Slight Storm Damage

The Butcher never saw the funnel cloud, but here’s what the winds left.  He’s without power at home, but fine.


Edited to add:

Well, so much for that tree.  Why can’t you take out the fucking privet, storms?  No, take out my cool weird tree, instead.


Edited again to add:

Our poor neighbor is going to have an unfortunate surprise when he gets home.


Don’t Put It in Writing

Oh, Lord, y’all.  Did I tell you that my Mom is now reading me over at Pith?  And she’s itching to start commenting in order to defend me from my detractors.  Clearly, this can go no place good.  I mean, it goes all kinds of hilarious places that end with Sarcastro and Exador mocking me mercilessly, but it goes no place good for me.

So, yes, they were here all weekend and then went down to Georgia to get the nephews and were back last night and now are gone again today, headed north to be the people actually executing part of my brother’s summer custody.  In this way, I also have custody of hundreds of Precious Moments figurines and a large collection of Bibles–they sit at my parents, out of sight and out of mind.

Last night, my dad yet again reiterated the advice he’s been giving me since I was in fourth grade, “Don’t put it in writing.”

And, finally, after decades, I said, “That’s terrible advice to give to a writer.”

“I’m not saying don’t write, I’m saying…”

“Don’t put it in writing.  How is that not the same as ‘don’t write’?”

I think the better thing is this–Don’t put in permanent form anything you couldn’t explain to my mom.

I don’t know what the world will use for a guide when my mom is no longer in it, but that’s my rule.