January 19, 2012
Dear Everyone:
For the record, I’m feeling much better now.
Went through many, many boxes of tissues, but that’s slowing
down. Still coughing some,
but that’s to be expected.
It is, after all, winter.
In other news…
I went to the
Homeowners Association meeting last
night, where there was a lively “explanation” of what happened during
the Great
Thanksgiving Weekend Water Outage incident.
What happened (tree root broke through water main); when it
happened, how everybody found out about it (emergency phone call to the
property management company from, of all places, the
Fire Department) and who did
what to help.
More importantly, we found out where the phrase,
“car easy area” came from, as in where to put your former
Christmas Tree
for “recycling”. Turns out
the waste management company said what to call it, meaning “any place
that’s easy for us to pick up from.”
Vague proposed plans for next year, to designate and “label”
areas, which will probably be forgotten in two weeks, much less eleven
months.
In the meantime, I got my very dry tree into the
dumpster, and swept the patio for good measure, before the rains
started. And started they
have. As a child, growing up
in west-central Oregon, rain was a fact of life.
When it rains, you get wet.
Then you dry off.
Now I love the rain.
For one thing, in
California, always on the edge of a drought,
rain is usually a blessing.
Too much rain, of course, is another matter.
But on the whole, rain is good.
It washes all that dust and such out of the air, thus reducing
the coughing.
Rain comes from nice, thick clouds that block the
pesky sunlight. The little
birds like it because, apparently, rain impedes
birds of prey, which
like to eat little birds, and
squirrels and other cute wildlife.
And it helps the crops and so on.
So rain is good. As
long as it’s outside, and I’m inside, naturally.
On another note, the
Republicans are having yet
another of their ubiquitous debates, each eager candidate scrambling
over the other in their efforts to spout platitudes, buzzwords and
“talking points”. Not unlike
the finches and
chickadees fighting over the (illegal) feeders on my
patio. (Don’t tell the
property management company.)
Only the
hummingbird, serene as a
sitting Democrat,
ignores them to buzz up to the red nectar whenever it suits him.
Unless, of course, another hummingbird has the audacity to
approach. Then it’s no holds
barred (as they say.)
In other words, all is well.
Love, as always,
Pete
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