make love not war

When Kristen came out for supper yesterday, she brought the elegant documentation of her Christmas gift to me, the leaseholdership, my twenty-year ownership of a little plot of land in Ireland. Maps too, and a couple of charming pictures. I love this, thought, love, gift and reality, realty.

That's the road to my place. I love this. Stirs me to check my passport and book a flight.

Now I'm Irish maybe I'll contemplate moving there, rent a cabin, what the hell I'll cash out here and buy one, an Irish shanty, tiny but plenty big for the two of us. It will make us young again, my hair will return black and I'll grow that beard we were forbidden my Navy years on the ruse it would prevent our gas mask being airtight. As I visualize mornings there, Linda will stick her head out, open the shutter, tell me my oatmeal's ready. She'll bring it out to me, go back inside to get dressed while I eat, then she'll come back out to get my empty dish and spoon and head off to work.

I'm outa here but Linda says she's sticking around to move back into the 7H shambles.

Stepping out early to see the planets, there they are, edging closer together. To make war or love? Well, it's Venus and Jupiter, not Jupiter and Mars, so there'll be no fighting.

And everything is wet this morning, rain cloud has moved on to Bay County, more coming.

RSF&PTL
T

Sorry, not PC, an 1882 cartoon by Frederick Opper, captioned "The King of A-Shantee" (a pun on "shanty" and "Ashanti")