It’s Christmas… so “spur of the moment” reigns

Wow, what a past couple of days we’ve had. Just when I think the schedule and the calendar might be clearer enough to take a breath of relief – something else happens. Tuesday brought a fair amount of shoveling, at home and at church. Then long-time friends from Iowa (I grew up with both B. & D. in the EFC in Madrid, IA) called. They were on their way to see a close friend at the WFMC (World Famous Mayo Clinic). When I asked if they had a place to stay the night, they said they could find something. I tole them they had just found a place. Of course, this was without checking with She-Who-Must-Be-Asked. I’ll probably need to go out and buy another diamond to cover this one, but it was great fun. We stayed up way past some old duffers’ bedtimes, but the conversations and reminiscences were just too good. Jonathan had basketball games last night, so add that to the mix. Phew!

So, in lieu of a well-thought out post, try this on for size. There is a blog site called “How To Write Badly Well.” It’s kinda one of those things you should read so you know what never, ever, ever to do when you’re writing (even just a letter home). Since the resident author at Cornerstone encourages me to try my hand at writing more often, HTWBW has been a great source of inspiration to me. Here was today’s post (I think the Apostle Paul would admire this run-on, long sentence):

No more than three feet away from Julius (but certainly more than two feet away; perhaps thirty inches – or, in the system preferred by Helen, Julian’s wife, of whom more later, seventy-six point two centimetres – although needless to say, it seemed less) a dog which seemed to be a cross between a doberman and some kind of beagle – its appearance certainly seemed to fit the original meaning of the Old French word “beegueule” (literally, open-mouthed) from which “beagle” is derived – was barking in the key of E-flat and pawing the air in a way which, had there been an invisible miniature piano beneath its claws, might have produced a melody not dissimilar to a free jazz composition of the early sixties or, more likely, a discordant jumble of sharps and flats which, had this been the case rather than being merely a fanciful possibility (which is what it was), would have put Julius’ teeth on edge in a way which the dog’s barking, in the absence of the more musical set of noises just touched upon, was already managing to do.

Now, what kind of dog was that again?


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