A grocery store oddity and a birthday parade for a 5-year-old are stories from a … you know … world, and I talk about them this week.
I hate nicknames, or at least when people try to give me nicknames, since for the most part, I’ve never really liked any of them.
However, a few people over the years have coined names for me that only they are allowed to use, and in that spirit, how can I object that Pea Green from Smelly Socks and Garden Peas has dubbed me “Lovely Bill”?
Just don’t you try and call me that.
Oregon was supposed to be a “What the heck?” trip
A “We haven’t done that place yet” trip.
The mornings and evenings, and even some of the days, are starting to get cooler.
Long-sleeve shirts, jeans, hoodies and sweats are starting to appear again, pulled off shelves and hangers for the first time in months.
It shouldn’t be a surprise, because it’s September, and September’s going to September.
My buddy Pizz posted the second trailer for the upcoming James Bond movie, “No Time To Die,” on Facebook the other day.
Good tidings, indeed.
The president of my alma mater recently sent an update on the school’s reopening, and it’s so far … so good.
According to the report, after a week’s worth of classes, there had only been four positive COVID-19 tests, and two of those had been “safely resolved.”
Contrast that with another local college, where they’ve already suspended in-person classes for two weeks, and the governor has sent a “SWAT team” to help deal with the situation.
“Hey, Mr. Writer Man.”
Suzi’s a good writer, but I’m generally considered the writer of the house for both personal (like what you’re reading here) and professional reasons.
So when she had a question about the project she was working on, she yelled down to me from our upstairs computer.
Suzi and I always wear our masks when we go into a building, but don’t usually wear them when we walk.
Whether it’s the streets of our town, a trail or one of the nature areas we visit on Sundays, there are usually not many people around and plenty of space to keep our distance from anyone we encounter.