Just A short – shorter than the sorter-short(er) earlier note…

The library from whence this is typed downtown Sanford, Florida, USA, closes at noon today and will reopen when and as and if…

Which is good.  I had to return a book. S.M. Stirling’s The Protector’s War, book two in his nearing-a-dozen series of Novels of The Change series.  I am way past recommending each of the books highly.  I have one left: the first – Dies The Fire. which since I follow few rules anywhere else why should books and their reading be different?

About three solid hours of sweat Saturday afternoon or Sunday morning, track of Irma depending, and I shall await my storm.  Ain’t life wonderful: free shows and thrills and adventures all for your not-asking!

Be well, all. And – in the immortal words of immortal Robert Anson Heinlein “Beware! Stobor!”

 

“Month Off”

Bidnessman’s month off

on shaky ground – soon no need:

and ‘ticians dif’rent?*

 

  • (The usual month-long politicians’ recess last month this time was a bit short.  I knew a few businessmen – restaurant/bar owners who took January off after New Years; some to travel; some to acquire more recipes; some to relax; some to sane-itize; some to…well, never mind.  But as a group most businessmen kept wearing out grindstones and growing new noses.  The Other Crowd.  Probably their best work done when not At Work, donchaknow?)

“The Dream: per usual”

The dream-track of up The Gulf Stream seems a mite off for Irma, but it’s still Friday morning.  I have a lousy dream fivecast rating: the only other one of which I have written happened December 5-6 overnight of 1970.  On December 9 of that year I awoke to the unmistakable sound of a B-40 Rocket Propelled Grenade having its arming-pin removed with a sharp metalic clink.  Hey, I thought, rising from the second-tier pallet upon which I reposed in that joke of a bunker at hill 25 just between Que Son City and LZ Baldy in Quang Nam, South Vietnam.  My dream had forecast moarters.  But I mused as I lifted my head off the 12/12 (inch) beam that bordered my hasty bed: that’s not a morter, it’s a **&ing B-40@#$%^& and my world went deaf and blind just after a brilliant white flash that had the unmistakable taste of cordite way back in my throat.  Quick way to die, that.

This dream of the present still can be made whole. Hurricane Andrew was a measly little Category 1 or 2 lazing past The Bahamas when it encountered The Gulf Stream and then plowed through Homestead – just South of Miami – with 150+ miles per hour devastation.  I still think Irma, since it is not coming perpendicular to Florida’s East Coast, still can hitch a ride up the stream and spare my tender self – and more importantly, garden – but as previously noted, I have been wrong before.  And I fervently (ok, not quite fervent just yet) pray wrong again.

Ya’ll be well. And tell some one (or twos or threes) you love them.

Love,

J Richards