Good Morning Gentle Readers,
When I took the dog out to see a man about a horse it was still pretty chilly. Not your kind of cold, but it was 41 degrees and the sun wasn't over the hill yet.
Usually I'll grab a pair of leather work gloves, but today I put some nicer gloves on. In between tossing the Kong ball for Beans to chase, I shoveled some dirt back into holes along the gate. Dog loves to bat the ball under the wrought iron gates with his nose and then paw it back under. In the process, sink holes that could swallow a small child tend to appear. And where the heck does all that dirt go? There's never enough to fill the hole back up.
I glanced down at my hands and it occurs to me that these gloves were a Christmas gift from my mother many years ago. Since it don't get too cold here, the gloves have mostly lived in my top drawer for all those intervening years.
Ma has been gone more than a year now. I think I'm kind of a strange guy, partly because thoughts about mom just show up randomly. Most people's memories are connected to special occasions like birthdays, holidays, and weddings. I look at my gloves and Ma comes to mind.