Diane’s tarmacked plane in St Cloud

Dear Diane,

I forgot to tell you about my hot pocket. I guess you could think of it as a gift back to Joe – unintentional, but so are the laughs he provides us. You remember when he and Matt were worried about my listless fish and Joe thought it wise to compare his early drawing of Winston to check for changes?

Well, I was sitting in my office typing away when I felt warmth on my thigh. I paid it no mind (easy for me), because it made no sense (as if things in my world live in such linear fashion). Soon my thigh decamped (doing my best to stay away from those to-be verbs) from warm to on fire. I looked to see if Matt were lurking, then jumped up, still not able to make sense of this heat. I reached into and started tossing stuff from my pocket onto the floor. Fiery feeling things like coins and metal screw driver tips. Nearby, Joe, drawn by the racket, entered the room By then I was into a full St. Vitus dance and Joe nearly bent over. I guess I’d a laughed too.

The source of the heat? Two nickle-metal hydride batteries which had aligned themselves perfectly with the metal in my pocket. Like crossing the terminals of a six volt battery with a copper wire, or haven’t you ever done that? You couldn’t pick those screw driver tips off the floor.

Yesterday evening I cranked up the tunes and cleaned the kitchen and our office. I knew Matt was upstairs, and I assumed asleep. Still, for my music to be effective, it has to be loud and after an hour of no hollers raining down from above, I began to think not asleep but dead. I finished cleaning, the music stopped, and then Matt descended the steps. “Now that I’m leaving you turn off your horrible music?” Not asleep or dead but reading. “Horrible?” If my melodic mix of Tom Waits and The Velvet Underground doesn’t appeal to today’s yoot, what of mine does?

Brother Peter called this morning at 7 AM. Our time. He’d just left a party where he’d made another seventeen connections to his now very distant past, and he was looking for talk to get him home. He aided me across the eastern half of the country, the least I could do was get him the two miles across the Mauna loa Valley.

And Bill Maurer called last night to tell me he’d bought an iBook, had forsworn TV and was determined to pursue his ribbon business. And Joan called to talk about Helen’s last office visit. You know, I’m beginning to see what you and Matt were accusing me of. Talking on the phone all the time.

Now, if you’ll send me your remote email address again, I won’t be forced to write you publicly.

Love,

Homefront Hard Working Husband