheeling and the tides to racing.

I didn’t choose this life, but once I had it, by thunder, I meant to live it free. Liberty’s a jealous mistress — she demands you pay in full, in sweat and scars and sleepless nights. I’ll take any hardship, any lonesome trail, any gnawing hunger or biting cold, if it means the ones I love can walk upright, heads high, breathing the clean air of freedom. Gratitude? Sure, that’s the secret gold in the pan. Whether the poke’s heavy with plenty or light as a promise, I’m thankful for every nugget. The little joys — the unexpected flash of sunlight on snow, the laugh of a child, the warm hand in yours, or the kiss on the cheek from a young dark-eyed dark-haired beauty when the storm rages — they come sneaking up when you least expect ‘em, and they hit harder than any blow from fate. They give new meaning to the grind, turn the pain into something almost sweet, like the burn of good whiskey after a long, hard day.

We’ve been handed this spark of life for one grand purpose: to deny death as long as we can. Death comes soon enough anyway — creeping like frost on the windowpane, silent and sure. No use whining about it. The journey’s stern code doesn’t bend for tears. So what do we do? We laugh in its face. We sing when the cabin’s creaking and the wolves are howling close. We dance when the world seems bent on crumbling down around our ears. That’s the rugged determined way — to mock the darkness with a defiant shout and a holler, to stamp your boots and embrace your loved one while the roof threatens to cave.

Think of the old American pioneers, the real ones, not the greenhorns. They faced winters that could freeze a man’s spit mid-air, summers swarming with blackflies thick as smoke, mining claims that petered out just when hope burned brightest and land claims that were fought over with gun and knife, tooth and nail. Yet they’d gather in the saloons, pound the bar, and roar out songs that shook the rafters. Why? Because life was short and fierce, and they meant to wring every drop from it. They didn’t ask for nature’s cruelty or the cruelty, dangers and violence of their fellow man any more than we asked for our own burdens, but they met it head-on, with a grin and a curse and a ready fist. That’s the spirit I carry — the same wild, rolling-stone heart that won’t sit still, that breaks the hearts of kith and kin sometimes, but can’t help roaming, seeking, fighting.

There’s evil enough in this world to make a man despair. It lurks in the shadows of men’s hearts, in the greed that turns brother against brother, in the quiet cruelties that wear no mask. It seeks every soul, whispers that the fight’s not worth it, that surrender’s easier. But surrender? Not while breath’s in me. I turn my face to the light because I’ve seen what happens when men don’t. I’ve seen good men broken, not by hardship, but by giving up the ghost too soon. And I’ve seen the miracle when they don’t — when they push through the pain, through the nights when the fire’s low and the wind’s a banshee, and come out the other side astounded by joy.

Those precious moments — they’re the pay dirt. A sunrise that paints the sky in fire and gold after a night of storm. The sudden kindness of a stranger on a lonesome road. The quiet pride in a loved one’s eyes when you’ve stood firm. They come unbidden, like finding a diamond in the rough in the virgin dirt, and they make the whole mad scramble worthwhile. They remind you that the music’s still playing, that the spirit still sings, even if the world’s trying its best to drown it out.

So here’s my creed, plain as a roughneck’s or a soldier’s steely gaze: live free or die trying. Laugh when the journey’s rough. Sing when the heart’s heavy. Dance when the ground shakes. We didn’t ask for this room, this big, ol’ wonderful world, nor for the song that throbs in our veins. But we’re here, by happenchance or Providence or sheer cussed luck, and while we’re here, we’ll make it count. We’ll face the darkness, spit defiance, and turn toward the light. Death can wait its turn — we’ve got living to do, and by the eternal, we’ll do it with gusto.

This journey of life has its own stern code, and a promise made is a debt unpaid. I promise you this: I’ll keep my face to the sun, keep gratitude in my heart, keep joy as my compass. And when the final campfire gutters low and I’m in the midst of my very last fight, I’ll go out laughing, with the music of the universe still ringing in my ears. For that’s the way of a man who knows the worth of what he’s been given — no matter how rough the road, no matter how short the stay.

March 9, 2026

Justin O. Smith ~ Author

~ the Author ~
Justin O. Smith Has Lived in Tennessee Off and on Most of His Adult Life, and Graduated From Middle Tennessee State University in 1980, With a B.S. And a Double Major in International Relations and Cultural Geography – Minors in Military Science and English, for What Its Worth. His Real Education Started From That Point on. Smith Is a Frequent Contributor to the Family of Kettle Moraine Publications.