I hope this letter finds you in good health. And here's hoping another hole-in-one is right around the corner!
I'm writing today because I want to say with all sincerity that I am sorry. What, exactly, am I sorry for? Not for all the teenage angst I exhibited while living with you. (I consider that, to use a golf-related term, par for the course.)
No, what I am sorry for is making you attend all those many plays and musicals I stage managed and directed and toiled so many hours on throughout high school. All of us involved in making M*A*S*H and Guys and Dolls and Hello Dolly and Arsenic and Old Lace and the one-act plays and the senior talent show and so on and so on thought they were magnificent. We were so impressed with how great the performances were. I mean, hell, who wouldn't enjoy seeing them in the fabulous theatre at Lake Braddock?
I'm guessing I was under the hypnotic state of being a part of those productions that I couldn't see that, in the end, they probably weren't Broadway quality. Or even off-Broadway. Or off-off-off Broadway. Or even Catskills quality, for that matter.
I'm sorry. Truly. And I thank you for putting up with them. With experience comes sometimes hard-to-bear hindsight.
P.S. Did I tell you Eldest and Daughter have their winter concert performance at the middle school tonight?
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