Our days were simple but fulfilling on Lillie’s modest, two acre spread. We were usually up early, ready to work in the cool of the morning in the garden which she so cherished (and from which she delivered up thousands of magnificent meals over the years). Once in a blue we would get to (I should say, we had to) kill a chicken for supper. She did all the work, of course. Lillie and I would head for the chicken yard, where she would reach out and deftly grab one of the wildly scampering poultry. With a quick twist of her powerful arm, she’d wring its skinny neck and casually toss the head aside, its eyes still wide open as it landed in the brush. A chicken continues to run around for perhaps 10 seconds after being decapitated, and such things make a lasting impression on an 8 year old. But the temporary terror of witnessing such an event did not in the least quell my voracious appetite when the hen had been fried up and was ready to eat later in the day.
In the evenings, sitting on the couch beside one another in her cozy two bedroom, one bath home (serviced by well water, no less) Lillie and I would blog. Of course, in 1960 we didn’t call it blogging. We called in writing in her diary. Most of Lillie’s journals were five year diaries. Hers were often a “dainty” pink or violet, as she liked to say (and they all had a lock and key, which she never bothered to use). Our entries were mundane, but to us they were critical, because they recorded our life’s journey together: “Up early to pick tomatoes and beans. We went to Holden in the p.m. Cashed social security check. Bought groceries at Gerb’s IGA, then to Dairy Queen for sundaes. Parked by the Missouri Pacific depot with our ice cream so Eddie could watch the train go by (yes, I adored the Mo Pac trains). Home just after 5.” So passed our idyllic days in that innocent America of long ago. At night, or on a rainy afternoon when it was too wet to go outside, more likely than not Lillie would pull out one of her faded diaries from years before and read aloud accounts of her early life, stories of things which had happened long before I was born, making them all the more fascinating to me.
Lillie Barnett was a saint, but I would never dream of publishing – even in a blog – any of her writing. Nor would she have wanted me to do so. They were intimacies of a very personal kind, recorded to sustain our own recollections, and of course, written for the sheer pleasure of doing so.
Which brings me to the problem with so many blogs and bloggers – and with so much internet published writing generally – today. All of it is extraordinarily presumptuous, you might say. If you still just melt when you look into your spouse’s eyes after all these years, great. If your son or daughter, or your new grandchild, is the apple of your eye, wonderful. If you just made a tasty Denver omelet and you’re enjoying it even as you clicky-clack the keyboard, fine and dandy. If you just got home from attending a beautiful wedding or you just buried Uncle Bob, savor the memories. If you’ve got some helpful new tips for home canning, or some really professional quality shots of your recent visit to Vatican City, hurrah. But what makes you think I’m interested in any of it? Frankly, I’m not, and I suspect most others who land on your blog page are not either.
This Blog is, or certainly strives to be, exactly what it advertises itself to be. Read the title and the subtitle at the top of this page if you’re unclear on its focus. Those are the topics I deal with multiple times every day, and which I will continue to address to the very best of my ability in the days ahead. Sure, occasionally I stray a bit, because I think something may make you laugh, or may particularly interest you, or because I think you really need to know about it. And sometimes I stray because I need to explain myself, or to blow off a bit of steam, as I’m doing now. But overwhelmingly, what you will read about on these pages is the subject matter I plainly advertise. I promise never to tell you about how lovable (and smart) my tiger-striped cat is, or how I’m planning to devour a large chicken and cheese burrito later today, and then wash it down with a Modelo Negro.
P.S. This is a news Blog, fundamentally. But obviously, that means news plus my own personal take on events – my own opinions. I do my best to accurately record all facts: names, dates, places, numbers, actors, events, etc. If I’m wrong, don’t hesitate to call me on it and to correct the error, for the benefit of all readers. But my opinions are a different matter. They are mine, I own them, and I have the right to express them, just as you are entitled to yours. We are all entitled to our own opinions, although we most assuredly are not entitled to our own facts.
Thanks for reading.
