Out of Touch

It’s that time of night: a full day with a little weed whacking, a very little garden tending, a lot of writing, a wonderful hour or so of catching up with Brenda Fake, a nice Maureen dinner with a good wine while we checked the weather and to see if there was any major news development (there wasn’t) and i noted i could tell the slant each news story was going to take from the source station. Then, we had an incredible brownie made by Sarah.

i watched some bluegrass that was really great (Thank you, Amy Beth Hale).

As usual, this kind of day and evening gets me to reflecting. And man, did i reflect. Was gonna write about the reflections and then said to myself, “Not tonight. No, not tonight.”

Then the other two retired to bed. i sat here wrestling with myself as to what i should do when it hit me. Damn near forgot.

George Henry Harding, V, had a birthday today. He’s old. Almost as old as me.

i won’t write much about him here. i think i covered that about a month ago.

In fact, after he read that post and we exchanged comments, he wrote me, “Back at you, brother from another mother.”

i think that pretty well covers it.

Happy Birthday, you old fart. i’ll call tomorrow.

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