Spent a good portion o' the mornin' shoveling my driveway, which was covered in a thick coat of ice that even my best winter shoes slipped on. My goal was to make a path to our mailbox. I should say where our mailbox should have been were it not blown off its post. It's happened a few times this winter, and until we have the time to put up a new box, we've held the current one in place with duct tape. (Thank you, MacGyver.) Mail is, after all, a writer's best friend.
I didn't make it to the mailbox, but I got close enough that the mailman parked his truck and handed me the mail. My work here is done.
A salute to my favorite Irish writers, Jeremiah Healy, Gregory Mcdonald, William Trevor, Ken Bruen, and Robert B. Parker.
What about me, Gerald? What about me? And don't try any of that: "But, Alex, you're not Irish!"
ReplyDeleteThat's what you said last year. It still stings, Gerald. It hurts. It really does...