Dear Mr. Massey,

I’m feeling very apologetic. I mean, after all, this is “a fine kettle of fish” I’ve gotten us in isn’t it, as Mr. Hardy would say to Mr. Laurel if memory serves me right.

(Folks of a certain generation would know, while others, I’ve come to realize more and more in recent years, wouldn’t have a clue. Some have never even heard of Bob Dylan, if you can believe.)

Anyway, sad as that is, sadder still is the fate I’ve apparently left you to in your dotage. There you sit still, outside a tumble-down garage full of way too much stuff of dubious value. Oh, there are some hidden treasures in there no doubt, a few homestead artifacts we were anxious to keep under cover among the other detritus of lives past and present that needs to be sorted out and kept,  or not. But there never seemed to be time as winter approached and other things took precedence. Continue reading →