Not too long ago in these parts -- back in March when the mercury touched 85 -- we were fretting about global warming. Be careful what you wish for. It snowed yesterday, not that any of it stuck, and a chill in the air has caused fires to be lit in my back room every night. The buds on the trees outside my windows seem stuck. They poked heads out around St. Patrick's Day and now are paralyzed like the rest of us, wondering what's next.
Titanic sank 100 years ago April 15, yet another tragic example of making pronouncements to the void and asking for trouble, pronouncements like this ship is unsinkable. Listeners inhabiting the void, those ultimate karma generators, apparently remarked, "Let's find out."
My friend Jackie is here this week. We took a drive today, as we often do on her visits. After some time spent on country roads, where we spied wild turkeys and Canada geese on take-off, we stopped at Henry's Cafe in Earlville. Henry Moore, an old pal and former classmate, has opened a corner place featuring coffee and pizza and wraps along with other culinary treats. Henry has lively eyes and deft hands, the latter of which he used to construct a delectable calzone that became my supper. Well done, old friend, Earlville is lucky to have you.
Big excitement on American Idol. Jessica Sanchez, the tiny girl with a big pipes, was America's bottom choice on Thursday. Maybe it's just my cynical mind but something seemed a bit contrived about this drama. On Wednesday the judges waggled their fingers and threatened voters that not calling in could result in their favorite singer being eliminated. And sure enough, the results were the predicted "shocker." Of course the judges used their one save on the diminutive Ms. Sanchez and all is right in Idol World. My own prediction: Jessica will not be in the bottom three next week, but will instead have made a crowd-stomping comeback, all thanks to Randy and J-Lo and Steven imploring viewers to save this diva-in-waiting. Or maybe I'm just more suspicious late at night.
Harry was subjected to a bath this evening. He remains fluffed up like a feather duster and smelling, as promised on the label of his doggie shampoo, "clean and fresh." My puffy pet will have been my roommate two years in May. I ponder that my boy has in canine time aged 14 years since arriving at my doorstep. What must that feel like, to age so fast?
I am ready for golf.