I read wonderful blogs where the author has researched and then written story after story, reporting all sorts of interesting information for the reader. I long to be that author. But reality sets me apart. I work more than full time, live alone and my research is my passion that is saved for those lone moments of quiet, typically in the middle of the night when a cup of coffee has changed over to a glass of wine and all my cares have left. Alone, relaxed and in the quiet, I and the research become best friends until sleep takes over.
Such little time does not allow me to craft the wondrous blog for which I strive. So instead of mirroring those others of whom I admire so much, I remain me. What style of blogger am I? I find chunk after chunk of facts and photos in those solitary moments. And at best I post their discovery, reporting to you what I found at 3am over a glass of cheap Merlot and my Dog standing next to me with a ball in her mouth, demonstrating her activity preference.
I hope my disjointed work is helpful to someone. I hope my children find some importance to it someday and don’t toss it into the large trash collector that they will rent when they clean out my house. I believe it was Mr. Vinton who wrote in his Memoir, that he hoped someone, somewhere down the family line would be thrilled to find his work. I found it and I share his hope.
In the meantime, last night I collected some census records. I remain annoyed that the takers could not write down street names….*sigh*. I also took note of household inhabitants. Often there were grandparents or aunts and uncles living in a home. I think that was more the norm as compared to a Nursing Home. It makes me wonder what will become of me. Would my sons take me in when I am aged? I am guessing not as their lives are so complicated already, but my 4 years old Granddaughter has offered me her pink sleeping bag and her bedroom floor. Yes, I have that offered to me and quite frankly, I can’t think of a better place that I would rather be.