Video, Hat, Hair, Chewed Up Manuscripts, and Humphrey Bogart

First, the BOTA Sealy film festival was a singular event. A little underwhelming for David’s video.

During the “offensive” block, two policemen stood, then sat, in the back of the room. I don’t know whether they were monitoring language or potential riots. Before long, they were looking at their cell phones. There were no riots. Language would have amused seventh-grade boys–although the seventh-graders I dealt with were polite when I was around.

It was explained to David that his film was mid-offensive to provide laughs between offensives. The audience was small. I don’t remember anyone laughing at anything. The poIlicemen would have laughed at David’s video if they hadn’t been looking at their phones.

I laughed. When I asked David how he got Ernest to come up and stick his nose in the lens, he said he knew if he put something different in the living room, the cats would do something.

That was a long time ago, when they were kittens. Now they run under the bed, mostly for the maintenance man. Ernest disappears when he hears leaf blowers. William is not impressed by lawn care.

The highlight of the weekend for William and Ernest was visits from the kitty tech, who fed them, gave them their insulin injections, and played with them. She brought them a peacock feather. William’s interest is minimal. Ernest tries to eat the feathers.

Ernest also pulled a couple of loose pages from my novel manuscript, which is in a binder on the floor beside my chair, and chewed the corner off one. Last night he slept on the other one. I haven’t had the energy to pick them up. Anything he eats can be reprinted, and paper biodegrades inside cats. I hope. As long as he doesn’t eat string or thread or anything else that could cut into his GI tract and require CT scans and possibly surgery. So far we’ve been lucky. Just scans and enemas.

The highlight of the weekend for me was the booths set up on Main Street. A vendor who displayed a hat that wasn’t for sale–it was hers–told us about Images Boutique, around the corner, where she bought her hat. Because mystery writers need hats, I went looking for a fedora.

The owner had to open both doors to get my wheelchair in–it was a wheelchair kind of weekend–and the store was so packed with merchandise that I couldn’t get more than six feet into the store. It’s an “upscale” resale shop. Because I almost couldn’t get in, I received 25% off on a hat (not a resale). And the owner and I had a long and delightful conversation about everything but hats.

When I got out, I realized it wasn’t the kind of hat I wanted–the top is fedora but the brim is wide and circular, not the kind that turns down in the front and up in the back. I wanted the kind my father and Humphrey Bogart wore.

But it’ll keep the sun off, and it will be excellent for bad hair days. I have a lot of those. I’m going to my hairdresser and tell him I want my 1972-2010 cut, and if it doesn’t work, I’ll tell everyone it’s not his fault.

In the 1980s, a woman in the row behind me at a performance of Die Fledermaus at Texas State University leaned over and said, “Who cuts your hair? The back is perfect.” In the 1990s, a woman sitting next to me at a library conference said, “You have the perfect haircut. And my husband was a barber, so I know a good cut.” In the mid-2000s, a woman waiting on the porch at East Side Cafe asked, “Who cuts your hair? They do a good job.”

Chemo and another drug have done a lot to my hair, even after it grew back in. But I want my old hair back, or as close as I can get to it.

That’s a nice hat, but I don’t want to have to wear it every day.

Well, we’ve gone from videos to cats to hats to hair.

One more thing about hats: I have a snapshot of my father holding me in the yard the day they brought me home from the hospital. He was wearing his fedora and looking at Ime as if he didn’t know what he’d gotten himself into. It didn’t take him long to find out.

I also have some snaps of myself wearing the hat. But I’ve been having bad face days.

And about videos: David is working on a screenplay. I can guarantee it will not be offensive.

***

Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay

***

I’m author of short stories in anthologies Murder on Wheels, Lone Star Lawless, and Day of the Dark. One of my stories appears online in Mysterical-E, https://mystericale.com/pre-2015/index.php?issue=131&body=file&file=forall.html

I’m working on a mystery novel that will soon be finished if the cat doesn’t eat it.

Invisible Men and Thirty Thighs

Be advised: If you drive down IH-10 to Sealy, you will not see the sign for your exit, because it isn’t there. The highway is under construction. Hwy 36 is now a big pile of dirt.

We turned off at a Goodyear place and set the GPS for the hotel. It told us to avoid the mess on the interstate–in almost that phrase–and go east on the street we’d turned off on. David said he was grateful for GPS because he’d have gone west.

