I left the house early this morning to run my traps: the post office, the bank, the Easter Seal center, and Wally World (no reference intended to my sweetie-pie big brother, Wally Jones). Back at home, Buck and I played contrapuntal duets on our laptops as a naive young bull danced in front of a serial-killer bear.
Meanwhile, in this of all times, I am experiencing the labor pains of the birth of an idea.
Buck said,”You’re a little frenetic this evening.”
“Well, if I am, it’s because I’m fired up,” I responded, flash and flame in my Irish eye.
“You’re serious about this,” he said, looking vaguely alarmed.
Can’t talk about my Big Idea yet. It’s percolating.
The markets closed. We laughed. We swore. At last, we took a shower and changed into our evening soft clothes, poured a drink and sat in our usual spots on catercorner sofas.
The sun moves with the seasons. And so do we. The bright blast didn’t catch my attention. It was the lovely dregs that moved me out of my comfortable spot, up the stairs, outside in the cool air with no cloak, to go “Wow, oh wow, look at this” as the sunball drifted below the horizon.