I Must Apologize, Because Even I Don’t Like Everything I Write

But I write those with another motive in mind.

I am sorry that some of the words I spew out here are dull and colorless, pale imitations of what I should be doing. If I were someone who embarrasses easily, I’d kill a lot of it halfway through writing it.

But I do not, because I do have my reasons. Very simply, I’m documenting my more mundane thoughts for some future reader. I’m doing that because recently I was given a treasure trove of old family photos, art, and a tiny bit of writing. The photos are fascinating because many are originals from the early history of photography. The artistic talent is present in much of my extended family, though those genes, sadly, did not express themselves in me. I enjoyed the art both for its innate beauty and because I am lucky enough to have known some of the hands that created it.

But I wished there was more writing, more stories about who people were at their core, what they did, what they read, what they thought. That’s what’s missing here; I can’t get an understanding of their minds. I’d love to read about my grandfather complaining to a shopkeeper about the quality of the meat offered. I’d love to know what my grandmother thought when her husband told her about his wish to leave Boston and build a home in Sharon. I’d be enthralled to read my other grandmother’s words on how they fell from relative wealth during the Great Depression.