8 Weeks

   Today's ultrasound, at Tuft's, reveals that the newest (as far as we know) Schroder is the size of a Gummy Bear, and has a strong heartbeat.
    My initial feeling was that baby is a boy, but that could just be a historical reaction because of  the previous babies.  If a girl, Charlotte may or may not be ruled out, possibly replaced by Juliette. 

Fly away home...

 ...or wherever you go.  Authentic lady bug, or some form of beetle wannabe, we don't want you here.  You are annoying and you do stink.  If you're inside and vacuumed up, your fate is not to be returned to the wild, but to be flushed.  Fly away soon.

Word---to the Wise

  I came across some advice, a while ago, about conversation:   Don't say anything unless you think it's something of importance to the listeners.  Your words  should be about something of interest to them, not to you.  In most cases then, you would be talking about them, not you or your thoughts or ideas.  You'll know, all right, when you stray from this advice. The words you utter sink to the ground like lead, lie there, and die.   I am speechless.

Puffballs and Saddle Shoes

  Puffballs, we called them
  Not knowing, or caring to know, their scientific names.
 We found them at random, without ever looking for them.
 They lay in wait, full and round and ripe,
  Waiting for detonation.

 We stomped them with our saddle shoes, or barefooted
  In the hot summer days.
  But no matter how hard we stomped,
 The results were always the same---
 No pop, no explosion:
 Just a quiet release of brown dust,
 Spores, we later learned.

 In the indolence of childhood, 
When everything remained  the same forever,
We knew what would happen, knew its unimportance,
But still we stomped.
Our saddle shoes bore the mute testament of dust.

Our vague, unspoken hope for something bigger
Waned, in time, and we no longer stomped.
Our childhood pursuits teetered at the brink of change,
And followed, all unknowing, the trail of an earlier dust.

Metaphorically Speaking...

  Some may not give a tinker's damn, but I don't give a fiddler's f**k.

Apples to Apples Ad Infinitum

    Today I am feeling the same way I did when I handed  in a college term paper:  immensely relieved.  I just made an apple crisp using the last of the apples I'd bought.  I probably always thought so, but preparing anything with apples now strikes me as a major chore.  I stand in front of the kitchen sink, with apples, bowl, specialty peeler, apple corer device,  paring knife and  plastic bag for the peels and cores.   I peel and core  away, and when I think I must be nearing the end of the supply of apples, I look over  and see there are still 5 left.  I've only done 2.  It seems like forever, as if they'll never be done. 
     I may bake 5 or 6 pies for Thanksgiving dinner each year, but I have never baked an apple pie for that day, and have no plans to ever do so.   Baking an apple pie is a reason in itself to declare a holiday.

Joint Procedure

     Liz Bishop's health interview today was with orthopedic expert Tim Bartos from Baptist Surgery and Rehabilitation Center.  The subject was knees and what to do about them, including total knee replacement. The preface to the talk was the usual caveat that knee replacement is either a success or a nightmare.  He said that recovery time is from 3 months to 1 year.  My TKR will be 3 months old later this week; I seem to be ahead of the pack, due to the miracle-worker surgeon, I guess.