My name is Rusty, and I am a hoarder

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A misty cool morning with distant thunder-boomers wandering about randomly dropping rain and lightning strikes. An all-day rainy day. We love those now. They are so rare.

Snookums comes into the studio bearing that first cup of hot coffee from the brewer. Kippur slowly warms up to the rainy day routine. And I with sleep swollen fingers sit down to work the gentle ache away.

Too soon it will be time to mix up some waffle batter and maybe some turkey sausage to go with it. But for the moment, I can feel a wee bit sinful in sitting here in pj’s and letting the day unfold.

This is a fix the icemaker day. I can just feel it in my bones. And maybe *sob!*, it is treasure sorting day, sorting the clutter that surrounds me. I am a hoarder, and being separated from my treasures causes me great angst. No telling when I might need an appointment reminder for last July, or an empty packet of dental floss. But the rule is, if it wasn’t needed during the past year, it probably will never be needed.

But all that is hours down the road. For the nonce, just me and thee, and a cup of coffee …

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