Ah. Monday morning and it's gray and quiet in Lloyd. But not raining and so I need to take a walk and then I'm not sure but I do desperately need a pair of shoes I can work in the garden in and that sounds absurd but the shoes I used to wear in the garden literally fell apart and I'm thinking PayLess might have some fake Converse or something. Go support the Chinese slave trade. Right?
Oh golly, I don't know. I've got chill in my bones and lazy in my soul and I could easily go back to bed and snuggle down and read but that is not me. Maybe once in a while on a rainy Sunday but not on a gray Monday, I've got too much of my mother's father in me, the man probably never once slept past seven a.m. in his entire life. I always say I have my two grandfathers fighting within me, the one a happy, rich drunk attorney and wanna-be musician, the other a stern and disciplined man whose idea of leisure was to drink a small ginger-ale while watching a sunset after a long day of work.
And so it goes and so it is and here I am and I better get moving.
The chickens want out to begin their day of work and there is much that could be done and not much excuse not to do it.