Hang in there, Fred. Packing and moving are such a traumatic exercises. I so hope that when you have moved into your new lodgings, you explore the town and countryside and write about it here.
I certainly will not lack for new experiences, places, people and circumstances. This will be by far the most drastic relocation--before only from one place in or near the southern mountains to another; from one job as physical therapist to another wearing the same hat. Now, with the exception of same sun, same sky, so much will change. I expect to have plenty of time and plenty of new topics. Now if only the moving parts keep moving. Thanks for well-wishes.
I will never forget the woman who used to come to our elementary school and teach us poetry. Her name was Martha Anthony, and she arrived completely decked out in antebellum hoop skirts and lace, with beribboned bonnet, white gloves, fan, and reticule. She would stand there, bobbing up and down as she recited “The Highwayman” in animated tones, “Stopping by Woods,” “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,” etc., etc., etc.
We thought she was weird. But her voice has stuck in my head all these decades later, and I can recite those lines completely from memory because of her theatrics. Bless her heart.
Of course, the lonely cloud and the road less traveled. I wish I had been a better student, but I guess there are few that are happy with their disengagement during the Clueless Years.
Hang in there, Fred. Packing and moving are such a traumatic exercises. I so hope that when you have moved into your new lodgings, you explore the town and countryside and write about it here.
I certainly will not lack for new experiences, places, people and circumstances. This will be by far the most drastic relocation--before only from one place in or near the southern mountains to another; from one job as physical therapist to another wearing the same hat. Now, with the exception of same sun, same sky, so much will change. I expect to have plenty of time and plenty of new topics. Now if only the moving parts keep moving. Thanks for well-wishes.
I have racked my brain, but I cannot recall the poem that the boys loved to recite that was a long, miserable tale.
And thus, roasted peanuts were born. Bring some with you, Pop. We're ready!
I will never forget the woman who used to come to our elementary school and teach us poetry. Her name was Martha Anthony, and she arrived completely decked out in antebellum hoop skirts and lace, with beribboned bonnet, white gloves, fan, and reticule. She would stand there, bobbing up and down as she recited “The Highwayman” in animated tones, “Stopping by Woods,” “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,” etc., etc., etc.
We thought she was weird. But her voice has stuck in my head all these decades later, and I can recite those lines completely from memory because of her theatrics. Bless her heart.
Of course, the lonely cloud and the road less traveled. I wish I had been a better student, but I guess there are few that are happy with their disengagement during the Clueless Years.