I was sixteen years old when my great aunt's house fell in love with me. Well, technically, fell on me. But I knew what it meant.
The timing was apt. Not because I was at some peculiarly ripe age for handsome old houses to start noticing me. I mean. Is there ever a wrong time for a house to choose you, and mark you as its own?
This is probably not a hypothetical question.
At the beginning of October, my friend Susan Scott invited me to join her on one of her frequent trips to Colonial Williamsburg. Always game for an unscheduled frolic through the past, I naturally agreed.
It's become a tradition with me since I started working from home to end my day in the warmer months with a walk around the yard. Poking my nose into flowers' blooms. Checking on shoots who show signs of faltering. Cheering on buds whose time has not yet come.
I took today off from work, as I was weak and frail like a kitten from the flu. Also, my head was pounding its way out of the tops and sides of my skull, which made it difficult to think.
Well, the bad news is that I don't really feel any better today than I did yesterday. In sickness, as in all things, I generally insist on linear improvement. I prefer exponential, but will settle for the merely geometric. Alas. Disappointed again.
Holy get me the fuck out of here.
It was another case of the Friday night crazies tonight, only this time it had a happy ending because this year I apparently have FRIENDS I can CALL and say LET'S PLAY and they say OKAY.
