Prelude to a Blogger

How humbling it can be to be confronted the writing of one’s youth.

My mother called me this evening, chuckling with apparent glee (that was almost a pun for those of you paying attention). And although my mother laughs regularly, she rarely chuckles, so I knew something was up.

It seems that when cleaning through storage, she discovered a journal I kept during a family trip to Europe. As a seventh grader. And she then proceeded to read the journal aloud to me in agonizing detail.

Why on earth did I feel the need to describe every minute detail of every morsel of food consumed on the airplane? Example: “I ate a ham sandwich. I did not like the bread. The cake was much better. We had a lot of drinks. My sister ate some peanuts.”

And did my vocabulary at the time really not extend beyond the word “nice”? Example: “Our bus is nice. But it is a little warm in back. Rolf is our bus driver. He is nice too.”

And finally, if I was going to go to all the trouble of writing about the packing and the plane and the stop in New York, could I not have written just a little bit about Europe? Apparently not, because the journal stops after two days.

How embarrassing.