Entropy reversal, lost with a key.

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Lost keys

Greetings fair reader, in the preparation for a mildly risky adventure I was thinking about actually writing down a couple of passwords and letting my wonderful partner lock them up in her “safe.”  (A plastic box with a concrete lining, sawed through in under a minute, isn’t exactly safe.)  This violates a lot of practices, including lowering my overall security but I’ve come to realize there’s a lot of info I’d like her and my daughter to have the option to keep or toss.

Because if those keys are tossed, the info I’ve gathered is lost.  Like these letters alongside each other.  They’ll idle in Wordpress space for a while, gathering ever less traffic than they do currently—negative visits—and finally disappear when the stockholders of WP abandon it for a newer fad.

I don’t expect anything is permanent, my aging father would be proof even if I didn’t believe our sun is a main-sequence star.  As his dotage gathers steam, every visit highlights the tons, literally tons, of crap he’s hidden throughout that house over 46 years.  There might be gold, but like panning, it would be a lot of back-breaking labor for some really small flakes.  I, for one, would be happy to call in a 40 yd dumpster + everyone I can and say “Haul out what you want, dumpster or your car. Just haul it out of this house.”  My idea of an Estate Sale.

Side note: Was looking at pants in Goodwill yesterday and once again came across someone’s custom, tailored clothing.  This pair had the person’s name and the order number permanently labeled inside.  I got really sad, thinking how probably he’d died and these pants wandered there way from closet to box to Goodwill garage to sorting, cleaning, and the rack I was standing in.

Back to the “lost keys” and how so much potential would be lost with them.  It’s silly to think how much content I’ve generated that’s made it’s way through two dozen computers to this one under this desk, and how I vainly think my daughter might be the slightest bit interested in any of it.  She’s shown none in the files of her mom, who’s death is now a decade in the past; why am I special?  And one of my loving partner’s charms is her lack of sentiment.  She has some mementos, like rocks from places she’s visited.  She has more fascination for family photos than I but she’s not serious about keeping them.  But she’s very much like Ole Golly in “Harriet the Spy”: I only go forward, I never look back.

So the prospect of riding off an Ozarkian mountain road reminds me to at least give my closest loved ones the option of looking at all these mushy old posts or letting them fade to grey by themselves.