That’s me, rough and tough, not in spirit but in truth. A most uncooperative left knee and a braced crippled up right wrist, Herr Clink wants me to do one of the damnest things, laundry. Last night I threw the laundry down the cellar steps in a bag before working myself down those cellar stairs in person. One wing clipped I managed to put dry clothes in basket, the wet stuff from washer to drier. Next trick was getting the laundry up the stairs. Right hand so painfully sore is ill strong enough to push, pull, or even carry anything for that matter. Even clutching the hand railing I’m not so sure I could hold myself up against a stairway toboggan trip enclosed within a sturdy laundry basket. The freezer near by I managed to put basket on it. Slid it off enough I could support it with my forearm And slid it upon the basement landing four steps down from the kitchen floor. Once I was in the kitchen, I used my walking stick slipped into the basket handle and slid it up those last four steps. Entrapped between the basket and my heroin Frieda about to take it off my hands if I could but make like a humming bird and rise our Her Mostess’s way like-a wily spirit.
Always wear your seat belt. The spouse it could save may be your mate’s.
Ha Ha! Mistakenly trying to keep my journal up, my right hand is in such pain; and, I was seriously thinking of pushing a sketch pencil around making hay-full pictures. It’s definitely Tylenol time.
Just minutes before noon, Shorthorn country time, I heard from Joe deep in the heart of Texas. He caught me napping. My one and only escape from Herr Clink’s wrath. It had happen a Susan had called and asked if Frieda if she would like to go to church. Purely exhausted doing my up and downs doing Frieda‘s laundry, when Frieda left I laid it down. I didn’t even remember laying down let alone to what I had fallen off to sleep to. Awakened, the up, Frieda served up the last of her HM soup. Good stuff, the old girl’s getting back into her rove. BGKC.