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Sleep was sound but short.<\/p>\n

I take a lot of heat for getting up at four. Most often, I am questioned what the point is. Today, I arose at three. Thinking something intelligent would erupt from my fingertips if I merely opened the laptop after making coffee, I gave up quickly when nothing remarkable became immediately available.<\/p>\n

The one hour\u2014 lying awake\u2014 between two and three made me believe genius was bubbling around under my hairline, waiting to get out.<\/p>\n

I’ve been wrong before, and this confirmed that wrong is trending in my tiny world. I deleted a few paragraphs and increased the volume to the dump-recovered Klipsch speakers. It drove Ellie to the basement for a few minutes.<\/p>\n

I spent over an hour last night rummaging through neatly stacked letters and correspondence between my grandmother and grandfather.<\/p>\n

The envelopes are intriguing, not because of the three-cent postage but because my grandmother kept the wonderfully written missives in stacks wrapped in decaying rubber bands, collated and indexed based on where she lived when she received them.<\/p>\n

It made me feel slovenly in the way I manage my writing. It made me feel slovenly in the way I handled most of my life tasks.<\/p>\n

Diagonally penciled across the top of many envelopes from my grandfather, Leora noted that the letter was answered and the date the task was completed.<\/p>\n

On the other hand, my grandfather most commonly started his letters to her with, “I’m sorry that I haven’t written sooner, my love.” He then briefly described why it took him two days to put the pencil on the now yellowing paper. He was a typical man, at least when it came to that.<\/p>\n

All the letters are in terrific shape, and the box shown is only a fraction of what is stowed within a steamer trunk in my attic. Then there are the crumbling scrapbooks of photos.<\/p>\n

I’ve written about the hollow and empty apartment at the end of my house. My parents lived there for a long time before moving to a more easily managed place. I’ve taken over a back bedroom in there for a writing room.<\/p>\n

When the Significant One is home, managing meetings via computer in the dining room, I find writing difficult. There are too many voices using terminology that I recall shedding like a wool coat in spring when I left behind any need for listening to others use terms like ‘not in my wheelhouse’ and ‘couched.’<\/p>\n

Who came up with that one? My idea of couched includes the word napping. I digress.<\/p>\n

The tiny bedroom was only for storage, and the box of letters was in the closet.<\/p>\n

Once I moved in an old recliner, table, and lamp, I set out to neaten things up. I found the box and dragged it out beside my chair to go through when words weren’t coming out and entering the MacBook adequately.<\/p>\n

So, I’ve traded modern voices that annoyed me for ancient voices that molded me. It’s an excellent way to learn more about yourself. And that is directly in my wheelhouse.<\/p>\n

I’m now returning to the couch.<\/p>\n

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That’s all I’ve got. Have a wonderful Thursday.<\/p>\n

From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,<\/p>\n<\/div>\n