YeGads.

 This morning as I used the keyboard, my arm was sore where it touched the desk. I looked and found a tick. I've hardly been outside, not since yesterday, and then only to pick up  a few small broken-off branches on the lawn, and I've been wearing winter clothes. I've never had a tick latch on to my arm before, and don't remember other tick-attached areas as being sore. (And it's really hard to get a picture of the inside of your right arm, or so I've found.) 

  I'll continue the exposure watch, for COVID, Lyme Disease, and whatever else may rear its ugly head. 

The Final Curtain...

 When my father died, the funeral director, who helped with the  arrangements, said he could be buried in his family's plot since so many years had passed. (At the time it seemed like ages since his parents had died, but now it doesn't seem that long.) My mother was to be buried alongside him. But when that dark day occurred, there was a different pastor. He was not convinced that the buried coffins were deep enough, and I was there when he prodded through the gravesites with a long metal pole. I couldn't bear it, so decided to buy a new plot, for my mother, Dave and me. If I recall the words from Thornton Wilder's "Our Town",  all the souls in the cemetery communicate with each other. So the distance of separation shouldn't matter.  Dorothy later bought a plot opposite my mother's grave. So maybe we'll all be together again.

A "wry" memory

    In the Charming Lane days, we spent a lot of time there, and that meant a lot of food.  A favorite of theirs was the BFS shop. Ask what the initials stood for. The answer was Best F**kin' Sandwiches.  Oh, sure, there may have been a more correctly formal title, but everybody called it by its street name. Gus once asked the owner and he said the real name is the one with the F-word. Their food was always very good.   (So sad to find the reference all these years later.

Music Bingo in Baltimore

 

So, today...

 ...I stopped at sNs to get cat food. I was in line behind a man who was having a lot of good-natured conversational chitchat with the clerk. He was talking more than listening, so she had to repeat her request for his birthdate, as he was buying some beer. He answered "Four/four/ forty-four."  I commented that I felt I should call William Mattare. He laughed  and said whenever he hears his ad, he feels like punching him in the nose.  (444-4444)

Flowers, Here Today...

 

RIP