Monday again. Well, not now… but tomorrow, when you read this, it will be.
Back from another weekend of camping. Back-to-back tent-hotel with us plus the wee one. Perhaps not for some, but for us a real spot of light to be among friends and nature with the family. Yeah, set-up and tear-down never seem to have as many hours betwixt them as I’d desire, or, rephrased: I’m wasn’t ready to leave the woods and come back to work; but… we’re back and I tried to be productive with the couch time.
What did I do? I published some four months of pictures to Keaton’s gallery. No; really. I did. So, if you’re among my many recent detractors, those in the, “When are you going to publish new pictures,” or, “I can’t beleive you haven’t updated since February” camp – you can kindly stuff a sock in it now. Click this sentence and let’s get it over with; we at sounds familiar will be waiting for you when you get back – and we better see a grin so wide on your face that it gives away your internalized joy at the new snapshots.
OK then, let’s do some writing.
In a disturbing trend in our tiny, oft debris-strewn household, the odds that either Sharaun or I will brew a pot of coffee around 8pm have gone from an almost never 100:1 to something nearer 3:1 in recent months. I don’t know when this change happened, but an early-evening cup of coffee has become something of a delectation for me. I call this trend “disturbing” because it’s just another indicator to me that the normal human process of aging is progressing just well and fine within me. As a child, coffee seemed a bitter elixir for the aged, a lifeblood so essential that it could be sucked in hard candy form when not available as a fluid.
Old and me, we ain’t strangers.
Remember a year ago when I had all those problems with birds eating my backyard fruits and veggies? Well, I’d almost put that frustration behind me, mended those fences between the fowl and I. Almost, that is, until their voracious appetites dredged the whole emotional issue to the surface anew this year. So far they’ve ruined ripe tomatoes, plums, and one of only two apricots my young tree managed to produce (I was so indignant on that last one, I proceeded to eat the remaining fruit around the peck marks). Stupid hungry birds.