I just drove my daughter to the airport on this week’s second white-shrouded zero-visibility travelling morning.
Grief has quite the half-life.
I continue to marvel at the geographic variety both among the blogs I follow and the people who drop in on my little site–sometimes accidentally, as are, no doubt, the people who persist in being disappointed by reaching my fly-balls-at-Fenway post after typing “live shagging” into their search engines.
Readers from 96 countries have dropped in this year–two countries up from last year, though I haven’t yet figured out which two, or whether other countries shifted and realigned on the list.
In the cyber-house today, so far, have been visitors from the United States, Canada, Estonia, South Africa, the United Kingdom, and the Czech Republic.
The convicted murderess who shares my name continues to be one of the top leading search terms. (As I said to the person who once accidentally phoned our home seeking the public defender’s office, “Boy, do you have the wrong number.”)
And the late lamented Solitario Jorge continues to be the most common search term that does not involve my own name. Close to this magnificent tortoise, in search term popularity, are chickens: specifically, the no-nonsense chickens of whom Pablo Neruda professed to grow weary.
My random thoughts remains well (and oddly) distributed. On a single day, I was amused to find that readers had reached assorted posts by searching terms as diverse as “variegated temple bamboo,” “duke of earl,” “jose saramago elephant onomatopoeia man,” “fibonacci spiral and cancer,” and “sibling rivalry irish twins.”
This year’s runaway most popular post was The Rusty Nail. Somewhat oxymoronically, that rusty nail was Freshly Pressed, an honor bestowed upon Disbelieving Dark during my first year of blogging. Both prominently featured birds, my messengers from the husband I lost to pancreatic cancer.
I briefly experimented with new graphic formats for the blog, but returned to my original formatting theme, which happens to go by the name “Twenty Ten”–the year my husband Jim was diagnosed, before he was with us in the way writing this blog helps me preserve his life with us. Coincidence?
I am grateful to anyone who pops in and reads a post, accidentally or otherwise, and especially to those who take the time to leave such wonderful comments and open up their own hearts and memories.
Here’s to year number three, and perhaps a little more lifting of the fog.