The weekend crashed with no time to write, as I worked. I had my first writer's group locally and it was great. Lunch with family and then visiting my brother, who is doing well, despite health matters, in the hospital. Sunday, church and chillaxing before work.
Today, I'm fighting the upper respiratory bug going around a congregate living facility. We joked yesterday that we see these people more than our own families. Sad, but true. After moping around all morning with no energy, I write this fast post.
So, if I could have followed up the Laura post, on Saturday, I would have written about the winter afternoons of reading the Little House books after my chores were done. There it is in a nutshell. The Reader's Digest version. Someday, the full version will appear. Of cocooning in an old drafty bedroom with pink walls and covers, transporting myself to winter on the plains. Then emerging after hours for a meal prepared over our fireplace to watch the news, Lawrence Welk and the Saturday night line up. I have a vague feeling I wrote about that before. Anyways, that is what I felt this weekend as I headed off to work in our long winter.
Hearing the figure skating music into the hall as I passed my meds reminded me of sitting in a stuffed rocking chair with my parents watching the Olympics many years ago. I watched some. I miss those years sometimes, but they have been gone a long time.
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