Bubba

Day in the Life of a Bubba

This would be the day to begin with so or well but resisting, so here goes. Up at 1:29 a.m. because Father Nature kept whispering “Wee hours, Bubba” and Father N. gets painful and ugly. Unable to go back to sleep, so downstairs for Kona coffee and what? working on a sermon during Wee hours yields even more nonsense than usual, so nap on Tassy’s green sofa. Up at 4:30 because of Linda rattling round in the kitchen, down the front path for her PCNH. Stay up to work dragging art and furniture into a “staging room” because early this morning Specialists of the South’s haulers are coming to move a large batch of our accumulated objects to their auction warehouse. 

After they leave we must get the house ready for a photographer to come on Monday, so may stay as late as noon before returning to High Heaven for coffee and a sit-down and when it turns five o’clock somewhere, anywhere, a glass of red wine. What time is it in London? No? how about Sydney? Supper, I am dreaming of Captain Anderson’s whole baked red snapper with a side salad but who knows. We haven’t been there for months, and this is the month. 

What’s going on? 

The house is a mess like unto those Navy PCS days when the movers were coming. Breakfast is in the oven: one slice of thin crust pizza and another cup of Kona delicious, black, ground from whole beans. This morning’s secret from my cardiologist who is working so lovingly to keep me alive: I like a smear of Hellmann’s on my pizza.

This is The South, Baby.

Bubba