One Hundred And One

This is my 101 post and I can't believe I wasted the honor of my 100th post on that. On the good side, my site counter just happened to hit 3500, so either my family really loves me or people are actually looking. Where are all my comments? Heath....Erica. They are not the numbers that others may get, but hey I am new. Can you not tell by the way I do not use Proper Adult Capitalization?

On another note, the last few nights I have been up very late working on projects; one of them being a “speech”. As I am writing, then smoking, (yes but this past week was hell) then printing (because it looks different on paper), editing, smoking, printing smoking, rinse then repeat…anyway I am smoking writing, trying to think of something to say to comfort Chelsea’s family, my mind keeps thinking about my father and our loss of Uncle Don (December 26, 2005).

I was wishing I could have been there and seen what Dad had wrote for Uncle Don’s services, and wishing my mind was more on him when he came home from his trip. The only thing that really stuck from that conversation was my uncles last wishes…..to be made into a saddle so that he could be next to his two favorite things….a woman’s thighs and a horse. Oh yeah and something about Dad returning with a suitcase of bra’s, and finding myself trying to suppress the idea of …NEW BRA’S FOR ME. This is the one trip he has made and NOT brought me something home.

When I was in school, I hated writing; it was the hardest thing for me to do. It is something I am just now finding joy in. With the exeption of the annual christmas my kids are smarter then yours letter, I never had a reason to write. Until I found the world of blog. As a child my father would sit up with me all night and help me write. He would edit whatever project I was working on and send me back into his office to fix any errors, on the ol’ IBM. We would do this over and over until an A paper resulted. That computer was the biggest ugliest thing; we only had one game and one color, a horrid goldenrod color that burnt your retinas. The worst part is that the writing program it did not correct my grammar, like Word does.

We went though this process a few years ago for Melissa’s funeral. John and I stayed at my parents house seeing how the Fairbanks crowd was filling up his parents house and hogging all of the computers. John, Dad, and I sat up till all hours of the night working on the layout of the program for Melissa’s service. I didn’t realize how important that experience was, until this week. I wouldn’t have been able to write what I did or speak the way I did tonight, if he hadn’t shown me the way.

I suppose I should pay tribute to my new editor, the one that falls asleep and snores through the whole process then gives it to his oldest daughter to edit.