One sentence journal, Nov. 24-30

Prickly pear, amputated

Time marches on . . .

11/24, Sunday. I fetch out a stack of Christmas CDs to set by the kitchen stereo: Oscar Peterson, Ray Charles, Dave Brubeck, King’s College Choir, J. S. Bach, Chanticleer, Diana Krall.

11/25, Monday. After the prickly pear in the front yard got its overdue trim, the ground around looks like it’s strewn with amputated limbs.

11/26, Tuesday. Tell me, what retired person who rarely goes out except to walk the dog needs 10 sweatshirts, 13 pairs of jeans, 16 polo shirts, 18 tee shirts, and 26 pairs of white athletic socks?

11/27, Wednesday. The smell of wood smoke in the air outside on an overcast day, and I don’t have to wonder this time of year if there’s a brush fire somewhere.

11/28, Thursday. Thanksgiving: a gentle, tranquil, and quiet day that begins with a scattering of flamingo-tinted clouds at sunrise and pecan pie in the oven by mid-morning.

11/29, Friday. A rain cloud gathers over this desert valley and, disbelieving, we go for a morning walk with the dog anyway, arriving home 45 minutes later—still disbelieving and wet.  

11/30, Saturday. How can two people and a dog manage to fill a recyling bin in just two weeks?

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Image credits: Ron Scheer

Coming up: Mark Mitten, Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave