My mother keeps a diary of sorts, typing up a sheet most years of the events of the past 12 months. A cross between an analog blog and one of those Christmas letters people send to brag about their children and vacations and whatnot. She calls the folder Past Trips and it contains these pages, dated back to the 1970s. It’s even-handed to a fault. For example, her own divorce merited a sentence, as did a dinner at a noteworthy restaurant. Birth of a grandchild = 2 sentences, sometimes awarded with an exclamation mark (“What a surprise! A boy in the family!” announced Oliver’s birth) All of her daughters looked either “beautiful” or “great” on their wedding days, as well as “happy.” I looked great, in case you were wondering.