too soon

Yesterday, February 13th, was Pop, my grandfather Weller's birthday. Pop would have been 147. He liked to say that Friday the 13th was his lucky day. We drove west on 30A for late lunch at Stinky's where I had oysters two ways, Linda had fish tacos, and Malinda had a fancy hamburger: thick beef topped with a large wedge of roasted brie. For dessert, one large slice of blackberry pie with two scoops vanilla and three spoons. Water all around except that I also had a glass of Apalachicola's brown beer.

This morning early, but much later than now, I drive into Panama City for my twice yearly eight o'clock appointment to be weighed and stared at by my primary care physician, who will then, God willing, renew prescriptions for all my meds. There were ages when I saw no doctor ever, and a doctor friend who was a retired Navy captain suggested I go to the VA clinic and he would write me a prescription for hearing aids, which I obviously needed. That was, what? 2001, I remember because of our new cherry red Chevy Tahoe. And also because when the VA doctor asked, "What medicines do you take, what prescription meds?" I said "None, I take no medicine," so I was sent to the lab for bloodwork and ended up with bottles of this and that tiny pills. Just before, and ever since my January 2011 visit to Cleveland Clinic, I've been on more pills than you. Mailed automatically, they arrive in large white pastic bags, my copay automatically charged to a credit card. How much are they? I dunno, who cares?

Scripture, the lectionary readings for this coming Sunday, February 17th, Epiphany something or other, Five or Six, I think, not sure. There's Jeremiah, Psalm 1, First Corinthians, and Luke. The gospel is from Luke 6, his version of Jesus' beatitudes that conclude the Blesseds with a bunch of Woes, which is to say God help you if you are rich, full, laughing, or one of the pops, because all that's gonna be turned upside down. Like maybe a category 5 hurricane will come ashore for you.

Last evening I went to bed too early and now am up too early, heck, it was one something when I came out here and made coffee, now it's after two thirty. If all the world's really a stage and I get to be the Stage Manager, I'll conclude with this

Most everybody's asleep in (South Walton). There are a few lights on: Shorty Hawkins, down at the depot, has just watched the Albany train go by. And at the livery stable somebody's setting up late and talking. Yes, it's clearing up. There are the stars doing their old, old crisscross journeys in the sky. Scholars haven't settled the matter yet, but they seem to think there are no living beings up there. Just chalk ... or fire. Only this one is straining away, straining away all the time to make something of itself. The strain's so bad that every sixteen hours everybody lies down and gets a rest.

Then I'll wind my watch.

Hm. . . . Two-thirtynine in (South Walton). You get a good rest, too. Good night.

TW+ 

33 degrees this morning, frost caked on my windshield, had to pull over and wait for it to clear. Supposed to be high sixties by noon. Panhandle Spring is at hand.

closing lines, Stage Manager in Thorton Wilder's "Our Town"

pic speedometer odometer of my thirteen year old 2006 V8 station wagon before leaving TAFB with my replacement computer Tuesday. It's about forty miles each way, and the new computer works fine.