One More Time

I have been blogging for five years now.

In September of 2008, when I was a high school senior who fancied myself enough of a writer that I thought I should do it publicly (still not sure if that was a good idea), I started my first blog.  It was drama-laden and iffy at best in the adjectives department and still exists if you really want to go there.  But don’t think I’ll be providing the URL.

Actual picture of high school me in an actual marching band uniform.  I look like such a baby.  I wish I could go back in time and warn myself not to take Intro to Statistics.

Actual picture of high school me in an actual marching band uniform (I’m on the left). I look like such a baby.  So naive about the ways of the world.  I wish I could go back in time and warn myself not to take Intro to Statistics in college.

In September of 2011, I began my second blog upon departing for a semester in Salzburg, Austria.  I only posted about a dozen times on that one, since I was, you know, living my grandest Sound of Music daydreams.


In December of 2011, back from my travels, I decided that I didn’t want to return to the high school Blogger blog, and anyway, I had a new goal in mind: I was resolved to blog once a day, every day for the entire new year.  Thus Eight Days a Week was born on WordPress.  When that year ended I stuck around for another year, blogging about whatever struck my fancy.


In September of 2013, I decided to start yet another blog.  My last, I fervently hope.  I have long wanted my blog to be its own website, to have a higher level of creative control, to have a chance to join blogging communities, and to interact with blog readers on a larger scale.  Additionally, while the name suited my original project well, Eight Days a Week no longer describes what I’m trying to do as a blogger and writer.

So, I’ve moved.  One more time.

Don’t think for a moment that this changes much.  Goodness knows I’ll be writing the same goofy sagas and literary rants as always.  Also, as I mentioned before, my posts from Eight Days a Week have transferred over to the new blog, so the gang’s truly all there.

Although it’s not really goodbye, I want to take what feels like a solemn moment to thank all of you for reading, for following, for liking, for commenting.  Thanks for not rolling your eyes when eye rolling was more than justified.  At least, thanks for not rolling your eyes where I could see you.  It has meant a great deal to have the support of fine folks such as yourselves.

I hope that you’ll follow the link below to the new blog**, where an introduction is waiting:

**Please note that if you’d like to continue to receive my posts in your email, you’ll have to resubscribe at my new blog (link above).  I will no longer be posting on Eight Days a Week.  


To Ancestors

To Ancestors:

Thanks for living so that I could.

Because even when I don’t stop and look around, don’t realize that a particular cloud or a particular person is worth stopping and looking at, I have the chance to do so because of you.  You fought wars, lived in poverty, immigrated, went to school, worked on the railroad,  and woke up every morning so that I might make my own way.

If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have been taking tickets at the theatre tonight.  I wouldn’t have had fifty cents to offer the lady who was short that amount.  I wouldn’t have been able to read The Great Gatsby in between customers.  I wouldn’t have been able to slip into a seat and watch Madagascar 3 in its entirety.  I wouldn’t have laughed aloud several times during the film, causing parents and children alike to turn and stare.  I wouldn’t have appreciated a family, who had arrived after I abandoned the ticket booth, and had walked in anyway, coming up post-movie to pay for their tickets.

After the film, I wouldn’t have reported to Ahab, the concessions master, that someone had spilled their Sierra Mist.  The 9 pm show had already begun, and Ahab put his hands on his hips and considered what to do.  The thought of a sticky river of soda pooling around unsuspecting ankles was horrifying.  We stood silently, imagining it.  Suddenly, the heavy Dyson vacuum, which had been leaning innocently against the wall, crashed to the floor, grazing Ahab’s calf on the way down.  We all jumped: Nick the projectionist, Stephanie the concessionist, Ahab, and me.  And then we laughed.  We laughed for about five minutes, hardly knowing what we were laughing at.

Thanks for that.