Tempus fugit

Today, August 2, is my father's birthday. If he were still alive, he would be NINETY-NINE years old. No, I'm not kidding. He only lived to be fifty-seven, the combination of a three-pack-a-day Chesterfield habit and an affinity for Pearl beer. He had a massive stroke, and that was that. I was just barely a sophomore in high school, and it thrust me right into having major family responsibilities. Another story, another day.



Above is a digital artist's trading card that I made for a "motherhood" swap with an online group. That is my father with his mother in 1910. How about that Gibson Girl hair and the tightly cinched waist on my grandmother?


Here's another digital scrapbook page I made of my father playing dominoes with his father well before I was born. The dominoes on the page are scans of the same ones they were playing with in the photo. I still have them in a box in my dresser.

I'm going to CAPE!

I'm going to CAPE!

New Year Plus One

The new year for me began with a whimper, not a bang. I can't get excited over much right now. I don't feel up to it. I don't care what Mike Huckabee is doing in the Iowa caucus, because I had enough of him while he was governor of this fair state. The presidential race seems like the biggest bunch of mudslinging yet, so I tend to tune it out completely. I will vote when the time comes. Leave me alone until then.

It's cold outside. I have few reasons to go out in it, except to take the steaming pizza from the hands of the driver whose pen won't write, so I have to go find my own to sign the delivery ticket. He probably thought me rude to leave him standing on the front porch. Better than inviting him in to see how many cats we have, and that we still have nothing on the bare concrete a year after I tore it up, and that there are still boxes sitting around that I've never had the energy to unpack. It will get better. It has to, someday.