Barb, my wife and Baker/DA (Domestic Administrator), often finds me writing in the middle of night.
She just shakes her head.
“You need your head examined.”
“Oh, I know,” she says. “Your VA doctors probed in and around your brain and the ophthalmologists chanced a view behind your eyes and they all came back with the same diagnosis: ‘Nothing there.’”
After telling my daughters that I put in a 16-hour day last week, they replied, “Oh, good grief. Dad, you shouldn’t be pulling stunts like that.”
And so it goes.
There was the day when I worked around the clock, plus another five hours in the shop before driving yet four more hours to the central plant and back, all to get the town’s newspaper in the hands of its readers.
My mission in life at the time.
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