“Wake up. You were snoring,” Said the bailiff–while shaking my shoulder.
“Yes, he was–very loudly,” Said one of my fellow jurors.
“Sleep on your own time–not on the court’s,” Warned the bailiff.
Doubtful, anything that drastic will happen. I’ve been summoned for jury duty the first two weeks of April.
Not that I have anything against doing one’s civic duty. I’m a Vietnam-era vet, for Heaven’s sake.
I know that obligations can turn into more than one hoped for. My wife served on a jury; was selected for a murder trial that deliberated for three months.
“Who was Dog the Bounty Hunter?” My wife asked, upon her return, one night during the trial. During break that day the reality show star had been outside the courthouse. She wasn’t impressed with the “Dogster”–only with the plethora of local TV news crews.
Whatever happens, there won’t be much time for blogging, or other internet activities. I won’t be able to talk about any of the proceedings.
Not to worry–other than the 45 mile commute each direction; my wife warned me; most of the time would be consumed by legal wrangling between prosecution and defense teams.
“It would be like going to work for the county every day,” She said. “Hurry up and wait.” Where had I heard that before?
What light through yonder window breaks? Why, it’s our long-lost friend the sun.
It’s a good day for conclusion jumping, claim jumping, line jumping, leap frogging, frog jumping; any other kind of jumping–for those so inclined. Makes me tired just thinking about it.
Beating the bushes for story ideas–at the same time, careful not to overlook the obvious.
Fingers didn’t move as fast as my mind worked. That will never change.
Sometimes I feel like the guy that spoke several languages; didn’t understand any of them.
Technology changed the world–changed the way we do things. Made the world seem smaller. In spite of advances, human nature never changed.
There’s comfort to be found when things don’t change too drastically, too quickly. I despise planned obsolescence, which seems to occur faster-and-faster.
I’m older, like to reminisce. Only people of my generation can relate to the same experiences. On some days, I feel like a twenty-year-old, trapped in a sixty-eight year old man’s body. Other days the opposite is true.
In the old days, we didn’t apply superlatives to everything that happened.
What would happen if a termite were taped to a splinter to remove it?
The endless debate–does the toilet paper roll feed over or under? Should the toilet seat lid be left open or closed? The my-way-or-the-highway folks already know and are only too happy to share their opinions–whether wanted or not.
“I never made mistakes–only found 300 ways of doing something wrong.” A statement attributed to the great inventor, Thomas Edison.
The toilet seat lid and ring lean forward–ready to strike. When seated, it strikes you smack in the middle of your back; as it attempts to close while you are doing your business.
It never opens fully to rest on the tank. It’s purposed to close after usage. For those of the male species, the lid has to be propped open with one leg or arm during usage. The design couldn’t be more wrong. The point of buyer’s remorse has long passed.
I want a good toilet seat, not fancy or gimmicky, reasonable priced, that lasts longer than a minute.
New Years Eve traditions–Chinese cuisine, with egg rolls mandatory. Also, black-eyed peas with cornbread.
The past year was one of extremes–emotional highs and lows, gains and losses. Two family members and a close friend passed away last year. Dangling conversations fade. Good times, now happy memories.
And you read your Emily Dickinson
And I my Robert Frost
And we note our place with book markers
That measure what we’ve lost…
Several relationships ended and those involved moved on. Because of these events, there were a record number of trips out-of-town.
My wish for everyone, is that we treat each other with more civility in 2017. I still believe everyone has a story to tell–if we can get past the posturing.
I shot a bullet into the air, it fell to earth I know not where.
For revelers in my neighborhood, I wish an extra heaping, helping of common sense this New Years Eve. Bullets do, indeed, come down somewhere.
Getting depressed at Christmas is a real thing for some folks.
Secret Santa’s didn’t visit my house, again–there’s always next year.
This is the time of year when imperfections become endearing qualities.
Grandchildren complain about Grandma’s “iffy” internet service.
My dogs check the mailbox everyday, not for Christmas cards or letters, but rather, for scents from other dogs. I suppose that’s what the Holidays mean to them–and all other days.
It’s the most wonderful time of year–as you’ve already heard many times.
I’m offering the following free advice to everyone this Christmas. You don’t have to believe everything you read, see, and hear.
While my thoughts circle further round the drain–who or what the heck is Eddie Redmayne?
Have a Holly Jolly, non-gender specific, carbon-neutral, appropriately proportioned Christmas this year!
There’s comfort in the familiar. On every trip “home” for the Holidays, GPS insists on routing through Mississippi, Tennessee, then Kentucky. I ignore it for the first part of the journey–it’s been a tradition for several decades.
Four hours to Birmingham, two more hours to Nashville, then another five hours. Rest stops, unforeseen traffic delays, add another hour or more.
Why, now, have rush-hour delays in Birmingham and Nashville become unacceptable? Except, for the first 45 miles, it’s all interstate highway. Google maps promised to cut an hour off the trip. The prospect of new routing at 4 am departure time is less than thrilling.
Leftovers from Thanksgiving: Why did three major St. Louis Metro grocery chains not carry my favorite orange juice with pulp? Yes, I like my orange juice lumpy and pulpy. Different strokes.
The same three major chains did not carry “Grands” frozen biscuits–the pre-formed, patted out kind, unlike the ones in a tin. They taste better, have a more flaky texture–almost like the ones grandma made from scratch. Maybe I’ll take my own OJ and biscuits with me next time? That’ll show ’em.
Where has it been? The hour missing since last March didn’t really go anywhere. This Saturday night, we’ll turn our clocks back one hour, to reclaim the hour pirated away last spring. There will be more daylight in the morning and less daylight in the evening. Does that still make sense?
Media spokespersons, will, once again pose the question; “what will you do with that extra hour?” As if, time could be bartered, or traded, like a commodity. When, in fact, time is measured in terms of how long it takes our planet to rotate on its axis, as it orbits around the sun.
The amount of daylight, depends on the earth’s tilt, toward or away from the sun–in spite of where humankind chooses to fit ourselves during daylight hours.