“I ain’t dead yet!”
Although I am sure that the handful of my followers certainly think so because I haven’t posted for how long? Let me count the years: one, two. Think I will don the green eyeshades of self-delusion and pretend it hasn’t been longer. My “end of days” plan was to write, write and write even more. The plan execution was avoid writing, avoid writing and avoid writing even more.
Here I am (with new driving gloves) reeving the engine, pulling out of the driveway, and entering the fast lane. It has the be the fast lane because I must increase my speed to 75 miles an hour to catch up.
The Thanksgiving when I was seven, I suddenly announced to the tableful of relatives that I was going to marry when I was seventy. To this day, I haven’t the foggiest what prompted that declaration. Here I am, past seventy, rarely a bridesmaid, never a bride.
So here’s the deal. Having no grandchildren (Holy cow, I am at the age of great-grandchildren) to justify my existence to myself, needs must hustle my butt to claim a better epitaph than