enthuism

I've been futzing around dealing with money stuff. Not done yet. Taking a break, but gonna push through & take care of the litter box & fit in a few businesslike "gotta" kinda things, while I've got it in me.

Cleaned the kitchen earlier, mostly. Made coffee and a blender of dying-strawberry smoothies. The coffee's kinda bitter. I think I let it stew too long.

I'm drinking it black out of this little mug I was using last weekend as a creamer. It was apparently once a gift of custom-made pottery, quite likely to my father, for on the bottom is etched the following:

Your
Saul Bellow
Enthuist
1978
If indeed my dad taught Saul Bellow, I'd not know it from when he was alive. ( long family talk here )

- + - + -

The little bud precursor hangy-down thingies on the maples are starting to give way to the leaves, whose little parachute clusters umbrella up & out more each day. Dandelions now may well outnumber those little purple flowers in the front yard.

Calling it "the front yard" seems wrong, and I want to erase it & call it something else, maybe specify "my yard," and maybe even back off further, with "the not-really-grass in front of this house." I know that the reason it feels wrong is that "the front yard" is what my family called the front yard, and that means the ground in front of the house that is where we live, at home.

That's what this thing I'm talking about, the front yard, is, to me, now, I understand, except for the plurality of "we," but it feels so much like not the same thing at all that the family words trip me up.

+ - + - +

Eh, screw the bills. I'm puttin' my shoes on and going outside. It's looks all sunny-yet-a-little-chilly out there.

enthuism

I've been futzing around dealing with money stuff. Not done yet. Taking a break, but gonna push through & take care of the litter box & fit in a few businesslike "gotta" kinda things, while I've got it in me.

Cleaned the kitchen earlier, mostly. Made coffee and a blender of dying-strawberry smoothies. The coffee's kinda bitter. I think I let it stew too long.

I'm drinking it black out of this little mug I was using last weekend as a creamer. It was apparently once a gift of custom-made pottery, quite likely to my father, for on the bottom is etched the following:

Your
Saul Bellow
Enthuist
1978
If indeed my dad taught Saul Bellow, I'd not know it from when he was alive. ( long family talk here )

- + - + -

The little bud precursor hangy-down thingies on the maples are starting to give way to the leaves, whose little parachute clusters umbrella up & out more each day. Dandelions now may well outnumber those little purple flowers in the front yard.

Calling it "the front yard" seems wrong, and I want to erase it & call it something else, maybe specify "my yard," and maybe even back off further, with "the not-really-grass in front of this house." I know that the reason it feels wrong is that "the front yard" is what my family called the front yard, and that means the ground in front of the house that is where we live, at home.

That's what this thing I'm talking about, the front yard, is, to me, now, I understand, except for the plurality of "we," but it feels so much like not the same thing at all that the family words trip me up.

+ - + - +

Eh, screw the bills. I'm puttin' my shoes on and going outside. It's looks all sunny-yet-a-little-chilly out there.