My lack of discipline and an update on David Copperfield

 

Heron with a mouthful of fish

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After some hesitation, I transitioned to the Kindle version of David Copperfield, and I did so for the following reasons:

    1. My aging, hardback edition is fragile; a couple of pages already came loose.

    2. The hardback edition is too heavy for my purse and takes up too much room.

This move results in the following advantages, in addition to saving wear and tear on my precious book:

The show must go on, no matter what

Hooded Mergansers

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Barry and I drove about an hour and a half south of where we live to see Dailey & Vincent in concert. We found our seats in the first row and sat down to wait for two of our favorite bluegrassers. In a little while, Darrin Vincent and the other band members walked onto the stage; that is, all the band members except Jamie Dailey. My breath stopped short, and probably everyone else's did, too, when half of the duo did not appear. We were all wondering, where's Jamie?

    Darrin stepped up to the microphone and announced to curious minds that Jamie would be absent. His parents had been in an awful car accident, and he needed to be with them. My compassionate heart reached out as my enthusiasm fizzled. To be brutally honest, I did not expect Darrin to do his own job and Jamie's, too. First of all, Jamie is about as replaceable as my miniature poodle, Josie, rest her soul. Some people and canines cannot be replaced, and that would apply to Jamie, a powerhouse of fun, energy, and tenor timbres. I thought the show would be a flop, but I had been wrong before.

Only the Strong will Survive AI

Kermit relaxes

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My best friends in the nineteen nineties were folds of cotton fabric, spools of thread, and a thimble. In my enthusiasm during the quilting phase of my life, I subscribed to a couple of magazines devoted to the craft. One was Quilter's Newsletter Magazine, and I still have all the back issues stored in plastic holders in a cabinet. In my on-going attempt to purge outdated and unnecessary items from my possession, I am thumbing through those magazines, in the hopes of reviewing useful information and extracting pertinent patterns, prior to giving them away or donating to the library. 

    One article caught my attention. It was published in the April 1996 issue and is titled, Your Computer Quilting Neighborhood: Online Services and the Internet. Written by Betty Rovedo and Jim Burchell, it is not only a history lesson but an eye-opener as to how far computer technology has traveled in a short time.

Is this the real thing or only a fling?

 

Praying Mantis

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Lo and behold, I am in love, which I never thought could happen again at this late date, and I cannot help myself. When the love bug bites, there is no swatting it. May this love affair continue until the fire dies down, until the embers are stone cold, and all that remains is a pile of ashes to be swept into a pail and scattered in the woods, strewn upon the dead leaves and twigs that no one cares about, and stepped on by heavy boots. I beg you though, that before passing judgement and forcing me to wear a scarlet letter A, like Hester Prynne, to hear me out.

Managing the Ps that Bring Writers to their Knees

 

Osprey

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In August I volunteered to lead a session of Write In Louisa, a writers' group that meets monthly in a neighboring county. Its leader called for a volunteer, and I knew exactly the topic I would speak about. It is one my husband unknowingly inspired.

    In his spare time, he builds rock walls; not the kind with mortar between each piece, but dry-stacked ones where every rock is pressed in, almost like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. If one does not fit, in contrast to cardboard puzzles, he positions a chisel and wallops it with a mallet to conform the rock to the space. Some of the rocks are small and easy to lift, but some are huge and heavy. From my observations over the years, I concluded that rock walling is not for dainty hands and weak spines.