It is simply too nice to contemplate any typing, a warm Sunday in June. Yesterday, I had to iron a shirt and shave on a Saturday for a piano recital of three to ten year olds. Those two very words make me shudder. Left me in a foul mood even though I was the bad Dad leaving halfway though the proceedings, preferring buying ice cream with that unexpectedly freed span of 30 minutes God gave to me rather than listening to the plunky-plink of the children of strangers. I likely shared the ill mood of a man who had to iron a shirt on Saturday. Today I will be good.
