Oh by the way, folks,
Today we celebrate the birthday of Emily Jane Bronte, born in 1818. She wrote Wuthering Heights, for which she originally used some now-forgotten pen name.
And we also bid a sad farewell to Jim Lawrence who wrote Jim's Journal. He was only a coupla months older than me, most likely in a good bit better physical shape than me, and succumbed while participating in one of his much-beloved athletic events.
Nothing happened yesterday except that both the coffee maker and the bread maker failed, both for want of one measly little probably very cheap but unavailable part, and had to be replaced.
The new coffee maker (Mr Coffee) has the same inconvenient feature as the old one (Krupp) namely the wimpy little pouring spout that dribbles half the coffee down the side of the pot. I think they're all like that.
And so today maybe nothing will happen, or maybe the tree chopping contractor will get my dead spruce tree onto his schedule.
Signs of life