(As I write this, our three turkey friends are on their afternoon constitutional through our backyard. They have a schedule tighter than Boston’s MTA.)
I skipped golf today (misty rain) and chose errands instead. Two returns (both overly optimistic clothing size estimates), a drop off at the Salvation Army, and then the library. I checked out four more books, and having been invited to do so by our head librarian, dropped off my third novel to add to our town’s shelves. I still get a bit of a head rush when I see my books sitting there, so I went over to the Ds to see how my other two were doing.
I’ve been disconcerted the last two times I looked. Neither book had looked like it had gone anywhere in some time; they both had been sitting there together like wallflowers clinging to each other at a church social.
Today they weren’t there. Neither one. So of course I decided the librarian was just humoring me; she’ll probably send my newest book to some bowel of the basement to join the other two. The other alternative, that they’d actually been checked out, was the last possibility to enter my mind.
But maybe my reasoning today isn’t as sharp as it might be, thanks to my phone going DING! at 4:30 this morning. After a fumbled search for my purse in the pitch black bedroom, I pawed my phone out. We have an ill family member, not to mention an assortment of children and grandchildren to invent worries about.
What could it be? Nothing good gets transmitted at that hour. And I was right: