Out Of It
Wednesday. It snowed here in Lake Oswego yesterday afternoon, a white Christmas. How long has it been? How long has it been since I've even seen snow other than by driving up an improbable road into the mountains where you expect such things at least until global warming takes up permanent residence? They say the snow that feeds the drinking water reservoirs in California will largely go away with warming and we'll all be taking baths with damp rags. Sounds kinda kinky. actually. But I digress. A WHITE CHRISTMAS. Wadda ya know. In Portland.
Later. Sitting in California at the moment, just over the line in Crescent City, a small bottle of Jack Daniels on the table beside me, a good dinner consisting of a crab cocktail, two orders of local mushrooms sauteed in butter and spices with two glasses of Cabernet earlier at a steak house that called out to me while I was in the later hours of driving. Pricier than I thought it would be, expensive dinner, but what the hell, I was hungry and I'd been driving for hours. One is more susceptible to rationalization after one has been driving for hours. Seven hours tomorrow and I'll be home, a commitment to meet the usual crew at Roy's (The 19th Street Station) at five in the afternoon. Complicated, this business of retirement, many commitments involving alcoholic beverages, but we are straight thinking is not required and I'm up to it. Up for it. Up and out of it. Here in California.