This morning, I had three old fillings removed and refilled and then I came home and rearranged my air travel for the winter break.  The re-fillings are working.  I hope the rearrangement of air travel works as well.

I’ve begun writing about my parents for the family picture/document file.  Right now, there are precious few people to comment on the truth of my perceptions and by the time that someone reads what I’m writing, perhaps there will be no one who has more than dim recollections. I lament that I have so little to write about my grandparents and even less about David’s family.  Of course, I expected him to remember his own parents and grandparents.  But even of my own, and even with my grandmother’s pictures, I have only a little to say.  Another but . . but as I begin writing about my parents, I feel the power of the story.  I could tell the story that I want to tell.  In my version, they might adore me, applaud my choices, or reject me in such a way to make some future relative cringe.  My own perceptions surely color their story mightily, but I could stray far from my own perceptions.  I could say anything that I liked.  I could make an exciting tale.  

I have never quite felt such power of story.  History can be lethal.

And it is late.  I should be asleep.  Instead, I am hanging on, like a reluctant child to the ends of this day.