WET NEWS

Our paper boy has unerring accuracy or dismal pitching skills depending on one's viewpoint. 

Yesterday morning he tossed our newspaper in the only 4-inch-deep puddle in our front yard. One foot in any direction and he would have missed the deep water completely. This rain puddle was part of the 12 inches dumped on North Texas by Tropical Storm Bill as he pushed across the state. The paper was in a plastic sleeve, but the end was open, so the water rushed in creating a dripping, soggy mass of recycled paper and printer's ink.

Refusing to be denied our daily dose of up-to-the-minute news, King and I spread the sheets all along the cabinet tops, washer and dryer in the laundry room. After plugging in my hair dryer, we took turns every time we passed by at the boring job of blow-drying the pages -- a job only slightly more stimulating that watching paint dry.

Yes, I know today's hepcats have electronic information available 24/7 on various devices. King and I could read our morning paper on the computer, I-pad or Smart Phone. But we're old-fashioned. We like to sit at the breakfast table and divide the paper into sections. He begins with Sports, and I choose Life and Arts. We trade back and forth until every word is read. King even reads the classifieds. Not me. There I draw the  line. I'm not seeking a job, a boat, a cutting horse or a supply of Mary Kay. 

King cannot start his day until he knows how the Astros' game ended. Also vital to him are the current levels of all the area lakes and which species of fish are biting.  I search for any item about the Cowboys or the Rangers, as well as what's happening at Bass Hall. I'm compelled to complete all three crossword puzzles, the Jumble and the Scram-lets before I undertake chores and errands.

By late evening, when the paper was dry enough to read, we discovered the ink had bled into a blurry mess. The only thing legible was the headlines. These included:

• Governor Abbott approves $800 million for border security
• TCU falls to Vanderbilt
• Cowboys face summer without Dez
• Trump boasts wealth as he launches a presidential run
• Former minister goes to trial for sexual assault of a child

 On second thought, perhaps the paper boy did us a really big favor.

Quote for today:
Love, not time, heals all wounds. ~ Andy Rooney 

NOISE

My ears are sensitive to noise. Noise bothers me -- unless it's the noise of a party and I'm invited.

Two neighborhood dogs bark incessantly. It's annoying. The engineers sounding the whistle on the trains that come through town at midnight, 2 am and 4 am cause me to sit up wide awake in bed. The thud of the boy next door bouncing his basketball from school's dismissal to bedtime makes me climb the wall. The wail of the fire trucks and ambulances sets my teeth on edge. But all that noise pales in the face of my new aggravation - a friendly, talented mocking bird.

This feathered menace is proud of the safe, twiggy home he established for his family high in a large nearby tree. His nest sways on a spindly limb that no predator can reach. I admit he's smart, has a beautiful voice and displays great imitative skill. During the daylight hours, I love to hear the many bird calls he copies flawlessly. I smile when he says, "Meow, meow."

After a long day of assuring his family that he is alert and on guard, he must rest his vocal cords and replenish his calories. Beginning at dusk, he is blissfully silent. But around 11:00 pm, just as my head hits the pillow and I seek sleep, he warbles again with renewed vigor. My tolerance for noise plummets.

The spot he chooses for his nighttime vocalization is a large shrub near my bedroom window. Banging on the wall doesn't faze him. Running out to the patio shouting, "Hush now! Do shut up!" only encourages him. Sometimes I take a broom and beat the branches of the shrub. Thankfully he relocates. Just as I'm back in bed, he returns to his favorite perch and tries out new melodies. That bird plucks my last nerve. What's a poor insomniac to do??  Suddenly I wonder if fried mocking bird tastes like chicken.

This morning I see that his babies have left the nest and are aligned in a row along the top of the fence. My heart melts and all is forgiven.
                                                                                                  *~*~*
Message to my grandchildren:

Keep the fire in the belly -- stay hungry. Stay humble. Kick butt.

ALAS AND ALACK!

The King of the castle is sick - long live the King.

To say my husband is ill is the understatement of the year. Over the past  five months, we've been frequent visitors to our local hospital. We had four trips to the ER - one by ambulance with flashing lights and screaming sirens. We hit every pothole and ran every red light in order to arrive in time. We've had two trips to the cardio/vascular department. The King has had a heart catheterization, worn a portable heart monitor and had a defibrillator implanted in his chest. He progressed (or regressed) from ingesting zero drug prescriptions to a total of seven.

With the heart problems under control, a semblance of order began to return to our lives. Then the other shoe dropped.

The King developed a pinched sciatic nerve. The unrelenting pain drove us to the ER once more. Standard pain meds were  ineffective.  Our primary care giver sent us to a center for spinal disorders where we received a glimmer of hope. The surgeon knew a procedure that might free the nerve from pressure and stop the pain. Eureka!  The downside is that the prescription meds soared to nine.  

We continue in a holding pattern - holding for approval to receive a myelogram - holding while the surgeon reviews the results - holding for his decision to operate or not - holding for a surgery date and location.

Meanwhile I'm dealing with chores and emergencies that the King would ordinarily handle. Things like lawn and garden care, automotive service, storm-damaged trees, a large swarm of honey bees all fall under my jurisdiction. And I'm unprepared!

Get well soon, King!! You're burning daylight!

Today's quote:
The surest way to destroy a man is to pay him to do nothing. ~ Anne Fortier