This year we didn’t send holiday greetings, which is a shame. I love to make the images without words and I believe that our recipients don’t need the words; only the greeting.
I remember my rebellious years. The difference is that in those days you could rebel and still have some standard of living. You could find any old job, live in a hovel, eat pasta forever (Oh, how we mastered the sauces.) and continue to go to school. School was the ticket. The difference, these days, is that it’s who you know. Sadly, school is enjoyable but immaterial. Wouldn’t it be wonderful (she said) to chuck it all and make it with what you know.
I am a sandwich; the thin spread between two slices of white bread. I had a long talk with Dad today. He thinks that he broke his hip a few years ago and in two places (when it was ONLY the knob on his femur). I explained that it was little more than six months since his surgery and that he had visited the hospital a few more times since for various other reasons. I’m liking my new white hair.
The Kent clan spent Christmas together in the Mary Dyer Room at Foulkeways. It was the first time in my memory that my Father actually opened presents and waxed appreciative. He loved his new shoes (Good score, Ben and Mary). This is a picture of Norton looking pensive.
This is a new look for him.
This is a new look for Bill.
We had the traditional deli platters from Pumpernicks, root beer and some of us had real beer. I drank water.
We welcomed new members to the family unit.
And, thanked the old members.
Tis the season to be searching and I, for one, am grittin on East Tennessee.
I’d rather be curry than a sandwich, even though its stinks up the house for days.
Happy New Year.