In which Tim speaks, with a fork in hand

Dinner table conversation is often a struggle at our house. Our population, once robust, is sorely diminished this summer. We are down by 3. My sweet sister, Bentley, had chosen to live with us for several months whilst in transition. Her transition being complete, she is no longer a regular at dinner. Michael, our eldest, has emancipated and has a new home in Phoenix. Don is off and away for the time being, and that is a story for another day.
So we occupy the four sides of a nearly-square kitchen table.
Tim has a tendency to approach his plate with single-minded determination, which is to say that he spares no attention for his surroundings when food is before him. Both Faline and Aaron tend to approach the table with some efficiency; they are among those folks who eat to live, rather than living to eat. The dinner table is a necessary speed bump in their evening.
So, when spontaneous conversation occurs and draws all participants, I gently fan the flame.
We'd been talking about writing, the other night. Writing, because Faline likes to put pen to paper. She is a great writer of stories, and she often regales us with her imaginative tales. On this particular evening, my love for writing became a point of mention. The turn of the conversation unexpectedly touched on my old blogging habit, and my husband encouraged me to begin writing again.
Blogging.
Tim encouraged me to blog.
I can scarcely communicate the wonder and surprise this filled me with.  First, that he would deign to speak several related sentences while in the midst of a meal. Secondly, that he (and the children) remembered that I had blogged. And thirdly, that they would encourage me to renew the habit. I am stunned again as I recall it.

There is no limit to the fodder for content. You would stand agog to consider the more trying events of the past couple of years. These are stories I'll deal out with caution. Perhaps we'll just begin with what we have, and we'll see where we go from here.
Gosh, I like writing. Why should the simple act of embodying concepts within words be so satisfying?