Maudlin Morning Reflections

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Tewsday Mawnin’ … A little down today.

Sitting here awhile in the early light playing with a CAD program and sipping coffee.  Kippur the Budgie is starting to flirt with me.  I think kipper is turning into a girl. (S)he had all the markings of a male when we got him, but this week we noticed that her cere, the swelling above the beak is decidedly turning tan rather than the blue of a male.

I scold her, and she scold back.  I understand that females don’t mimic speech, so all my work in teaching her how to speak has merely entertained us. Oh well … it is not the first fruitless activity of mine.

The last two days have been mower tire changing days.  I really am getting too frail to do the job, so the next time the chore comes around, I am going to have to haul them to the mechanics.  Growing old is not for wusses, they tell me.

Today is the day Snookums volunteers at the local food bank, so I am on my own foodwise.  Not that I mind all that much. I can forage with the best of them, and her absence helps a lot of deserving people, and a few not-so-deserving ones. It annoys me that one couple gets food from the bank when they could well afford to buy at the store, but are very cleaver at hiding their income.  No understanding people, I guess.

But I don’t regret moving out into the country, even with its inconveniences. I do fret about aging though, and there will come a time when I can’t mow, drive to town for supplies, pick up the yard or do any of the myriad of other tasks required for rural living. I fear dementia, and do what I can to keep the old calculator in fine tune. That means I argue with dissenters, work crossword puzzles, play video games and … write.

But with all the arguments and such exacting its price of people leaving the blogging community, and the slow disappearance of the 40’s and 50’s crowd into new lives and senior citizenry, my circle has grown small of late, and I grieve their loss. Most will never appear on my pages again.

But life goes on, a generation comes, a generation goes, and soon a plaque lost in a vast sea of other plaques will read:

Rusty Armor

1943 – ****
“Sometimes you just got to walk
slowly and drink lots of ice water”

R I P

Good mornin’ ..

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