Sometimes I wonder about the various posts about my father, William Walter Remington. I end up becoming ambivalent. In the longer run, I’m sure few care, except maybe his three adult children. But if anyone else cared, likely it would be a negative, like a chill breeze in a dusty hot dark mineshaft, or eyes you think you see staring at you in the underbrush, that are gone and give you goosebumps. Then you’d wish you were somewhere else – or someone else.
Like a denouement. Yet I find it recycles, episode after episode. Different views and aspects, yet eternally the same.