I thought a lot about what to call this blog, then realized that simple is best. Accepted wisdom says the title must be something catchy if the whole endeavor is not to sink without trace. I detect a whiff of desperation in that way of looking at things. It makes sense if you’re trying to sell something. But that is not my purpose. This not a marketing tool. It’s a journal, to be culled in part from things I would write down anyway. As I have done for a good part of my life, with no expectation that anyone would ever read what I wrote. Actually, that’s not true. Part of me hopes my grandchildren’s grandchildren will find it and pore over it with the same fascination I would have for any insight into my own forebears. As it is, the only evidence I have that any of them ever existed is on the flyleaf of a Victorian novel, Harry Lorrequer. In handwriting similar to that of my father (but very different from my own) are the words, W. Boxall 1905, R.M.S. “China”. Did great-uncle Willie leave an account somewhere of his life and times? Perhaps. But I’m unlikely to read it. That is why I write. It’s like billiards or an Archimedes Cradle, the direct result of a moment’s energy expended a hundred years ago in Port Said or Colombo or Shanghai to jot down a name.
I don’t know who will read this blog. Think of it as a message in a bottle, getting longer all the time.