It is 42 years since I heard the bullets at Kent State and saw the blood on her asphalt altar. So much blood has been shed since then in our world that Allison's idealism seems a futile gesture of youth. I don't think I fully appreciated the Yevgeny Yevtushenko poem FLOWERS AND BULLETS dedicated to her until I read it today, two and a half years from my 70th birthday. The passage of time puts idealism in perspective, sadly.
"Let every apple orchard