Johnny wants hamburgers for his birthday meal. Probably for the best, though I did make an effort to talk him into baked mac & cheese. I plugged up the toilet badly the last two times we had that. Once for nearly three days.
So, the wife and kids went to Costco to stock up on dead ground cow, and Nat got into some trouble involving an exercise treadmill, and her refusal to get off, so she is napping as we speak, looking like a deflated balloon there, in the bed, clutching her stuffed rabbit, and looking about six months old, her little lips all relaxed and looking fit to take to the breast.
Johnny put on his apron, washed his hands, and is helping the wife form patties for the freezer, until such a time.
These gray, cold days are murderous to my psyche. Or perhaps my psyche is just murderous. Weather extremis at either end of the thermometer can cause homicidal ideation. Africa is not the safest place in the world, and in Alaska, sometimes people act out with axes and such.
Here in Oregon, this time of year, suicide gets contemplated, or perhaps the felonious slitting of some miscreant who wears a coat you don't like, or who doesn't park straight.
I see an old man, shuffling along, looking like a ruffled bird on an ice covered branch, and I wonder. I sniff a little, and I can smell the gunpowder, and the dust from bullets chewing up stone, as he empties the entire magazine of his BAR into a window he thought he saw flashes coming from, and a Panther tank busts through a wall down the street, turns its turret and he dives frantically through a shattered doorway as the earth cracks and God speaks with a mighty roar, and to his stupefied eyes, he sees the legs of his best friend take several steps past the doorway, before they collapse in a heap, and he wonders where the extra ammo for his BAR is that his best friend in the world was carrying, and feels a wave of shame burn over him for the thought...
Yes, these sorts of days can be a burden...