I get up in the morning stuck between the desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy it, which makes it hard to plan my days, so I generally don’t. Ronald does.
My son Ronald manages me now that I have the so-called gigs. You know, engagements, scheduled places I have to be, papers that must be in proper order, all that sort of thing. Believe me, if it weren’t necessary or important, I wouldn’t be bothered. I would much rather stay home and be crafty like my friends Mary Louise Tuckeridge, or Grandy Mae Edwards. But my son Ronald is quick like lightning to point out that he is the polishing cloth of my life. He makes me shine. If he were a coffee, he’d be Starbucks. He always crosses his t’s and dots his i’s.
Me? I’m lucky if I can find a pencil, but at eighty-something (not telling) years old, I am not expected to be altogether alert. I could make excuses to make my way through any stumbles, but the good Lord knows I haven’t had to, and for that, I am full of appreciation. I’m forever grateful for all the out-of-the-blue blessings that keep falling like rain from heaven. There have been so many of them I decided it would be best if I quit making mental notes and started taking real ones. Like I told the granddaughter Darcy, seize the thought before the memory monsters eat it like Pac-Man.
Plus, I’m a Q-tip in demand. That’s Darcy’s term for white-haired and elderly. And I have a manager. With that much help, I might as well give my meaty thoughts a solid resting place. So that is what I’m doing. All I do is talk into the microphone thingy and some lady in Kansas sends Ronald the finished documents. I know my limitations. Fighting with computers is one of them.
Very well, then, the relevant content may drift here and there. I have no excuse other then I probably shouldn’t have said pea turkey. Nonetheless, I am going to deposit whatever comes to mind. I apologize in advance for any fog. My recollections are bound to be somewhat peppered by time. I promise to keep my bunny trails to a minimum.
Back to the important stuff. Here’s how I would put it. Things were never the same after the FBI showed up. When the FBI showed up in Old Bern looking for my daughter Estelle, things were not only different, things were exciting. For some reason, the FBI wanted to talk to me as if I were some senior citizen who might possibly be withholding premium insider information.
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