I started my blog to take the place of conversation. Simple as that. It was an attempt to reach out to those in the past, many of them now lost to me, most, probably, no longer living. Recount the stuff of daily life, to try to connect with those who were in your life. Like Thornton Wilder offered, don't pick a monumental happening, but an ordinary day. Pick one of the times a 10-year-old Roger V. shinnied about twenty feet up Sara's signpost, lightbulb in hand, so her sign would be lighted up again. Then listen that evening to the splat of the insects as they zithered into that lightbulb. Nothing very important or memorable about that, but here it is stuck in my mind so many years later. Or choose the summer days when Dorothy and Johnny Daurio played Parcheesi on the deck of the front porch for what seemed like hours, all summer long, an eternal game. No one paid any attention as they sprawled, in innocent concentration. Certainly not me, I would have thought, but there's the picture, etched in my memory.
And so, in blog world, I've entered these hundreds of posts, trying to establish what life was like, back when we lived it. A vain effort, unless as in "Our Town," the writer is skilled enough to draw you in behind and beyond the meaning of the words. Anecdotes and remembrances over seven decades, from the delights of childhood to the inevitable track of sorrows along the path of life, were meant to be just that and not intended to be filtered through to detect concealed motives. The time has come to end this blog. Two truths survive: The heart can feel as it it's bleeding. Soft and spongy sorrow can turn into cold and hard resentment. NB: to be deleted.
***Back by popular demand. Requests poured in by the three's.
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