I think I’ve hit the upper register of tolerance for grief wallowing. Grieving less extravagantly now, at least overtly. If anything, I miss you more now than five months ago. 

 I need a safe place to wallow when that urge is inescapable, and may occur more often than others care to know. Because, Jim, it’s the mortality roller coaster. Despite the urge to grieve

I (finally) washed the green-blue quilt whereupon Magnus reposes as I type. He is eager to replenish the fur insulation. He’s in his summer shed.

Flying to Oregon on the morrow to meet up with Patricia for a long weekend on the Rogue River. We talked about doing this but it didn’t happen. Although we drove through Gold Beach on our way up to Coos Bay for a fuchsia show and sale. Stopped in Eugene on the way home to overnight with Cousin Rene. Good times, my love.

You won’t believe this but I am considering divesting the book collection. The impetus derives from my desire to rip out the stained carpeting to accommodate new wood flooring. Will you still know me without my books?! Also, can you advise on the truism that “you can’t take it with you?”

Pax vobiscum my beloved.