It's a gray, rainy day . . .

Eleven of the clock on the gray and rainy Sunday morning following a day of frenzy, whistle-shriek, sawdust, and parents absolutely grooving on doing new things with their kids.  Kids . . . not just boys, lots of sisters, too.

And I'm sitting in my big marshmallow chair, a gooseneck lamp gandering over my shoulder as I read the 7-day library book I didn't even get to crack yesterday, watching the raindrops dance on the pavement, listening to the susurrous of the leaves scrubbing themselves and the tympani of the thunder.  There doesn't seem to be so much lightning; it's not violent; it's a nourishing rain.

And Big Sally is sitting on the concrete slab that remains of Mr. Moore's butcher shop in the back yard.  She is not oozing down into the warm September mud like a farrowing sow.  When I get ready to key her big six-cylinder Detroit diesel to life Friday morning, I won't have to call the National Guard to bring one of their bit Battle Tank Retrieval Vehicles over to tow her out of the mud. 

Why, yes; as a matter of fact, I did have to do that once.  In a storage lot in

Bonham, Texas.  This humongous beast of a truck came out, shoved huge spades on its bow into the congealed mud, and strained its inch-thick cables to haul us out.  Sally had sunk the depth of her tires into the mud.  It was not pretty.  It was an expensive lesson.  Oh, yeah . . . did I mention the lot owner refunded my hundred-bucks rental?  He didn't offer to pay the two-hundred-fifty buck tow fee, though.  And the tow operator said he gave me a half-off rate because I wasn't upset about having to pay for the tow in the first place, plus, he'd had kids in Cub Scouts as well, and they'd had a good time making Pinewood Derby cars.

So I'm sitting here, toasty and dry, enjoying the weather's theatrics outside, and the author's mental gymnastics inside, and my second cup of coffee after the breakfast pancakes.

Life is good, y'all.

Gimme a whistle.

Uncle Pat