Day 1148 Maybe?
Nothing makes you want to book a trip more than looking through photos from past vacations. Two years ago, Tim and I were on our European cruise, visiting Italy, Spain, and France. He and I make great travel partners—we go with each other’s flow, always open to doing whatever the other wants. We loved that cruise, and honestly, we may need another one soon... I've got Croatia and the Greek Islands on my list, maybe even Portugal. Fall of 2026 might be the perfect time for it.
Back home, we’re slowly settling into our fall routine...begrudgingly. We’re already missing the fun and freedom of summer. Tim and I went to dinner at Mariner Grille since neither of us felt like cooking. We sat there chatting about nothing in particular, catching up on our day, and soaking in each other’s company like we hadn’t seen one another in weeks.
Eventually, the conversation turned to my writing. Tim asked how many readers I have, and I told him probably just a handful. He’s not known for dishing out compliments, so I was genuinely surprised when he said more people should be reading it—that it always includes a fun history lesson, a little moral insight, or just an entertaining daily tale...and added that he thinks I'm a really good writer....big words from a quiet man.
I’ve never intentionally promoted my blog. I always joke that if it ever got out into the world, I’d have prisoners reading it. Tim laughed, saying, “I doubt prisoners are into cinnamon buns or chickens,” but still, the image lingers.
We live in a culture that values followers—where it feels like what we do only matters if a lot of people are watching. But I don’t need or even want tons of strangers reading about my daily nonsense. What I love most are the texts from friends who’ve read a post and want cinnamon rolls afterward. That’s more than enough.
I’ve always believed it’s important to tell your own story—because if you don’t, someone else will try to narrate it for you. Looking back at our vacation photos, filled with history, stories, and legends still being passed down, I like to think that someday, my grandchildren—or even great-grandchildren—might read one of these entries and see more than just an old photograph.
Maybe they’ll hear my voice in the words.
Maybe they'll see the joy in the ordinary moments.
And maybe, just maybe, they’ll want to make cinnamon rolls too.
I hear your voice when I read your blog! Db
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