Not a Minute Before

In spite of all I’ve said and done to live a slower, more peaceful life, I still find myself on the road more than I’d like to be.  Rushing to and fro, eating a snack behind the wheel.

Eating Behind The WheelWhat is going on here?

After Moxie, I’m going to take a searching and fearless inventory of “the days of my life.”

But not a minute before.

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1 Response to Not a Minute Before

  1. Loosehead Prop says:

    Between that red maple and the house used to be a barn where my father tended the cows and pigs as a boy. When the barn was torn down in the 1950s they built a sun room on that south face, which is now completely hidden behind that overgrown shrubbery. Two tiny upstairs bedrooms (see how low the roof is to the window) held two boys and two girls in one bedroom each. In the basement my grandfather built rolling shelves, like the kind you find in libraries, to hold all the canned goods they preserved from the garden just out of sight to the right. How incredibly wealthy they were in the real sense of the word.

    The two houses to the right of you were built on land divided and sold off to provide money for my grandmother after grandpa died.

    To the left of you is the cemetery where my father is buried, and where I will be in due course.

    There are few coincidences. Thank you for leaving me that copy of Bunker, and for this photo.

    I like that crescent moon stone, as well.

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