Geographically removed, I've attempted family-type group blogs in the past. The result has been minimal participation on their part; frustration on mine. I seem to be the only one interested in such a communal experience. Oh, sure, Facebook fits the bill, but my dad Tony believes it's an online dating site and won't join.
My wise cousin Kelly has told me it's like herding cats...that which makes Quinlans unique, also makes us inclined not to participate in organized group activities.
This is all well and good, except Tony keeps misplacing his password to his own Blogger account. Here ya' go, Buck. This one's for you.
I love it! Let's make a postmark on the planet, a fun one.
ReplyDeleteI'm still working on Rick's question, "Who's fault was the Cold War", but
I hope to have a direction soon. Perhaps a few pictures of unrelated events to serve as landmarks, confuse the history, and twist us into modern times.
Great Enterprise, Honey!
Hi Colleen and Tony,
ReplyDeleteI have a feeling this just may the three of us for a while or for always. I haven't been writing a lot these days, mostly I cry and drink beer. But, I can multi-task. My dad once told me he was worried our whole lives would be erased because nothing is on paper anymore. I'll at least try to put to hand to keyboard on here once in a while. Who knows? Maybe it'll make me less sad.
And for the record, Tony if writing about the Cold War is your idea of fun, we've got to talk. :)
ReplyDeleteGreat idea Colleen.
YAH! I don't blog much these days, either, but it seems like a creative outlet with potential...I, on the other hand, have not been wondering about the Cold War as much as...where did Patrick come from?
ReplyDeleteAnd Kelly, beer might be just the prerequisite.
I'm a little late to the game, but after an encouraging email from Tony...I'm here! Post to follow soon.
ReplyDeleteFor Get Me Not
ReplyDeleteThis is the first paragraph to one of my new stories ( well, actually newly written I should say)
Brian threw the flower in a small glass of water in the corner of the
room; it floated staying on the top of the water. It turned as the
breeze on the conversation flowed out of the sons of my mother Hope in
the room next to her casket. Forget me not.