The other day, I wrote about taking some quiet time with Snickers, MBFF.
As we sat on out front porch, I listened to the birds.
They sounded happy.
It caused me to recall that it has also been some time since I heard the call of the three, different owls we have in the neighborhood. One’s call is so deep, I imagine him to be six foot tall, hiding in the woods, waiting to prey on some unsuspecting passerby.
My mind drifts to during the last several weeks, I have been called to care for more young people than what is “normal.”
I have heard it stated that “young” is defined as someone ten years older than you. I’ll buy that.
Working with children, the age of our daughters, I have had to assist them with planning and figuring out how to pay for the funeral of a parent. Unfotunately, many of these relationship were tragic, previously shattered and I am again reminded that there is only one family name “The Waltons.” Regardless of the staus of the relationship, death has a way of sneaking up on you and the more death certificates I sign for individuals younger than me, the more I remember that. . . and pondor it. Comming attractions?
Switch gears, change the thought. On my way to the porch with a tennis ball and a glass of scotch. “C’mom guys, who wants to go outside?”
Sixteen legs scamper towards the front door in eager anticipation and I’m on my way to class, learning a lesson I should have mastered thirty years ago.