Our route took us down little streets and roads lined by trees and old fence posts and sagging barbed wire and all kinds of greenery and rusty barns and silos and even cows. I hadn’t seen a cow in forever. I miss them so much.

Finally we reached downtown Sealy. It’s a pretty little town, what we could see of it, but instead of going down Main Street, we turned off and went back to the interstate and our hotel. I don’t know now many people are staying here, but we’re the only ones I’ve seen. The construction is affecting their business. They’re short staffed, too.

David has gone to pick up our VIP passes. I am lying on the bed writing, eating Lorna Doones and Gatorade, and not listening to Father Brown.

I don’t watch network TV any more so I haven’t seen Father Brown in years. I am sorry the show has gotten preachy and soft instead of following G. K. Chesterton’s lead. His stories–and the TV shows made with Kenneth Moore–were serious. Sin was sin and there was nothing funny about it.

But I do like Sorcha Cusak. I liked Cyril Cusak back when and wondered if Sorcha is his sister. Google informed me she’s his daughter. I’m sure she’s too old to be his daughter. But The Golden Bowl, in which he appeared when he was up in years, was made in 1972 and ran on Masterpiece Theater in Season 2, 1972-73. It doesn’t seem that long ago.

I’m lying on the bed because I had to wake up before noon to pack, always a mammoth task, and I’m tired. I was going to bring some of my new clothes–a dear friend took me shopping and performed my mother’s function, saying, “You look good in that. Buy it.” But most are synthetic, and it will be hot as you-know-where, and I don’t want to be hotter. Furthermore, many people I’ve seen at film festivals look like unmade beds, and I can do better than that in old clothes.

David is going to order fried chicken online when he gets back. He said he wants three thighs. I thought he said thirty thighs. Works for me.

I considered ordering fried catfish, but it always tastes so bland. Not like San Marcos River catfish. San Marcos catfish tastes like the river, algae and all. Put a bite in your mouth and you smell river. People not raised on that fish might object. But farmed fish, which most restaurants probably serve, is, from what I hear, raised in a no more pristine environment. And shrimp are bottom-feeders, too, and nobody complains about them.

David’s film, Invisible Men Invade Earth, will be screened tomorrow in a block of “offensive, scatological” videos. You have to be 18+ to get in. I’ve laughed and laughed since reading. How a film David made managed to be categorized as offensive, I do not know. Unless viewers don’t like cats.

The video was judges’ choice in a Dallas festival several years ago and they screened it the next year, too. They said they often quote a line from it. For ten years, it’s been going to festivals.

Viewers have called it “sweet” and “innocent,” and a video “made just because the film maker wanted to make it.” Which is true. He told one audience he wanted to make a video while he was sitting on the couch and spending no money. That’s true, too.

The only positive about the category is that it might draw a large audience if they think they’re going to see something offensive.

If you haven’t seen the video and would like to, here’s the Youtube version. If it won’t load, go to the bottom of the film screen and click Yourube..

Image by MonikaP from Pixabay

Image by Luiz Fernando Miguel from Pixabay

Sumer is icumen in, almost

Sumer is icumen in,
Lhude sing cuccu!
Groweþ sed and bloweþ med
And springþ þe wde nu,
Sing cuccu!

~ Oldest written English song, about 1260

 

The air conditioner is broken again.

~ David Davis, April 25, 2022

 

Sumer has not cume in yet, although the thermometer sometimes suggests it has. Today, though, it’s raining, 62 degrees, still spring.

The air conditioner will be fixed well before sumer cumes in.

*

*

“This 800-year-old song comes from a miscellany that was probably written in Oxford around 1260 and it’s the first recorded use of six-part polyphony.

“The beautifully preserved manuscript contains poems, fables and medical texts – and is the only written record of ‘Sumer is icumen in’. The song is a ‘rota’ or round, a canon for several voices (in this case six). It describes the coming spring, a singing cuckoo and various excited farm animals. Click the image below for a closer look at the full manuscript in all its glory.” (Listen to one of the oldest songs ever written, ‘Sumer is icumen in’)

English translation

Summer has come in,
Loudly sing, cuckoo!
The seed grows and the meadow blooms
And the wood springs anew,
Sing, cuckoo!
The ewe bleats after the lamb
The cow lows after the calf.
The bullock stirs, the goat farts,
Merrily sing, Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo, well you sing, cuckoo;
Don’t ever you stop now,
Ground (sung by two lowest voices)
Sing cuckoo now. Sing, Cuckoo.
Sing Cuckoo. Sing cuckoo now!

