NO HOARDING in Postcards 4

Rather than go through carrying things downstairs, we are still upstairs going through boxes. He admitted to his friends that he is a packrat. Bin after box of the most amazing things like my parents big, metal scissors, or a package of my mother’s slightly worn and rusty needles with a moving company on the cover appears. I must tell you that he isn’t making as many bad jokes today as he did yesterday.

Now that I am home and doing better, the get-well-cards have stopped arriving. Darn. I’ve become selfish and can admit that I really enjoyed each and every one of them. I saved them all to a folder prosaically called cards.

George is over there on the other side of the desk sorting things. Every once in a while he passes something over the top of the monitors. A folding traveling hairbrush, a picture of a Grandaughter as a paperweight, and an analog-Radio Shack TV of about 3 inches total. Out went two bags of trash. No more being a hoarder, he says loudly.

We are almost home free.

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• Himself: The day is cold and cloudy. I can see the edge of the wall of fog over G’s shoulder.


• Myself: <more magazines.<i=""></more>


• Reading: Some of the mysteries BDMK sent my way.


• Photo: “Star of India.”


• Gratitude’s: For sill getting the house almost back together.