Pause here to listen to the end of "Needles and Pins". I'd have to run away-yay. The tears I gotta hide, etc.
(My playlist, shuffling, comes up with B.B.King. Down in the alley, way down in the alley.)
I was talking about notebooks in my creative writing class. We all flashed our own. I explained that a recent purchase--a sketch book about 24-by-30--didn't work. I asked if anyone wanted it. One woman, a mother, snagged it for her kid. Today the woman brought a note and sketch, ripped from that book. A very cool message--sorry, dear readers (hey that's you, Uncle John and Aunt Deere), it's private.
The writer signed it sincereally, can't tell if intentionally or not. Damn fine word.
Later today I began to consider what I'd like to do, what my employer would like to do, for a retirement party. I think I'd want it in the classroom I entered most often, and left about the same number of times. The one with the photograph of Einstein. Pity the poor student who sat nearest, bearing the brunt of my daily need to tip Albert up a little or down a touch, maybe both, not quite that much, a little more.