Donna’s going to be mad at me for sharing that photo. I know I share too much, because she tells me so. And also because our son Gregory keeps asking me not to mention this or that until he gives the go-ahead.
As in this: Greg’s recent surgery for thyroid cancer, discovered early and by happenstance during a routine checkup, successfully removed before it had a chance to spread. Bad news, that, but with a happy outcome.
And that: the engagement of our granddaughter Taylor to her long-time boyfriend Jordan. Wonderful news. We were considering a springtime trip to visit Greg and his family in Las Vegas; it’s on now for sure, if for nothing else than to ooh and aww over Taylor’s ring. No, they haven’t announced a date (and even when they do, I’ll probably have to wait for the all-clear before sharing).
A friend who subscribes shared a New York Times op-ed with me. It’s about writing, a subject dear to my heart, a frequent topic of discussion between us. By Frank Bruni, it’s titled Our Semicolons, Ourselves (I hope the gift link will work for you as well). In it, Bruni says a couple of things I want to share with you:
Good writing announces your seriousness, establishing you as someone capable of caring and discipline. But it’s not just a matter of show: The act of wrestling your thoughts into logical form, distilling them into comprehensible phrases and presenting them as persuasively and accessibly as possible is arguably the best test of those very thoughts. It either exposes them as flawed or affirms their merit and, in the process, sharpens them.
Writing is thinking, but it’s thinking slowed down — stilled — to a point where dimensions and nuances otherwise invisible to you appear.
My goal, especially when writing about aviation or books or events — things and ideas independent of myself, that exist in the world and affect others — is to make those things and ideas clear to readers. And at least to me clarity implies rightness. There’s a reason graduate programs in composition and rhetoric include seminars in logic. We think lots of things, but those thoughts aren’t tested until we try to write them down.
How often have I set out to write a post supporting already-formed conclusions, only to realize, once I start putting words on the screen, my conclusions don’t float? It happens all the time. What I thought I was going to say turns into something else. Because it has to. Because writing forces me to think it through.
What follows is definitely oversharing. TMI, even.
The dogs have taken to sneaking into the living and dining rooms to poop and pee. Until a month ago those rooms were off-limits, fenced off with expandable child gates. After replacing wall-to-wall carpeting with poured concrete flooring, we took down the gates. Apparently the lure of once-forbidden territory is too much for one or more of them. Sadly, Mr. B may be one of the culprits. He’s 15 years old and I can’t bring myself to get angry with him. The younger dogs, Lulu and Fritzi, were housebroken adults when they came to us. Sort of. Mostly. And generally very good girls. Shit, I can’t get mad at them either.
So the gates are back.
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I wanted the dogs to pose in front of them but they’re out back peeing, as God and nature intended.