A mother quietly gave birth - her first - alone, while a father played nine holes.
Awakened by the dog, whining at the foot of the bed. Maybe she was just nervous about the paper boy outside. Nope, whining continued till I got up, took her downstairs for her nature call. I stood at the back door staring blankly at the porch while the dog wandered around in the grass, sniffing everything...plastic chairs, chiminea, patio floor. I thought about getting some coffee and staying up to watch the sunrise. Why, I don't know. There are too many trees in the way, anyway.
Jammed black and white piano-shaped pillow over ear to block out the noisy birds waking up. Tossed and turned. Could not get back to sleep.
Remembered dream about large bugs - black and yellow striped arthropods; long, chitinous bodies, no wings, 6 legs; dark green, waxy schefflera plant leaves protruding from sides. When dead, either from natural causes or the fly swatter, they dry up into black mounds, stuck to the wall.
Checked e-mail. From The Writer's Almanac: It was on this day in 1870, in London, Charles Dickens dropped dead at his chair at the dinner table. He died of a stroke, or apoplexy as it was called then. He was 58 years old. In the months before he died, he must have already suffered a stroke. He spoke in his letters of weakness and deadness on the left side and of not being able to pick up things with his left hand.
Phone call from sister in Tennessee.
Phone call from high school friend now in the insurance business.
Phone call from aunt in Ohio.
Phone call from brother in Maryland.
Celebratory dinner at Shamrock Jack's. I had a fantastic Mediterranean shrimp dish, with sun-dried tomatoes smothered in goat cheese. Yummy. Ryan had Coq au Vin. Shamrock Jack Pale Ale, craftbrewed by Custom BrewCrafters, completed the meal.
Presents...new Birks and more knitting lessons. Also, more beer consumed.
Quiet time for reading, then bed.
No other thoughts to report.
Thanks to all who remembered.