Don't worry, the typewriters are all in a safe part of the house. I can't decide exactly why the tree is getting even with me. Was it for all my youthful/poetic ridiculousness back in the day when I zoomed past it in the VW? Maybe the indignity of a subdivided pasture? The reams of paper I've trashed that were once relatives?
The tree could be trying to do me a favor. Maybe it's just waiting to take out my '02 Avalon and I'm just not parking it strategically.
Makes no difference. If the wind kicks up I'll never hear it fall over those damned monastic-droning windchimes anyway.
(This typecast brought to you by Mamie, my elegant Smith Corona Silent.)
3 comments → Tree Karma
Right now I'm psychically holding down, by force of will, that little adolescent way down inside that's snickering at "Wyckoff, Seamens and Benedict".
(heh)
More awesome paper, Monda.
(As an aside, is there anyone else that, when typing 'Monda' always has to go back and erase an erroneous 'y' stuck at the end? My fingers work a lot on autopilot, I guess. Conversely, does Monda ever have to force herself to add the 'y' to 'Monday'?)
How could I resist this paper and it's 7th-grade-boy inherent joke?
The Monday-Monda thing happens. Constantly. How many times have I dirven down the strip and read the Pizza Hut marquee...
"Buffet - Monda Thru Friday"...?
I get scads of emails that begin, Monday,"...it's autopilot. I'm used to it.
I don't know if you have kids, but if you were ever to have a daughter, you ought to name her Tuesda. :-)
I grew up in a home whose back yard was dominated by an enormous ash.
"Huh-huh. He said 'enormous ash'. Huh-huh-huh."
"Heeheh-heeheh. Wackoff. Heeheh."
Many years before my family moved in, the tree was hit by lightning and split down the middle. But the tree didn't die. Now, almost any other homeowner would have mourned briefly, removed the hopelessly damaged tree, and replanted. Not our home's previous owner. They bolted the two halves back together. I remember as a child still being able to see the metal knobs protruding from the bark on either side, though by the time I moved out the tree had utterly consumed them like a slow-moving molasses.
"Isn't 'slow-moving molasses redundant?"
Aaaanyway. Though the tree lived, it began to slowly rot from the inside out, to the point where my sister and I had to be careful climbing it lest our foot punch through the bark at the crown where the split halves met. Finally, a couple of years before I moved out, a huge branch came down right onto the back porch roof and through the upstairs windows. Still, the tree remained standing.
My parents sold the house years ago. Part of me wants to go back someday and see if that tree is still there. Part of me doesn't want to know.
BTW, I love that letterhead. I was poking around on the 'Net for typewriter-related letterheads and came across the ones you posted earlier this year. I declined to download them for possible use, 'cause I know that unlike most other people you will actually use them, and they should remain uniquely Monda.
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