“After all,” Anne had said to Marilla once, “I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.”

This is going to be one of those super quick, yo, I'm still alive type of posts.
Absolutely nothing happened today, but I've been writing daily since 2002, for the most part, and I'll be doggone if I miss a day.

Feeling lucky?

 

“Sharing space across generations requires boundaries; otherwise, love and duty can turn into exhaustion.”

Thirty‑three years ago today was the Blizzard of 1993.
We had roughly twelve to fifteen inches of snow.
Cowboy and I lived in a trailer park in Jefferson City. 

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did do."

The days are long and all I see stretched out in front of me is sameness.
Nothing changes, nothing will ever change.
I put pen to paper, figuratively, just to remember what day it is.

"Gravity is not my friend anymore."

 I had a bit of bad luck this afternoon that turned into a bit of good luck.
I was walking down the road, looking at the creek, trying to decide if I had a beaver or a log, not paying one bit of attention to where I was going.

March’s secret? It always brings something new

I think one reason I like the time changeover is that my body stays on standard time.
So I read until one in the morning, which is really midnight, then sleep until my medicine alarm goes off at eight thirty, which is really seven thirty.
I don’t like how the day seems to fly by during the first week or so of the changeover, though.

“In the Spring, I have counted 136 different kinds of weather inside of 24 hours.”

Cowboy didn't set the clocks ahead when he went to bed last night.
He thought they would adjust themselves.