color me Red
Linda likes to park her car in a parking space at the Bay end of the underground garage here at Harbour Village. Each time walking to and from the elevator lobby and her car, we salute the HV mascot who faithfully guards all the cars down there, like a watchman in the night. I am thinking HVM would make a suitable flag to fly over the clock tower at all times as a symbol of our castle home.
As evidence has it, a year or two ago, or since the last time the garage floor was massively cleaned, the HV Mascot was darting across the concrete floor a bit too casually as a car or pickup (larger trucks are not allowed, but there are any number of American he-man pickups) swerved around the garage's eastern south-most corner. HVM has lain sentinel there ever since, pressed almost part and parcel of the HV structure itself.
In other news, today is the first day of school for some Bay County students. Primary election results are pouring in from across America. And WH tweets are narcissistic OCD: little did the nation know on voting to drain the swamp and rid itself of government by bureaucracy, that the main focus would be instead on swatting away irrelevant gnats.
In my own small small world after all, Norm emailed me a link (scroll down) that stirred up a regret going back 52 years this summer. In July 1966 when we left Japan on PCS to Washington DC, my heart & soul & mind were set on buying a new Mustang. Color me Red, my only issues were AT or stick, V8 or Six.
https://www.usatoday.com/story/money/cars/2018/08/14/first-owner-ford-mustang-discovers-car-worth-350-000/983144002/
But a dear relative wrote me that Mustangs were deadly, gas tanks exploding when they were rammed from the rear. So instead, I bought Middle American, a Dodge station wagon. My regret lingers even more than half-century downstream.
T
As evidence has it, a year or two ago, or since the last time the garage floor was massively cleaned, the HV Mascot was darting across the concrete floor a bit too casually as a car or pickup (larger trucks are not allowed, but there are any number of American he-man pickups) swerved around the garage's eastern south-most corner. HVM has lain sentinel there ever since, pressed almost part and parcel of the HV structure itself.
In other news, today is the first day of school for some Bay County students. Primary election results are pouring in from across America. And WH tweets are narcissistic OCD: little did the nation know on voting to drain the swamp and rid itself of government by bureaucracy, that the main focus would be instead on swatting away irrelevant gnats.
In my own small small world after all, Norm emailed me a link (scroll down) that stirred up a regret going back 52 years this summer. In July 1966 when we left Japan on PCS to Washington DC, my heart & soul & mind were set on buying a new Mustang. Color me Red, my only issues were AT or stick, V8 or Six.
But a dear relative wrote me that Mustangs were deadly, gas tanks exploding when they were rammed from the rear. So instead, I bought Middle American, a Dodge station wagon. My regret lingers even more than half-century downstream.
T