I thought maybe I should write a bit about myself. It would seem that is what bloggers do. Though, I have not read more than a few, blogs, a few blogs; my son's, a few friends, and the little snippets I posted a while back.

Since I could read and write I have memories of writing. Recording little rhymes, childish scribbles, rambling observations, mournful regrets, and pityful poor-me's in more than a few now yellowed and battered spirals, journals, and stapled together scraps. Scraps, little snippets of here and there ponderings and muddled musings. Now I am tired, and can muddle no more.