*

Image by Wynn Pointaux from Pixabay

The Case of the Missing Roomba

 I ordered from a business I won’t name but you know what it is–a roomba costing over $300. It was supposed to be delivered by ten o’clock last night.
They have posted a picture of our door–definitely ours–with package on mat. THE DELIVERY MAN DID NOT KNOCK, so I didn’t spend the evening opening the door.
Today, no package on mat. I will chat–or maybe request a phone call–and tell them what happened. I think they bear some responsibility, since THE DELIVERY MAN DID NOT KNOCK. I know he didn’t, because we were home all night and the cats didn’t go flying under the bed.
David said don’t order another one. He said he’d vacuum.
I like to vacuum but am not sure I can handle a vacuum cleaner now, or in the future.
My friend said when her package was stolen around Christmas, the company sent her another one. I hope they send me another.
If they do, I will be happy. If they do, David will be VERY happy,
I really want a roomba so I can see if the cats will ride on it.
*
There are more cat + roombas on Yotube.
*
Does anyone know why my post will not double-space, even though it triple-spaces on the edit screen?
*

I’ve Been Waterin’ the Yahd

Sometime back in the 1930s, my grandmother picked up the telephone receiver just in time to hear the Methodist minister’s wife, on the party line, drawl, “I am just wo-ahn out. I’ve been waterin’ the yahd.”

To the layman, the statement might not seem funny, but my family has its own criteria for funny.  And so those two sentences entered the vernacular.

They were used under a variety of circumstances: after stretching barbed wire, frying chicken, mowing the lawn, doing nothing in particular.

My father would fold the newspaper, set it on the table, and announce, “I am just wo-ahn out. I’ve been waterin’ the yahd.”

I am wo-ahn out now but not from waterin’ the yahd.

Last night David, the family’s official printer, printed the manuscript of what I’ve been calling my putative book. It runs to over two hundred pages, 51,000 words. It isn’t finished–far from it. There’s more to write, scenes to put in order, clues and red herrings to insert, darlings to kill. All that stuff. And more.

However, for the first time it feels like I can stop calling it putative. No longer supposed, alleged, or hypothetical. It’s looking more like a potential novel. Possible, Even probable,

Now, about being wo-ahn out.

Last night I started putting the manuscript, scene by scene, into a three-ring binder. That required using a three-hole punch.

I hate using three-hole punches. I hate fitting the holes in the paper onto the binder rings. They never fit properly. Getting them on the rings requires effort. It’s tiring.

When I went to bed, I was all the way up to page 37.

Then I woke at 5:30 this morning. Instead of turning over and going back to sleep, I got up. I just couldn’t wait to get back to organizing my manuscript.

But I didn’t organize. I managed to drop the whole thing and then couldn’t pick it up. I had to wait for David.

By the time the notebook and manuscript were back in my possession, I was sick and tired of the whole thing. I played Candy Crush.

If I’d had any sense at all, I’d have gone back to bed. I was sleepy. I felt awful. I needed to sleep.

But did I go back to bed? Noooooooooooooooooooooo. That would have been the act of a rational person.

I stayed up added to my sleep deprivation.

I could go to bed right now. I could conk out and tomorrow feel ever so much better.

But will I? No. Because I’m too tired to stand up, too tired to put on my pajamas, too tired to pull down the sheets.

I am just wo-ahn out. I’ve been waterin’ the yahd.

***

Look above the notebook in the picture and you will see the tail of William the Cat. I lay on the bed all afternoon doing trivial, unnecessary tasks. William lay on the bed all afternoon and slept. He should be writing the book.

 

 

 

Emily Dickinson: dear March

Carrie Juettner’s post reminded me of a post I need to put up. I post it nearly every year, but this year time got away from me, and I’m almost too late. The last lines of the poem, however, are appropriate for the time, though. Especially if April in Texas turns out to be as hot as March 26 was. And it will be.

