The Quiver

OK, so what if it’s the third of December; who’s counting? Other than my boy, of course. And my oldest daughter. It’s not like I promised I would put up the Christmas lights this weekend … <sigh> except that I did.

But it wasn’t my fault that we got four inches of snow. We never get snow in our part of town—well, almost never. If the benches and foothills get lots of snow, we’ll get a skiff. (That is indeed a word that can be applied to snow. It means “slightly more than a dusting” I think. Just ask Mark Eubank, the former weather man on KSL News.)

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I was reminded recently that there was an entry that wanted writing. Since it’s Thanksgiving weekend and the kids are in bed I might as well get it out of the way, eh? (Now if I were really on the ball, I would have a nice new laptop, with functional WiFi so I could sit in the living room with everyone else while I write this, but I’m an anti-MS curmudgeon, and it can be difficult to convince Linux and WiFi to behave themselves on old hardware.)

Anyway…

I read a post over at my mother’s site about men up on roofs. (Shouldn’t that be “rooves?” Oh wait, this is English; it’s not supposed to make sense.) No good deed goes unpunished, so I left a comment on her entry, which stirred up memories of a weekend not too far past.

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