Now that Granny Hepzibah and I have turned my life around and focused it on family history, each year’s account needs to reflect that concentration. Hence two new entry categories under which I’ve published results: Treasure Cities, and Buried Treasures.
401-01  2001—The Climax Year
Visitors to Timbaloo
401-03  January: Olsens and Wrights
401-32  July: Last Reunion at Timbaloo
401-35  Flume
401-36  Kimball’s
401-37  Harvard Forest
401-40  Public Garden
401-43  Portraits
Our Visits to Family and Friends
401-08  April: Ralstons in Sugar House
401-12  April: Marc and Sarah in Orem
401-15  May: Rick and Laura in Sparks
401-18  May: Dunaways in Sunset and Orem
401-19  May: Alice and Tom Neff in Midvale
Family History: This Collection
Family History: Treasure Cities
401-21  May: East Mill Creek
401-28  July: Hartford
401-47  November: Nauvoo
401-48  November: Salt Lake City
Family History: Buried Treasures
401-05  March: Old Hill Cemetery, Concord
401-14  April: Salt Lake City Cemetery
401-22  May: Hillsborough Center Cemetery
401-30  July: Hartford Ancient Burial Ground
401-31  July: Ancient Little Neck Burial Ground
401-50  November: Brigham City Cemetery
401-46  Cambridge Stake High Council
401-01  401-18  April: Jeremy’s wedding
401-01  401-10  April: Bethany’s ballet
401-01  401-23  June: Strawberry Park
401-44  September: Temple Spire
401-49  November: Bethany’s Sixth
*If you remember 2001, chances are you remember it for a dreadful day in New York in September. And you’re in numerous and respectable company if you see the violence of that day as creating a watershed moment that has changed everything. I wouldn’t wish to minimize its horror, nor to convey any lack of respect toward its victims.

As a child of 1941, however, and as one who looks anxiously but confidently toward a better existence after this one has lurched through its course, I have to confess that the events of “9/11” surprised me very little. And that, even years later, it seems rather to confirm my durable understanding of the impermanence of this world, and of my expectation that it will be transformed when Shiloh comes, not at the hands of mere enemy aliens.

I have no photos that recall that day, nor its victims, nor its heroes. Nor, for that matter, did I take any pictures of the many flags that betokened patriotism, sympathy, and unity—prevailing over all too brief an interval. Our life continued much as before, if sobered by a new increment of sorrow, pity, and regret.
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