Like a nightingale without a song to sing.
I’d say that I had spring fever, and it isn’t even spring.
. . . . . . I keep wishing I were somewhere else . . . . .
(with apologies to Vachel Lindsay for his fine poem The Leaden Eyed and Rogers & Hammerstein for the fine song It Isn’t Even Spring)
Somehow, I expect to resume daily posting here at H&Q, but the month is off to a NUTTY start with more commitments of time than time. I suppose this is a good sign. Frequent H’Q visitor Annie O. has me pegged for an antisocial type, but I believe if I were anti social I would not be so busy away from my castle, which everyone knows is a man’s home.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s all been a fun few weeks doing only what I’ve wanted to do, and that included some extra hours at The Granite Guy. The only thing more fun would be to pay toward my disconnected hot water bill and soonly-due real estate taxes. Those lofty goes (as #43 might say) seem as far away as they’d be if I were sitting on my keister through the summer as I was last year. The one few moments I wanted to post last Friday I refrained from posting because what I had to say would sully the point of the Fourth of July. And all I might have said respectfully about that day was cliche. You’ve read it all before. I’m a gurgitator; not a regurgitator.
I’m desiring to catch my breath, and I can’t do that until the neighborhood association newsletter is sent to the printer I HOPE by Wednesday. On Thursday, the new American Aviation Historical Society Newsletter will arrive for my proof reading and corrections. I’m looking at Saturday before I’ll be able to really crash without guilt.
I’m deeper into the summer than I’ve been since perhaps infancy without a running air conditioner. But that’s okay. I have a window unit for my office, but I’ve not installed it in the interest of saving fossil fuel. The fan three feet from my left elbow is okay, I guess.
I’m cool with that.
Live long . . . . . . and proper.
