We called it "Art Safari." Hopping into a car, my sister and I would drive around in search of things that sparked our imaginations and try to capture the oddness on camera.

At 24 or 36 exposures at a time, each photo required some forethought. There were many –– like this ––– that didn't quite achieve my goal. 

Still. It's sufficient for prompting a few words.

Story 1
Every Tuesday, Gram drove the Gran Torino to to the hairdresser. Those days, Harold took the long way home, circling each block twice and dragging his heels.

The little house was strange without Gram's sturdy, bustling presence. Without her hoarse voice telling him about her day and asking about his he felt lost among the furniture. He didn't want to explain it her, but he hated going into the house during that gappy chunk of time on Tuesdays.  

But then Gram would return, the familiar squeak of the suspension as the car rumbled into the carport. Often she'd bring home a treat, a VCR rental or fragrant take-out packages from the Italian place, and Tuesday would become the best night of the week. 

It's like the Halloween miracle: the feast of the ever-dimininishing supply of caramel-peanut-goodness.

On the other hand, the Viking outfits turned out well.

If not for the football game, we might have entertained ourselves by roaming the neighborhood, thumping our battle axes against our sheilds.  

Solidifying our reputation as the local oddballs.​

Although it's random (Is the solar system really a Capricorn? Dour and humorless? Seething with ambition?), the closing of the calendar brings NaNoWriMo. Whoohoo! 

The National Novel Writing Month is (I guess) a bit like running a marathon: it's ridiculous and miserable and neato and difficult.

​Competitors/participants have 30 days to write a 50,000-word novel.  That's a short novel, but even more –– it's a tiny chunk of time for a mountain of words.  The math says 1,667 words each day.  

With time taken out for Thanksgiving and various sailing and traveling days, my average would need to jump up to 2,273 words a day.  Gah!

Not saying I am going to finish, but...

​I don't remember the long wait for my mail order to come back, but eventually it did and I had, finally, FINALLY! leather riding boots.

They went heels-down and toes-in for many a horse-show. (And every so often they went ass-over-tea-kettle, but that's horseback riding for you.)

I re-heeled and re-soled them at least once when working in Manhattan, as I tended to wear them with my –– er–– eccentric clothing choices (I thought I looked good, and no photo will prove me wrong) as a young Manhattanite.

My boots!

And this despite my care. Despite the cleaning and oiling.

Despite being stored carefully in a cool dark place.

Despite the rolled magazines that kept the boots from wrinkling.

Does this seem like an ironic and pitiless metaphor for aging to anyone else? Or is it just me?

Oh well. After the initial shock, I considered my options.
​These faithful and long-suffering boots could go straight into the garbage. They deserved retirement.

But then again, given that things do change, and not all change is catastrophic and bad, perhaps there was another way.

Half-boots they are now, with snake-proof gaiters to go with. They may hold on for another season. Or not. Now, to horse...

There's also an array of functional accessories, such as waterproof bags and, notably, bailing devices.  

We scrounged empty laundry detergent containers, modified them with a handy survival knife (required by the Everglades Challenge rules –– for good reason!), and then did a bathtub test. Gain turned out to do the best job at conveying a gallon of water from one place to another.

The bathtub remains pleasantly scented and untroubled by static cling.