This hairdryer will malfunction (burnout) if used in ski boots.
Funny or Sad?
You decide: Baby Toupee
Somewhere in the last decade I forgot how time consuming homework can become. I’ve just written my first hand-coded web page, and I cannot believe how much time it required. When I was in college the first time, I spent a considerable amount of time writing code. This time around is much easier, but still…the time. *yikes*
And no, you curious cats, I will not post a link to my page. One’s first try should not be made public.
“Your [last assignment] was so very well-written that I might even hire you as a consultant. Your [work] was exactly what I envisioned when I designed this assignment – very well done.”
Do NOT watch sentimental chic flick after a very long week of travel and homesickness. No good can come of it.
This afternoon, I drove through Baker City, Oregon. In the foothills (small mountains) above the town, and about two miles from my location on the interstate, it was SNOWING. In September! Snow!! Will wonders never cease?
Dinner in Anacortes, WA, included locally-grown field greens, regional wine, and The Dunton Sisters. At first, and to ameliorate the loneliness of a solitary meal, I wished for my iPod. Soon I was grateful for its absense.
They began singing “God’s not dead; He’s still alive,” an old southern spiritual that I remember from my childhood, a song my family sang in my grandparents’ living room a quarter-century ago. I cannot count the hours spent in that room, my grandmother on the piano, someone on a harmonica, and occasionally, my dad on banjo or guitar. There is a soft, hazy glow to those memories, but the girl I was did not appreciate the joy of those moments.
I’m from a Southern family, whose roots go far deeper into the soil of the South than even my own. And musical ability was inherent, necessary. My father is a bass; my mother, a soprano; my sister has the range many vocalists covet. Part of growing up in our family included the ability to sing, including harmony and counter-melody, and play an instrument if you had the aptitude. (And sometimes even if you didn’t.)
Hearing bluegrass hymns in the Pacfic Northwest (while enjoying a meal any salad snob would approve) reminds me sharply of what I had as a child and of what I’ve lost.
It’s an unhappy truth that one must mature thirty years to appreciate that parents and grandparents are people with lives, thoughts, feelings, hopes and dreams. Sadder still is the truth that one’s forebears have passed through the veil and taken their music with them.