cynthia

"Would you like to buy some paintings?" the little girl asked, and her companions looked at me with big, serious eyes. The three girls held a few wrinkled papers, clutched tightly in rather grubby paws. I blinked, a bit surprised. The girls and I had gotten to know each other last summer; Stephen, father of two of them, brings them over whenever I have the garage doors up in my studio. The girls watch as I make my molds, or sculpt a clay face, or coldwork a sculpture, and ask probing questions...for about five minutes.

"My GOD," he gasped, "You're a knock-kneed pronator!" "Beg pardon?" I asked politely. The way he was looking at my feet kinda reminded me of cat in a tuna store. Or in heat. "Knock-kneed pronator! In my entire career I've only met one other knock-kneed pronator. Wow!"

The old soldier came ramrod-straight to attention, one hand steadying the rifle he carried on his shoulder. He stared ahead through silver spectacles, mouth grim and every hair in place. He wasn’t in dress blues, but his good suit was blue and he’d festooned its lapels with an intricate wealth of ribbon and brass from the War. His cap read [...]

Well, I'll be a birdie's uncle...maybe literally. Hard at work coding a website this afternoon, but a strange banging kept breaking into my concentration. Finally, I looked out the window and saw the bluejays at it again, trying to build a nest on my back porch light. Apparently the mister bluejay decided that gravity (or the big, gaping hole between light posts) has nothing to do with their continued inability to get twigs to stay on the light. The problem is they just aren't building hard enough.