all better, well almost

I slept all night last night! What a lovely thing.

I figured out that the thing that was causing all the grief was a minor muscle in my toe cramping every time I relaxed. It would start, everything around it would join in instantly, and there would be no relaxing ever. Yesterday after I changed the dressing to one of a more reasonable size and did my best to stretch and relax the muscles in my foot, I was able to sleep.

However at 3am the other morning I found out I still know how to play solitare and hearts and mah jong. Afterall, what else is three o'clock in the morning for.

stories for the day

I've been reading stories from "A Treasury of New England Folklore". Since there is no single day of the year which destroys more relationship than February 14, I've picked two tales from this book on the theme of domestic bliss. Since they are folk stories, don't expect to much of them. They were created by amateurs, retold by amateurs, and later butchered by amateurs' grandchildren.

"At an unknown time previous to 1762 Samuel and his brother Elisha appeared in Canaan. In 1770 Samuel built a house on the Blackberry River near the modern Samuel Forbes Bridge on the Lower Road to East Canaan. At an unknown time, possibly before he built his house, he became smitten of Lucy, daughter of Amos Peirce, a young lady who is said to have been his equal in physiognomy, physique and strength of will. On one point they seem to have agreed from the start, the desirability of getting married. Since Papa Pierce held a different view, an elopement was arranged, and the two coy titans rode off on the same unhappy horse into New York State where they were duly hitched. On returning to the homestead, Samuel pitched a rope over his new barn. "Now, my sweet," said he, "do you draw down on your end and I will draw down on mine, and whichever draws the other over the roof is to rule this roost." They both pulled with no effect. "Now, my sweet," proposed Samuel, "do you come around on this side, and let us draw together." The sweet Lucy complied, and together they pulled the rope over the barn. "Let that be the way this house will be run," quoth Samuel.

For a different look on domestic bliss, here is another story:

"On the western slope of Monument Mountain once stood the Pelton Farm, whose stone gatepost led to a tragi-comic episode. The wife and mother of the family occupying the house had died; as the funeral cortege was leaving the yard, the conveyance carrying the body hit the post. The force of the collision was so great that the corpse was thrown to the ground and the shock revived the woman, who not only showed signs of life but lived five years before she again passed away. Once more the funeral party started on its way, but this time when the hearse approached the post, the husband suddenly stopped the procession and solemnly warned the driver, "Be careful now, don't hit that post again!"

See, I told you not too expect to much. Were you disappointed? If I went on for a month about how wonderful they were going to be, would you have been disappointed? I daresay the worst thing you can do is to spend a lot of time and energy imagining how good something might be, for no matter how good it really is it won't be what you imagined. Not that anyone is inclined to do that during the long cold nights toward the middle of February.