The birds migrate south

          Tom certainly survived the inspection session by no less than eight middle-aged, opinionated, intelligent, successful (except, of course, for the lowly blogger…), strong and undauntable women with aplomb (he reports that in the war of the sexes he’s a conscientious objector), but it was time to continue with our southern migration. Chico Hot Springs awaited us; perhaps impatiently, perhaps with trepidation, but the credit card had been charged, so on we went. It had no choice but to await our arrival.

          Our first night was unremarkable, as was our first morning, except, perhaps for the mimosas. It was remarkable that we had all been up for over two hours before anyone

Stuck

My friend Bob has a particular genius for naming things.  He named his metal gas can that had a dint in it “Dent”.  He named my toaster “Chromie”.  His big red truck is called “Big Red”, whilst the small red truck is called “little Red”.  One day he took Dent up to the top of the pass in Big Red to fill him up with gas.  When he got to the top, Dent was gone.  Some weeks later someone had deposited Dent on Bab’s back door step. Dent knew how to find his way home.