Musing of one preparing to explain...

...to a student who is unfamiliar with it that the Great Depression was neither a topographical feature nor a period of extremely high demand for Prozac.

Way back in the days of the mastodons, saber -toothed tigers, and early cavemen, and before there were any formal languages, a young caveman was wandering though the forest one day looking for something to eat when he came upon a clearing with a stream running through it. Sitting on a rock by the stream was an absolutely ravishing cave girl sunning herself. “wow” said the cave man by whatever means cave men used to communicate with themselves , “ that’s for me” he started toward the rock , and about half way there he admitted a grunt that sounded like “ah-ha”! she looked up and grasp her club that was lying beside her .Then she admitted an answering grunt which sounded like “unh-unh” he came a little farther and grunted again something like “uh-huh” and received the same reply “unh-unh”.
By this time he was close enough to reach over and touch her shoulder, where upon she whacked him over the head with her club. Fortunately his thick hair cushioned the blow somewhat, but he still saw stars and felt woozy. While he was standing there trying to recover he suddenly began to speak regular words in English, which wasn’t even going to be developed for another zillion or so years. She shows some evidence of interest and soon becomes intrigued and then so entranced that she throws herself into his arms, they precede to head back to his cave, settle down, and then begin production of some little “ah-has”.
Periodically the Muse visits him and he spouts more English words. this always entrances his mate who drops whatever she is doing to sit there and listen. One day he is in the mood and she is listening to what he is spouting when he accidently strings together a number of words that make up a complete intelligible sentence. Both of them are trying to figure this latest thing out when a saber-toothed tiger sticks his head into the entrance of the cave. They forget everything while they grab their clubs and attend to business. After ward they try to recall what he had said, but have no luck what so ever, and so the sentence is lost to posterity for another zillion plus years. Then one day a minor bureaucrat, trying to decide which one in his group may have the data needed to answer the question from his superiors, kicks a waste basket and resurrects the sentence, and brings it immortality- “next week we gotta get organized” .
And so, children the moral of the stuff is: any account of history may or may not be factually accurate in all respects, depending on the mindset of the author and the reliability of his sources.