It's been a long, long time!

Wow, five months since last I blogged. I could give excuses about filling my time with medical crap (wife had abdominal surgery, I had knee surgery AND gall bladder removal), but the reality is that I can't find the things to say nor a way to express myself.

I read a LOT and I am continually amazed at the ability of others to paint word pictures that I wish I could emulate. What is it that makes me want to read another paragraph, another page, another chapter? Why can't I do that?

Sometimes I think it should be so easy. Just describe a time from my life and try to make others see what I saw, hear what I heard, and feel what I felt. For example:

We were riding in the old '53 Turquois Buick Special on Canyon Road having just completed the twisty turns under a green tree canopy that shut out most of the sunlight. As we came down the hill with sandy soil, scrub plants, and scanty grass on the right, we made the turn to the left at the bottom where sand on the pavement made it risky to take the turn at over 10 miles per hour.

The white cottages on the left that were part of the first resort on this stretch of road stood on the edge of the lake in an area dappled with sunlight under the scattered trees. There was the sight of some of the guests BBQing their lunch while others were headed to the water in their swim suits with towels flung over there shoulders.

On the right was the shaded entrance to Lost Canyon, a tourist attraction featuring horse drawn carriages through a cool and restful, sandstone canyon with driver/guides that explained the history of the area and pointed out fanciful rock formations.

This was the time that our anticipation of arriving at our family cottage rose to an almost overwhelming desire. Another quarter of mile down the now straight road and we would be THERE! Often our father would stop at the mailbox on the side of the road and our mother would get out and check for mail being careful to avoid spiders that may have taken up residence in it.

Finally, after Mom got back in the car, Dad would then make the final left hand turn into the drive that descended steeply to the cottage. The sound of gravel crunching under the tires still seems as real and loud and wonderful today as it did 50 years ago.

...

And so it goes. Is it what I remember? Yes. Is it what I want to say? No, it may mean a lot to me, but to others, it is just words and does not convey the feelings that I experienced and the anticipation of youth. Oh, well! Back to my day job!