It’s fire season again. Thanks to my local crew that hones in on any fallen hardwood tree in Delmar, and our joint ownership of a beastly wood splitter, I’m stocked up on seasoned firewood. Nothing like an evening fire in the kitchen and in the living room—the joy of a two-sided fireplace. Pumpkin approves.
My battery died on my laptop and replacing it required prying off the entire back of the computer. Naturally, I put off the job as long as possible for fear of destroying my laptop and all of my precious files. Finally, after long days of affirmative self-talk, I summoned the courage and took on the task. Resounding success. I challenge you to name one thing that’s better about the internet than YouTube how-to videos where experts hold the amateur’s hand through a task they know nothing about.
Running isn’t going so well these days. There’s the foot problem and the back problem and the age problem. So I’ve taken a few strokes on my rowing machine instead. Is it monotonous? Somewhat. But I concentrate on using the correct form and I catch up on podcasts. Plus, I was an oarsman in high school for the legendary St. Joe’s Marauders. I was probably a galley slave in a former life, if I had any former lives.
I saw this passage in an article I was reading and immediately snapped a photo of it. But now I don’t remember who wrote the article or where I’d read it. Nonetheless, I can relate. The hubris, the shame, the yearning. It’s a monstrous gig being a writer! And definitely a thrill to hear from readers.
At Harriet’s mom’s I ran across a photo album with some pics I’d never seen before. I love this one of Harriet and the kids. Owen was in his button-down shirt phase (and wearing my old hunting hat), Julia in her dress-wearing phase, and Harriet in the phase she’s always been in—good mom, looking fine.