***

Dear March — Come in —
How glad I am —
I hoped for you before —

Put down your Hat —
You must have walked —
How out of Breath you are —
Dear March, Come right up the stairs with me —
I have so much to tell —

I got your Letter, and the Birds —
The Maples never knew that you were coming — till I called
I declare — how Red their Faces grew —
But March, forgive me — and
All those Hills you left for me to Hue —
There was no Purple suitable —
You took it all with you —

Who knocks? That April.
Lock the Door —
I will not be pursued —
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied —
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come

That Blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame —

~ Emily Dickinson

***

These websites about the Bulb River are worth clicking over to see. The 35,000 hyacinths reach full bloom in early May.

https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/the-bulb-river-sandwich-massachusetts

The picture below automatically embeds when I add the link to the page. If the copyright holder objects to its appearance here, I will delete the link.

You’ve Never Seen Anything Like This Blooming River Of Flowers In Massachusetts

@ Ink-Stained Wretches: What Good Are Books and Reading?

I posted Tuesday at Ink-Stained Wretches-a review (sort of) of A Velocity of Being: Letters to Young Readers, a wonderful collection of letters from authors, scientists, musicians, venture capitalists, a 98-year-old survivor of the Holocaust, astrophysicists, and many others, writing about what books and reading have meant to them.

Some of the letters might surprise, even shock you. Reading, they say, Is safety, solace, and power. One writer says, “Reading saved me.” That’s how important it can be.

This book is not just for young people–it also addresses why adults need to make books and reading part of their children’s lives.

The post also includes a delightful description of my own early experiences in literacy, including the time I wrote my name in gooey red adhesive tape on the inside of the back door.

To read, click here.

Kerfuffles and Quilts

Such a kerfuffle.

In the previous post, I went on and on about forecast cold weather, possible snow, possible icy roads, and–my own special bugaboo–possible power outages.

Hysteria stemmed from living through the February 2021 Texas Freeze, six days without power, four without water–I never tire of repeating that–burning 2x4s in a faux fireplace and, on the last day, sending David off to bail our errant auto out of impoundment.*

The snow was nothing new–I’d survived heavy (for Central Texas) snowfalls twice in the mid-’80s–but the fact that a major municipality can, and will, selectively shut off power to an entire neighborhood without a by-your-leave was a revelation. It made my prior existence, turning off water before going to bed, draining pipes, heating with a propane tank across the driveway and a space heater in each room, seem like paradise lost.**

Anyway, the prospect of freezing temperatures/ice/snow put a cattle prod to my PTSD and spilled it all over the Internet.

And then nothing happened. No snow, no ice, no power outage. Extra cold, but low temperatures taught me an important lesson: At 33 degrees F, my new plastic knee works. Getting from the house to the car, and from the car to the house, I made excellent time. Didn’t run, but made, as they say, tracks.

A happy non-event.

That was January. This is February. And another forecast–ice storm. Not pounding snow, but possible ice and slush, which means possible downed power lines, which means possible power outages. Not for six days, maybe, but for long enough to cause extensive shivering.

This time, I think, it will happen. Today’s physical therapy talk was all about the number of Thursday’s patients calling in to cancel. And the number of therapists who might call in to cancel.

Sounds serious. Below freezing at noon tomorrow. One hundred percent likelihood of precipitation.

But after a mild case of the fantods, I said, Oh, phooey, or words to that effect, and let it go.

If the electricity fails, I shall pile on the bed every blanket, quilt, afghan, and throw within reach–and shall ask David to get down from the shelf those without reach–and shall make of them a cave and crawl into it.

If wakeful, I’ll bury myself with the laptop followed by the Chromebook, good for at least six hours on battery. If bored with computers, I’ll occupy myself with an Energizer Bunny flashlight and a book.

None of that 2021 hysteria. In 2022, this aged Girl Scout is prepared.

Large kitty throw
Small kitty throw
Book throw
Tortilla throw
Auntie Borden’s granny square afghan
Annie Munk’s wedding gift afghan
Granny Woodward’s patchwork quilt
Grandfather Frank Waller’s Bull Durham tobacco sack quilt
Grandmother Mary Veazey Barrow’s baby quilt
Generic blankets
Flannel pajamas
Flannel pajamas and slipper socks, mismatched but who cares?

***

*We parked in our usual handicap space but David forgot to display the placard. The morning of Day #6, he went outside and returned to announce the car had been stolen. After a moment’s reflection, we decided there was a more likely answer. He called a taxi, forked over a bunch of money, and drove home.

