Although I try to avoid answering or opening conversation or writing with I, me, I'll yield to it at least this once. I'm a worrier. A worrier. I worry. About my daughters. About my son Joe, who this morning leaves home in Winston-Salem for a ten day or two week motorcycle adventure north to New York, and to Pennsylvania, and to Michigan, and to Ohio. Age 58, he'll be visiting loved ones and old high school friends. About Tass, who yesterday with her family arrived safely in London for traveling around and a two week visit with Jeremy's family and friends. Which is fine, except that of course, she'll have to fly back over the ocean to get home. 

I worry about my other girls. All of them.