Busted Flat in Baton Rouge

I have a good post or two I'd like to put up at Gates, but unfortunately my mind has gone on strike. There's one on the fate of Christian converts in Germany, and another of the U.S. Fifth Fleet exercises in the Straits of Hormuz.

God, I love pictures of ships moving in convoy. Must be a left-over from my childhood days of watching them come in at Mayport...which is in Florida and I don't know if it's a carrier basin anymore. Back then it was palmetto scrub and ships. Destroyers, destroyer escorts, and those hunking big carriers. Delightful for a child who loved orderly mayhem.

I'd also like to do some gardening but it's too hot. Florida has come to Virginia, only without the thundery afternoons that made everything lush. How can this be June when it feels like August? I been cheated. I have some rose bushes the children left at Shelagh's grave for Mother's Day but I can't find the courage to plant them.

And the future Baron's belongings accompanied him home from college. They sprawl in heaps here and there, proving that bodies at rest tend to gather cobwebs. I doubt they will move unless my inertia is somehow overcome...fortunately I have barred the door so it won't be necessary to shove boxes off the couch were someone to show up.

Yesterday, in a small, controlled fit of desperation I went to see this MD who is also a homeopath. I hope his remedy cures me of Shelagh's death but somehow I doubt it. On my way home, I noticed a headline that said Casey's mother -- I have honestly forgotten the woman's name already* -- is retiring from her anti-war duties. Poor wretch. Now the whole façade will come tumbling down. I'll invite her to join me in my dark hole here. We can argue politics and throw clods of dirt at one another.

Beats crying all by yourself, I should think.


*Cindy Sheehan, that's her name...Welcome to the pit, my dear. Have a mud pie?