Tuesday, February 21, 2017

Life: still good

This morning already I have had my walk, down below outside and inside, hot HoneyLemon water and a cuppa black with a square of dark. Sent Madge a short piece for the March newsletter, piece and a pic though I expect her to toss the pic. Opened and read my email, answered one or two. Fiddled a bit, fiddle and fuss with the beginning draft of a theologically shaky Lenten sermon. Once long ago in a clergy conference a visiting English bishop told us, the priests present and attentive, that if we weren’t preaching at least forty-five minutes we have no business wearing the collar. My metaphor is that judging preaching by it's length is like evaluating a carpenter's work by his pile of scrap lumber. That's a simile actually, not a metaphor, but no wonder the English churches are empty. 

Anyway, so now here I am back from walk without panting for breath, second cuppa, wondering what to write for this Tuesday blogpost, and tippy typing away as though I have somewhere to go intellectually or a point to make. I don’t. Except for this morning’s scheduled trip to Tyndall for a haircut: short on the sides, thin out that place at the right rear corner that looks ridiculous, and leave the top alone so I can continue to fool myself. Also, I don’t think Linda has yet noticed that my hair is starting to get thin.

All through Joe’s week visit with us we watched for a ship, a larger ship, to pass by 7H. Nothing came or went. Yesterday after he left, minutes after he left, long before he hit the Alabama border or even the Bay County line,


went sailing by, and I texted it to him. Soon after, during my morning nap actually and Linda snapped it, another ship. Sorry, Joe, vagaries of 7H.


Looks to be a grim, grey day, long thin red streak of weather stretching from down in the Gulf of Mexico to somewhere up north, passing Destin and heading for south Walton. Maybe I can skip the haircut after all and not look in the mirror. 

Fish hawk in a stationary hover, 


Fog clearing Sunday afternoon, that's not Shell Island, it's a retreating fog bank.



See, there was nothing to blog about. Today: read (A Gentleman In Moscow). FuroForty. Breakfast about nine o’clock. Either a morning nap or Tyndall and a noon nap. Supper about three. Life Is Good.


DThos+ W√§ller 

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