
And so, after yesterday’s “Arrhythmic Poem,” I stagger to the finish line of a sixth year of daily blogging. I did not sense, and could not have known, that when I resolved to post something every day for three months, I finally stumbled onto a way to establish a writing habit that involved producing daily, which I have now done since Aug. 1, 2020.
The first day of August has become a watershed day of sorts for me. It was around Aug. 1, 1997, that I met in person the woman I’d been talking with by phone since she contacted me in hopes of giving away her vinyl records. On Aug. 1, 2002, I sat down at the editor’s desk of the venerable Door County Advocate for the first time. (Someday I hope to make sense of the journey I took with that historic newspaper, from assuming stewardship of an esteemed family business to being jettisoned by corporate vultures picking at the bones — but I digress.)
It was on or about Aug. 1, 2012, that Red and I moved into our newly completed home not far from the waters of Green Bay, and it was Aug. 1, 2020, that I started a daily habit at WarrenBluhm.com.
This is the first of those six years in which I did not publish a book or two. My portfolio as of Aug. 1, 2020, included four collections of bloggy thoughts and three works of fiction. Since that day I have published six more collections and three and one-third more imaginary tales. But the latest publication, See the World!, appeared June 11, 2025. I have no clear explanation for the pause.
Three life-altering events occurred during those six years. The first was the loss of Willow The Best Dog There Is™, who shared a remarkable bond with me for 12 years. I was concerned that something was wrong with me, that my grief for a golden retriever felt deeper than the loss of precious humans in my life. But then my beloved Red grew ill and passed in the most horrific six months of my life, and I understood true grief. And then after 19 desolate months, a big little woman stepped up and into my life. God sent Mary to remind me life goes on even after the greatest devastation.
Red’s death gave me a mission statement — the last words I read to her in the hospice room: Love God, and love your neighbor.
As we embark on a seventh year of these daily visits, it’s good to reflect and renew mission statements and to refresh and remind one’s self about meaning and purpose. I reach another finish line and walk into another starting gate, and the race resumes all over again for another lap.
Is Aug. 1, 2026, to be another milestone or simply another anniversary? I don’t anticipate any life-changing events, but our lives change without warning sometimes. We shall see.