**The 2021 storm was a mere blip in the lives of the Davises. We were cold and miserable, but that’s it. People died. Unnecessarily. Politics.

***

Image of ice storm by Claudia Trapp from Pixabay

Not #Bloganuary Day 16, But Answering the Question, Sort Of

What is a cause you’re passionate about and why?

I didn’t write the post for Bloganuary Day 16 because I felt passionate that day about absolutely nothing except not writing the post. It happens.

Tomorrow I shall be passionate about the weather.

It was 77(F) degrees today. Tomorrow morning, it will be 33(F) degrees. Or 27(F), depending on which website you’re looking at. There will be light precipitation, possibly sleet, or not. Streets might be icy or might not. The high will be 39(F) or 40(F) or something like that.

My husband and I have appointments for our second Covid booster at 10:00 a.m. I’m hoping for non-icy streets, because I’d really like to get that booster.

Yesterday and today I went outside wearing shorts and a tee-shirt. Tonight I went through my closet looking for the warmest clothes I have. I planned to wear a sleeveless cotton shell under a long-sleeved shirt, something from which I could easily produce a bare arm–this is a drive-through booster.

The closet wasn’t promising. When I downsized before the last move, a lot of clothes went to the Salvation Army. I bought several pairs of wool slacks when we drove to New York City the Christmas of 2000, but got rid of them after a few warm winters. The heaviest slacks I have aren’t really heavy and may be too long–as in, I’m going to take these somewhere and have them hemmed up--but that was before Covid hit and I retreated into my cave.

At this point I don’t care how long the slacks are. I’ll roll the cuffs if necessary. I may wear my sweats over them.

I have sweaters–I love sweaters–plus a heavy, baggy chenille thing I wear over light sweaters. And I have my old Denali sweatshirt. But how many layers can a needle get through before it reaches skin? And how many layers can I divest myself of while waiting in line?

Some (many) people who are used to below-zero cold laugh at Texans’ inability to deal with above-zero (what we consider cold) weather, ice, and snow.

It isn’t the cold per se that we get wound up about. It’s the rapid drop in temperature.

And the icy streets and bridges. We’re not equipped with sand and salt to keep cars from sliding into objects they shouldn’t slide into. Nor do we know how to drive in those conditions. There’s an art to it.

I don’t possess the art. The one time I tried it, I slid off the highway and ended up in a ditch facing the wrong direction. Across from my father’s place of work. So embarrassing. He was stationed in Pennsylvania for a while during World War II and then drove across Northern Europe. He knew what to do. He drove the car out of the ditch and took me to the university, which is what he’d wanted to do in the first place. (“Don’t worry. I can drive myself.”)

Fortunately, my husband comes from cold country and has experience in getting around. I put my nose in a book and try not to think about it.

Well, whatever. This isn’t new. Sometimes, as my mother said, there’s nothing between us and the North Pole but a barbed wire fence.

And it’s common knowledge that if you don’t like Texas weather, just wait a while.

***

P.S. If this turns out to be like last February’s storm, when my neighborhood was selected for a power outage that lasted six days, and my husband went to Lowe’s every morning to buy ten 2x4s to burn in a fireplace designed to look charming rather than to emit heat, I shall not say Whatever. I shall pack my bags and move to El Paso, where a connection to the New Mexico power grid keeps the lights on. Or so I’ve heard. There’s only so much John Wayne-Rugged Individualism that this native Texan can take.

***

Image by Claudia Trapp from Pixabay

#Bloganuary Day 15

What is a life lesson you feel everyone can benefit from learning?

The world in which you were born is just one model of reality. Other cultures are not failed attempts at being you; they are unique manifestations of the human spirit.” ~ Wade Davis

Related: Other individuals are not failed attempts at being you.

*

Quotation from https://www.morefamousquotes.com/quotes/3850022-the-world-in-which-you-were-born-is-just.html

#Bloganuary Day 14

Write about a challenge you faced and overcame.

I’ve faced a number of challenges and overcome (most of) them, or faced up to not overcoming them. But the important ones aren’t fodder for this blog.

A minor challenge that comes to mind:

Two summers after receiving my B.A. with a minor in biology, I returned to college to take an undergraduate course in microbiology. I thought it would be fun.

