The little dogs have learned how to get on the dining room table, where I have several of the photo albums that I kept when I was in grammar school and high school.
These were, at one time, all in photo albums (see the grey cover at the top), and the dogs have had a wonderful time running through the pages and tearing up some of the photos.
I'm not sure if the dogs have done a terrible thing or if they've done me a favor.
The books are ruined. But they were falling apart before the dogs ever got to them. I have long looked at them and wondered what I should do with them. Now the dogs have forced me into making some sort of a decision sooner than I might otherwise.
These books were so important to me at the time I was keeping them, and to some extent they still are, but I realize that they will mean absolutely NOTHING to my children and even less to Bri. Ideally I should scan the photos and fix them as I can (many of them are faded, especially the colored ones) but my lord is that a time-consuming project...and then what do I do with the scans?
But I can't just throw them away. How can I throw away something like this.
My sister Karen hugging our neighbor Michael Calegari
For right now I'm putting the whole mess into a big box where I fully expect it will sit until I die while I worry about what to "do" about it and then I expect that my children and in-laws will gleefully toss it out after I'm gone. There. That's a plan. Sorta.
What happens when I'm seventy?
Must come a time...seventy.
When you're old, and it's cold
And who cares if you live or you die,
Your one consolation's the money
You may have put by...
The words are Fagin's in the musical Oliver! but they seem appropriate today. Because it's cold and Walt is turning 70 today. Happy birthday, dear.