Most Mondays (or in this case, Tuesday) the letters come together in a jiffy; 15 minutes tops from start to finish. In a sign of a surely fading memory, I keep a little notepad by the downstairs sofa and when I’m loafing (which is often) it makes it easier to scratch down a little ‘reminder’ about this topic or that.
Of course, when you write about the mundane goings on of daily life, it doesn’t make for the most scintillating reading. But a lot of weeks, that’s all a writer has to work with.
January 26, 2016
Ellen/Reid: I just ran out of gas yesterday when it came around to writing the perfunctory Monday letter. Despite the best of intentions, it just didn’t get done. But this morning, as I bid ‘Good morning, ladies’ to dear Emma and sweet little Georgia on my new go-to coffee cup, it suddenly became time to put pen to paper, or at least electronic, digital paper.
Your mom texted me Monday afternoon about those two little hooligans and we had a good chuckle between grandparents over how Emma is just growing, growing, growing. I loved seeing her splash and swim in the pool; those lessons are worth their weight in gold. She was just beaming when she came up for air, and no doubt Georgia takes in all that her sister is doing.
Her tiny feet won’t be that far removed from joining her big sister in the water.
Reid, there is no way in hell I could make heads nor tails out of whatever that spreadsheet was you sent from your grad school studies. I have absolutely no clue as to what you were showing me, what it was used for and how it matters to what you’re studying. More evidence that your dad is, truly, dense as a loose stone. But it must mean you’re liking what your doing and the studies are going according to plan. Your mom and I also giggled about that. Remind me again, in layman’s terms, what I puzzled at and how it has any relevance to mankind.
I’ve become something of a binge listener to iTunes. This morning it’s listening, and replaying time and again, More Than This by Bryan Ferry and Roxy Music. It’s about 35 years old but a great, lilting tune that takes me way, way back. Yet before that, yesterday, it was 21 Pilots and Stressed Out. I’ve amassed a great playlist of the so-called adult alternative music. Reid, I sprinkle in a little Beck with the Kongos and Cage the Elephant, et al, and I’m good to go.
Those tunes will help keep me alert and bopping along on I-77/I-26 early this Thursday morning when Miss Emma and I head back exactly 211 miles to Bowens Island. The temps will be chilly but I badly want to try out/experiment with the DOA shrimp technique the black guys on the dock lectured me about as I drooled over their buckets filled with fat speckled trout. The reds should be schooling, and hopefully they’ll be massed by the barge. Maybe the ladies at Crosby’s can school me on what others have been boating. The new GoPro will also make it’s debut.
I need to catch a few more fish since a crowd of nine will come over Saturday night for a long-promised blackened redfish extravaganza. It’ll be exciting to have my friends here.
My passport still isn’t here. Grrrrr. That’ll put a wrench in my travel plans if the damned thing doesn’t arrive. I told your mother of my hoped-for adventures.
Everyone in town is agog about the Carolina Panthers heading to Super Bowl 50. A new friend and I caught the game at a diner up the way in Huntersville, and we jumped on the bandwagon as the Panthers steamrolled the Cardinals. Neither of us sported Panthers gear so we sort of stood out like sore thumbs. I did get a glimpse into the world of NFL gear when my buddy Jody texted me early Monday to see if I could help him out by transporting official gear from an apparel printer to the Panthers’ team store at the stadium. It took a couple of trips, but it was great fun. Got to see the stadium and the inner workings of selling gear. The shop was packed with people.
Okay. Gotta run. Finishing off my class notes – it starts tonight. Wish me luck. Or, more appropriately, my students.