Somewhere along the way I determined that I ought to write letters to you guys every few years on your birthdays, and just this week I was trying to figure out if this was your year.
It couldn’t be, I thought, because surely it wasn’t that long ago that I’d sat down to write a note to you. But I was wrong.
It’s very much possible that this is the last letter that I write to you that’s an open letter–one that I publish on my silly little online journal–in part because, only recently, you’ve seemed to understand that there’s a world wide web that sees so many of the things we capture with our little metal and glass phones and upload through the thin air. It caught me by surprise when I snapped a picture of you, a fun one, I thought, and you looked at it and told me not to put it on Facebook.
Your laughter spun time into a dervish, and here we are. A year old.
My dear Annie Elizabeth, you deserve to hear this from me.
As it turns out, somewhere between two and three children was the time it took to make these little videos, these little poems about your getting older. It’s not that we didn’t take ten thousand pictures—we did—it’s just that you turned out to be the tipping point in time.
Went down to Davidson last night for the annual Conarroe lecture, whose guest speaker this year was the author Lorrie Moore. It was nice to see Joel again–looking well and dapper as always–and to hear his infamous introductions. Plus, got to see good Davidson friends. As is my custom, I picked up a couple of books for autographs–this time for Annie, whose entries on the celebrated autograph bookshelf are only getting started. Moore wrote a funny inscription to her, but Don DeLillo’s is still in the lead for funniest, I think.
Mary’s brother, Jerry, passed away following a brief illness. Losing her younger sibling has been difficult.
Dad has upgraded the exhaust system for his ‘Vette, and I was able to get behind the wheel for the first time last weekend. It certainly boogies.