I slept. I slept in the new bed. I slept as good in the new bed as I ever did in the old one. Maybe I’m adjusting to the adjustable bed.
The new sheets are a little slippery. The blanket kept trying to move to the foot of the bed. A few trips through the washing machine will remedy that.
It’s a Thursday morning here on the Kennett Plantation. Mr. K has breakfast every Thursday at The Coach House with a few of the men from our church. Thinking it would be a good opportunity to “squeeze” in a few exercises, I settle in on the carpet in the great room. (That’s just a big living room.) Still in my pajamas, but who’s watching? Apparently, the squirrels were. It’s been a long time since I shot a squirrel. After they chewed into the attic, twice, we keep them away from the house. There are eight acres here! Go chew something else! I enjoy shooting a shot gun. There. I said it. There’s something primal and invigorating about the loud blast and gentle fragrance of gun powder. It might smell better than coffee.
Two shots. Two misses. I am out of ammo. One more lesson learned. Firing a shot gun in pajamas may not be the best idea I’ve ever had. The butt of the gun kept “sticking” in the fabric. Oh well. The squirrels will be back; they always come back. Lock and load. (grin)
The bed is made and my day needs to move forward. Today I will visit a little Italian lady. She is 85 and she tries to feed me broccoli. I hate broccoli, but I taste it again and again. She cooks it with love and she laughs when I tell her in Italian, “Non mi piace”, “I don’t like it”. Getting her to laugh is the highlight of the visit. Trying to choke down another hot dog at Target might be as bad as the broccoli. I even put mustard on one of the hot dogs and I hate mustard. She isn’t giving me a hard time, she is having a hard time.
I enjoy the tone of her voice when she talks about growing up above the restaurant (pizza) her father owned in Ozone Park, NY. A coal oven. Cars were double-parked, triple-parked. Even the Mafia liked good pizza. Her mother’s faith to come to this country from Italy with two young children. She didn’t know the language but she prayed and followed her Lord and her husband. Many times my little Italian lady says, “Mother had a direct line to God.” We should all have a direct line; His name is JESUS.
Until next time; I hear a pizza calling my name.