Now starts the eighth year of these little missives. Last year was the most productive by far. I managed to sit down and write 330 times. I think most of it was in self-defense. On the universal side, there was the pandemic upending things, what with me being in a key demographic to have it end my days on earth. That is, I’m old. I needed something else to think about. On the personal side, there was my wife’s dementia, her assignment to hospice care, and eventual demise. Crushing business all the way around, and it felt good to talk about her.

Now, here we are. I’ve made a new folder to save the originals, counted last year’s production, and squared up my shoulders to keep going. It reminds me of that day in freshman English when the teacher asked me to read my essay to the class and they laughed and said it was funny. I’ve written in fits and spurts ever since, edited my high school and college papers, written for a major city daily, and been published nationally. All to no acclimation. This, however, feels right. And it’s fun, even though my fan base would fit comfortably in my yard.

But that’s not really the point. I have to write. And when I started this most recent gig, I decided I was going to do it no matter the reception. I was just going to put my thoughts down and use it as a way to organize my memories and observations. And I’m glad I did, because I was able to cover a lot of ground, with good memories about our life together, before my wife’s dementia became the topic of conversation. And now I’m in that phase where I suspect I’ll be driving out the backside of the storm, and I have no idea how long it will take. There will be grief-filled days and minutes for sure, but eventually the sun will shine again, at least that’s what they claim. Meanwhile, happy new year. Here’s to better days.