I had not taken the prerequisite chemistry courses—organic chemistry and biochemistry, if I remember correctly—but nobody at the registration table asked, and I didn’t volunteer the information. I guess they assumed I’d read the requirements in the catalog. I assumed that what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

I spent the next five weeks growing, staining, and identifying bacteria.

I also spent five weeks memorizing where and at what angles to hang little H’s and O’s and N’s and other letters from little C’s, over and over and over, so I could draw the metabolic processes of bacterium after bacterium after bacterium on exams.

That was the prerequisite part. My fellow students already knew what those compounds looked like.

But I persisted—lecture and lab during the day, little C’s and H’s and O’s at night.

Things went well. That was back when my brain had space in which to stuff all those letters and the ability to spill them out into the right places on test papers.

When I turned in my final exam, I told the professor (a) I’d enjoyed the class; (b) I hadn’t had the prerequisites; and (c) good-bye.

It was a fascinating course. I’ve never regretted taking it.

But that was a long time ago. I’ve since altered my definition of fun.

***

Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay

Image of D-glucose by Ben; Yikrazuul, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

#Bloganuary Day 13

What does your ideal day look like?

Scrap the walker, the mask, and everything related to Covid, including Covid

Eat breakfast

Walk a mile or two or three

Drive—not be driven, but drive—downtown

Philkon Phil Konstantin, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Sit in a bookstore coffeeshop—BookPeople would do—drink coffee with cream and sugar, and write

Leave the bookstore with a stack of books—mine, all mine

Have lunch at a cafe; the Magnolia would do

Go to the mall, buy clothes that fit and shoes that feel good

Drive some more, nowhere in particular, just drive

See Greater Tuna with the original cast at the Paramount Theater

Have dinner at a restaurant; the Magnolia would do—they’re open 24/8

Come home, get a good night’s sleep, and do the same thing tomorrow

IN OTHER WORDS

Do things I haven’t done for the past two years. Add to the list, See family and friends close up, travel more than thirty miles from home, and . . . 

***

When I began this post, I didn’t have a specific theater production in mind; I just wanted to sit in a theater with a crowd of unmasked people and not have to worry about being coughed on. And then it happened—an idea!—I really, really want to see Joe Sears and Jaston Williams in Greater Tuna. Again. For the umpteenth time. And then A Tuna Christmas. Again. Also for the umpteenth time. I can’t get enough of those shows.

But Sears and Williams are no longer acting in them. Since they started in 1981, I guess that’s reasonable. Still, I can’t imagine the play without them. Or as a film production. Half the fun is sitting in the audience, watching two men play twenty characters, change costumes and personas in seconds without a hitch.

Anyway, Tuna hijacked the post. So here are some links to Youtube.

 

#Bloganuary Day 12

What emoji(s) do you like to use?

The question should be, What emoji(s) do you use?

🙂

Rarely. And I make it with the keyboard.

And

💋💖💗💙💘🐱

I use the above in emails to my husband. I send him grocery requests. He picks up at curbside. I also send requests to print. His computer is connected to the printer.

I don’t know how to make those emojis. I copied them from gmail and pasted here. I also don’t know what all the hearts mean. That blue one might be saying something I don’t want to say.

I could copy and paste from some website. That’s how I get this WordPress template to make an em dash (—) instead of a hyphen (-).* Sad  😣 . I usually like to be correct, but I don’t always feel like making the effort.

I think WP has a plugin—or something—where I can find emojis, but I haven’t gone hunting for it. I don’t even use the new and improved Block Editor if I can help it.

I suppose I would use emojis more if I cared enough. But I don’t. 😑 I type Sigh. Or Haha.

Old-fashioned. Or just plain lazy.

On the other hand, here’s an emoji I’d like to use.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*Originally I wrote dash. I meant hyphen. But I fixed it. As I said, I like to be correct. And not embarrassed.

***

Image by iXimus from Pixabay

 

#Bloganuary Day 10

5 Things I’m Grateful For Today

 

My husband

Being alive six years after the doctor said the maximum would probably be three

Repeat

Repeat

Repeat

***

This post was written on the 10th, but I went to bed at 7:00 p.m. and, although I remembered, I didn’t have the gumption to get up before midnight to post. So I’m predating and pretending. As I wrote in an earlier post, perfection is overrated. As someone else said, Don’t sweat the small stuff.

Pre-dating didn’t work. Small stuff.

*

Image by John Hain from Pixabay