One of the harder things about growing up in the family's weekly newspaper business is that Dad's weekly editorial column must be filled. When all else fails, turn to your family for inspiration. My small community knew the cute things I said about church being boring, my inability to fall asleep at night, my tears during student teaching, my SAT scores . . . This was made only worse in that sometimes Mom took a turn.
For a while after college when I was working for him, there was this horrible thing called "My Turn" in which every newspaper employee had to take a turn writing a weekly column. When my week came up, the space had to be filled, and so I shared with my small community all my horrible age 22 exploits myself.
Oh, I shudder even now to think it's all on file somewhere. Oh, I'm getting a headache!
Then Dad sold the papers and -- hooray! -- our lives would be kept to ourselves. Only he didn't really leave did he? And last fall, he started writing a column again.
And there we are again.
There isn't much that can embarrass me anymore. The town knows everything they would care to know about me and some things they didn't care to know. Still, I open the paper to the editorial page with only one eye open and the other squinting.
This week's column starts, "Note to Lisa . . ." Bad sign.