Author: Claire
One day last week we were expecting an ice storm. Never did get it, but we received a pretty little snow dusting. I took this photo, which I just remembered while going through the camera card for last post’s Boy Scout image. Taken through a window with melting snow droplets on it. Artsy on purpose, seriously. Not just a bad photo because I was too cozy and warm to want to venture outside. Truth.
So this is where I was last night. In a church. At the Court of Honor for a new-minted Eagle Scout, Jordy, son of one of my best friends. Now, I know there are people hereabouts who did the whole Boy Scout thing. But this is all new and foreign to me. When I was the age a boy might become an Eagle, I considered the entire business of uniformed do-gooding and mandated wholesomeness fascistic. I considered the few boys who took that path to be complete dorks. Of the twelve traits listed on the left side of that program,…
I had a social evening last night (though the friend who invited me would laugh at my idea of “social”), followed by a slice of too-sweet cake. This morning I need to recuperate. And give impatient Ava a later-than-usual walk. So while you wait for me to return and be stunningly brilliant* have a cute & funny dog & cat video. —– * Your wait will be much shorter if you merely expect me to return, which I shall try to do later today.
If you’re a member of Claire’s Cabal and you haven’t stopped by the forums lately, I hope you’ll drop in and maybe stick around. Current doings: We’ve just opened the “Members Helping Members” section where cabalistas can offer their assistance on anything from transportation and relocation to their professional specialties. We’ve got several lively new discussions going on, from an easy-newsy one about the “Hamiltonian” electors to the quite deep topic, “The spiritual dimension of freedom.” We always have something going on about money (sound or unsound) and economics in Silver’s Corner. And there are several excellent recent threads on…
Cough …. cough … sputter. I knew it was a mistake the other day when I boasted about Old Blue’s sterling reliability. Sputter … gasp. Suddenly I feel the horsepower of a wooden go-kart under my right foot. Cough. But all is well. Though I’m miles from home, I’m in an area I know. And right there’s the parking lot of a defunct neighborhood c-store. I coast in as the engine finally dies. After a moment of “Ohshit, what now?” I call R., an old faithful shade-tree mechanic who lives only a few miles from where Old Blue now refuses…