I’m a plumber’s grandson.

And the son of an accountant.

I believe managers need to have hands-on experience of what they’re expecting from others.

Even as a kid, my Far West was Montana rather than Texas.

I have no idea where that originated. I had been no further west than Tom Sawyer’s Hannibal, Missouri.

Did any of us intend to live this long?

Much less like this?

Thinking without words? How about being born deaf? How would you conceptualize anything?

The inner dialogue to get through a day., things like “Let’s take a shower.”

And then? “Let’s eat,” even if it’s only one plate.

~*~

What does the dog know
that I don’t?

She’s tired of talking socially
and so am I

We have calling hours
and a funeral ahead

The thought hit me while scrolling through old posts on this blog.

Does anyone you know actually maintain a tightly focused life?

You know, someone who proclaims, ”These are my goals and I’m sticking to them”?

Or is it more a matter of steering between the many things that just pop up, like they do on the merry-go-round here at the Red Barn?

Or more like a pinball machine, for those of us of a certain age?

In the end you just have to patch together whatever you can from the pieces, even while trying to fit them to the other folks around you?

Moody, sometimes chilly or clammy …

The foghorn from Canada, with its mournful G-note pitch …

Memories of Seattle …

Unseen dripping …

Garden slugs underfoot …

A wash of gray in such contrast to the glorious sunrises I’ve witnessed and photographed … yes, everything’s muted.