It's a really slow Sunday. 95 degrees. 95 % humidity. My youngest brother came over and ask me to help him check out a repeater line that had gone bad. He needed somebody at one end of the line to switch it over if things didn't go right. That way he wouldn't have to walk back and forth each time he checked it out. He finally figured it was a switch that might have gotten struck by lightning.
We have a family meeting this afternoon to discuss selling some family-owned land. I dread these affairs, and so do my siblings, but since the land is in all of our names we just have to grin and bear it.
His wife has been putting up beans, fresh corn, and okra. She pickled some figs. I'd never heard of doing that before. They were real tasty. It hurts to type, so I'm stopping.
I do not attempt to tell the God's own truth here because I don't know what the truth is or hardly ever. I try to capture the drifting thoughts that randomly appear in my imagination for reasons I may not understand. I don't know if the content I capture with these words is true or false. The Comments settings are turned off to prevent me from having to defend what amounts to little more than fanciful, sometime crude speculation. Great moments in our lives never return.
