November 2019 . . . .

     I’m almost certain I’ve talked about this before — I’m getting older and tending toward repeating myself — but I find that time is getting away from me in ever more slippery-slope chunks. The summer is over here — (and by the time you read this, autumn will nearly be,) and I’m feeling like nothing got done. I mean, by me. Which is a shame, or at least discouraging, so I need to go back and double-check . . . . You see, I had at least four different books that I planned to consume, and did so. Summer reading is the best — sitting on the front porch as the day’s heat dissipates, the buzzing of cicadas and the smell of citronella taking up two of my senses, leaving the others for the cover and spine and open pages in my hand, and the cold beverage on the table next to me. And I have some mighty tomes ahead of me (that, like I said, I will be deep into or will have put paid to by the time you read this).



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November 2019