Dear Blog Reader
I hope this finds you doing well. I am fine. Hope that you were not too concerned with the lack of posts. Yes, I know that the blog recently passed a milestone. It is a milestone that I had hoped I would not have to pass on this journey of the "you said what; Roger?" Blog. June 2016 was the first month that I have gone without blogging since "Girls gone Wild"; a blog about Grace a newly minted college freshman spreading her independent wings ironically by jumping out of a perfectly good plane, in September 2010.
On the one hand not a bad string; almost six years opening my brain and watching what pours out onto a screen to by released into the world. On the other hand a string broken is a broken string. You pull on one end and the other end does not, cannot move. Also, this broken string reminds me that all of the strings will be broken sooner or later.
Strings are important to me. The most precious string in my 54 years (except my 54 years and 31 years of wedded bliss to the lovely Miss Beverly and the string of one successful jump from a perfectly good airplane for Grace) was Pete Rose's 44 game hitting streak in 1978. I vividly remember in late July of 1978 going to River Front Stadium with the family for Farmer's Night and watching Pete Rose (may he never get to the Hall of Fame), get a bunt single to extend his string on the way to 44 consecutive game hitting streak. The 16 year old Roger went crazy. Sure it wasn't a real hit. It was a bunt for goodness sakes. He wasn't using skill, hand speed, or eye hand coordination. He was using cunning and sneakiness to extend the streak. But I was delirious with joy that the string was extended one more day. A string that was cut 12 games short of the record by Joe DiMaggio. Joe's string was a string that was cut at 56 games far short of going on forever, which is how long any 16 year old fanboy thinks a string should last.
The Sharritt household is atwitter with the causes and excuses for the blogging string breakage. There has been the adoption of multiple new hobbies. I am like a high school Jr. trying to get into Harvard by trying to pad my resume. Two hives provide bees that are buzzing in the expanded garden. It is not just any garden. It is an Amish child garden. An Amish child garden, for those unfamiliar with the blog, is a garden tended by Amish children who have no access to TV, or video games, and still have a tendency to get under their mother's feet. Mom gets frustrated and tells the kids to get out to the garden and hoe a row; viola a pristine weed free garden. In addition to those two full time past times, I plan on riding 5000 miles on a bike this year. Plus, my woodworking skills had rusted from years of non-use and I have decided to revive those. No wonder my blogging string was frayed.
If that weren't enough, as you know if you have read the blog, the lovely Miss Beverly and I have taken in two children with Safe Families. The placement at 10 months has continued longer than expected. I think that it is not coincidental the blog writing string started when Grace's departure created an empty nest allowing space for the blog and the girl's stay refilling the space crowding blog writing to the edges. I personally think that it is the empty nest connection but as I wrote the Sharritt household is hotly debating the causes and effects of the situation.
I am sure of one thing though. The lack of blogging does not come from a lack of topics to blog about. This month you almost heard about the assassin deer being caught at the scene of a raccoon's death on CR 750 at 5 a.m.; the sliver of time granted to me each year when the sun almost rises at the end of my early morning bike rides; and the books that I read for self help and the strange places that I find good advice. It would have been a good month.
No crying over spilt milk. They did not get written. They can still be written about. That is the thing about broken strings. They can't be put back together again. They can't be made into a whole string. You are certainly left with four ends and not two. I suppose all that is true unless you are a magician and can magically repair the strings that you so ostensibly cut in two in front of your bewildered audience. If I were a magician, the string would not be broken. But as you can see there are no tricks up my sleeve. Until next time.
Take care.
Roger,
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