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A post about these posts

May 12, 2021
I am coaxing a burp from my first son, Todd, a few months after he was born in Santa Ana, California. An officer asked me if I thought he was really mine. I told him he’d be mine when I got him home from the hospital. Everyone on the Marine base agreed with me.

Posts

These days I am thinking fundamental thoughts about this blog. Hmmm. Like “who is the intended reader?” Also, “what are the general themes?” And, “why write this at all?”

Intended reader

I keep thinking you are the intended reader. Who are you? You’re intelligent, but impatient. You want the truth and when bullshit appears, you vanish like the sun in May behind a cloud. Otherwise, I’d like most of this stuff to be for my children and grandchildren so they can have a sense of who they are.

I have trouble with the truth. I’d be inclined to say I have a, say, lawnmower, when I really meant an electric Black and Decker M 100. This is important because my dear friend Mark Fryberger owns a Black and Decker M 200.

Grr. Chaps my hide. Near as I can tell, his has a more easily adjusted blade height. Well, he doesn’t have to rub it in. Actually, I don’t think he ever has.

General themes

I have to eschew the term “miscellaneous.”

  • posts that pertain primarily to the title story wherein I am in search of my uncle Bud, killed in the waning months of WW II during the Battle of the Bulge.
  • fables. I have just a few that pertain to the fauna of our block in Billings, Montana.
  • gunther, our Brussels Griffon. He is popular with many readers.
  • stories mined from my childhood. Many of these are boring, but a damned few aren’t–like the one where I got locked in a laboratory after hours, or the one where I almost burned down our house.
  • travel stories about the amazing places in the Northwest part of the United States and Canada.
  • oddities–the so-called cow-in-a-tree.
  • pharmacy stories, especially on the Northern Cheyenne and Crow Indian Reservations.
  • obituaries. Seems like many of these occurred during the pandemic year, 2020.

Why write at all?

Truth is, I feel sorry for the reader. Life is starting to make sense for me, beginning to have a kind of logic. I feel sorry the reader has to wade through so much deceptive bullshit. I believe a little truth to be a kind of magic. As far as making sense, I’ve lived 72 years and amazing things have happened. For instance, the man who hired me and rented an apartment to me later needed me to lend him $300 when he lived in the same apartment. Of course I did! He treated me generously, so how could I refuse him?

I enjoy writing. At the same time, we all know how much fucking work it is; kind of like hammering the wall with your head.

I can’t seem to leave it alone.

From → Uncategorized

2 Comments
  1. Blaine Ackley permalink

    Good, don’t leave it alone, Dan. Keep up the good efforts to enlighten us.

  2. Larry Felton permalink

    Dan – I’m not sure I want to be an intended reader; I think of myself more as a lurking voyeur, peeking in on a regular basis to see what’s happening in Dan’s world/head. I think you answered your question ““why write this at all?” with “I enjoy writing… I can’t seem to leave it alone.” I’d suggest you don’t try to guess what we Intendeds want to read – I’ll be content to continue to hear (read) the sounds of you hammering your head against the wall.

    (I also quite enjoy the occasional historic photos of mutual friends from the Past Century, like the one of you & Todd at the head of this article.)

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