Thirty-four

Thirty-four. I tend to hope for "quiet" birthdays. That went out the window when we awoke to a particularly energetic hail storm of quarter- to golfball-sized balls of ice pounding our home first thing yesterday morning. (This will make it more worthwhile to have an insurance adjustor look at last week's hail damage.) A call from Mom and Dad brought some elaboration on the description of Dad's Valentine's truck (Seriously, it's red and he bought it on V-Day.), "Happy Birthday!" wishes from the people who actually remember the birth day, and the news that my brother Jim will be sent to Baghdad. A card came in the mail from my in-laws with sweet words, good wishes, and a check that I immediately applied to my "Poland Stash" along with Don's earnings from playing a gig the night before at Bullwinkle's. I blew out the birthday candle inserted into my "birthday pie" and crawled back into bed. Yesterday was largely a day of forced rest thanks to a flare of my Rheumatoid Arthritis.