Two years past after I left home, two years pretty much a blank, as you will read in part of the following.  Life has those periods, something like traveling on a wide plain between mountain peaks, you know, when nothing of any drama happens, when the whole time seems to have passed in a haze, when you look back. This posting, though, is a sign that things would change for me, again.  Waitress

Twice every year, on her birthday, and near Christmas, I write to April.  I was looking over the stack, it being Christmas season, and came across this one.   These letters form another type of journal.

Dear April

I offer no excuses for the following.  It happens.  Every so often in life, you really blow it,  hopefully, just for yourself.  This post is necessary.  It provides a bridge between my leaving home, and what I consider the really interesting stuff that happened later.  what can I say?  I was sixteen.  April, when you read this, please know that it never happened again.  I shame myself

I don’t blame anyone for anything.  The ones who made it happen were too young to know what they were doing.  the ones who aggravated it, were too concerned with what they thought was my welfare.  They meant well.  Anyway.  I regret nothing.  But, here is the beginning of the beginning.  the fiddle