LOVE LETTER TO READERS AND SUBSCRIBERS

Who remembers the first love letter you wrote?

Did you send it?

Either way, it’s all about the intent.

You were moved to express your feelings.

I don’t know about you, but I remember my first.

It was Valentine’s Day, (also Oregon’s birthday,) in Mrs. Baker’s room.

We were Bangor first graders with our first public Valentines.

You could write them to anyone in class, write them to everyone in class.

Maybe you don’t like the math of 1st grade Valentine = Love letter?

On boomerpdx it’s allowed, and it’s not because I’m old and asking for allowances.

 

Sending Love Letters 

As you can see I loved the party atmosphere in London’s Soho.

The life of the party was a few streets over where sharp dressed Londoners spilled out of corner bars with sliding walls, each yelling over the other and calling it conversation.

When I got there I was happy to listen to the roaring crowd of young office workers echoing toward Piccadilly Circus.

How happy? Oh, I was happy, but keeping a neutral expression.

It was our last day in England before catching the plane to Seattle and running for the shuttle to Portland after a last minute gate change.

My wife knows this is my happy face, yet still asks for a smile now and then, like the one yesterday with the bear.

What do you do when the wife calls in sick to a Halloween brunch with grandkids?

Call the side-chick. Make sure she’s wearing a mask and no one will know the difference.

 

My time with the bear inspired this post. The wife is still my wife no matter what the bear thought.

She alone gets my husbanding attention.

That’s why ‘for better or worse’ is in the wedding vows?

I apply a similar effort to boomerpdx.

You’re not reading my second best, my throw aways, my rejects.

This is as good as it gets, as good as I’ve got today.

Tomorrow is another day, but right now I want you to know why I call my posts love letters.

 

Blogger As A Young Man

I was in a group with friends last week and someone asked what I do.

“I’m a blogger.”

“What’s it about?”

My buddy sitting next to me said, “It’s about Dave.”

Me: Yep. It’s about me. Four thousand posts and twelve years at it with no end in sight.

“That sounds like a lot of you. Don’t you run out of ideas?”

Me: It’s about me first of all, but I work in everything else. What are you, thirty years old? There’s a lot of you guys with questions that need answering, the kind of questions you’d never ask.

“I ask questions all the time.”

Me: You’re not asking a seventy year old man you just met anything.

“I might.”

Me: And that’s why I write a blog the way I do. I roll the dice every day and answer questions no one is asking.

“Like what?”

Me: Who reads poetry? English majors. Everyone else reads Reddit. When I find a poem that hits just right, I’m taking note and pointing others to it. Maybe a little too much. Sometimes things OD.

“OD on a blog?”

Me: Over Dave. Sometimes. I think it happens when young people like you and your pals see old guys as old guys, not the pussy magnets they once were.

“Excuse me?”

Me: You’ll never be in your mid-twenties in the late seventies from New York to Portland meeting some of the most incredible women on earth. I had a buddy in New York who dated models and actresses who had model and actress friends to double date.

“Portland?”

Me: I had a buddy who’s girlfriend had friends to double date.

“You were a double date king?”

Me: Not after my double date set-up girl switched sides and we single dated. That’s her over there making a taco.

“From the Seventies?”

Me: Early Eighties. Point being, even young married guys with kids like you need answers down the road. I don’t draw a map, but more like painting a picture with you in it.

“What did you look like back then?”

Me: Irresistible. Go ask my wife. We share the same condition.

 

Reading The Room

The picture above this was Portland.

During my days in Philadelphia I had a camera.

It had a timer, so . . .

I’m twenty years old. I was a writer then, too, with plenty of library time.

I lived four blocks away from the art museum, the one that a year later got famous for the Rocky Steps.

Philadelphia had Joe Frazier but memorialized Rocky Balboa?

That ain’t right and you can find thousands of opinions on it both ways.

The boomerpdx way is pointing to Joe as Philly’s Finest.

I’m not the blogger, the writer, who knocks others to feel like a big shot.

If that’s what it takes, it’s a bad take.

Knocking others down to stand tall isn’t standing tall.

Being lifted up high is. My job isn’t to prove you right or wrong, but to ask for a second opinion, for you to ask.

No matter the issue, if it’s a viable, you can ask for a second opinion.

To recap:

Young Dave was in the Army living off base, way off base since my base was Fort Dix, N.J.

Cat Dave was in NW Portland with a head full of hair goo, or just unwashed. (ewwww.)

Soho Dave was last year and we got home safe and sound.

Bear Dave was yesterday.

After things settled down I snuck out and went home.

Once at home I got a phone call and a four year old voice asked, “Why didn’t you say good-bye to me.”

 

PS: You matter to more people than you think.

 

PSS: From twenty to seventy all the way to eighty seven you will always leave an impression on people. Make it a good one.

Start with a new love letter.