Good Night, Irene
Well, I've run as far and as fast as I can today. My body is weary and longing for bed, my mind is a puddle of goo, but I'm not done. There is a funeral to write -- one of those nuanced, say-it-like-you-mean-it-but-don't-know-i
ter private graveside memorial services.
The trick is to rest enough so your mind will be alert for the work, but not to wait until your body simply collapses at the keyboard. Alternatively, I could get up at half-past-gawdawful and stoke the nuclear coffee reactor until something blows -- then, shower and get ready for the day.
Since I'm struggling with writing a homily, I'll finish up tonight's post with this old chestnut, one of the jokes that my wife told me 30 years ago she would divorce me for if I ever told it from the pulpit. ( Collapse )