I've posted a bouquet of woodland violets this morning, the day after a birthday, because my paternal grandfather reportedly brought my mother a bouquet of the same on that long-ago day in late March, 1946, when I was born at Yocom Hospital in Chariton. Spring must have been a little earlier that year.
I celebrated by not getting dressed until after lunch, so that's why I still was wearing pajamas when friends delivered cheesecake and Starbucks oatmeal-raisin cookies (thanks very much; I'll hold you to the promise not to judge). Thanks, too, to all who sent greetings, social media and otherwise. It's great to be remembered.
I've said far too often during recent years that I've been fortunate to survive two great plagues of my lifetime, Vietnam and AIDS, but that I expected the third, old age, to prove fatal. I'm in no hurry however.
And now a fourth can be added: COVID-19. I can't say I've suffered; always been good at amusing myself and am mildly antisocial anyway. But the need to prepare and feed myself three meals a day, day in and day out, is wearing thin.
So I am looking forward to that second shot during very early April. After the vaccine settles, a decent haircut is in order and new glasses to replace those currently held together by extra-sticky scotch tape. But, yes, I still expect to wear a mask in public places, sanitize and social distance. We're not out of the woods yet.
Nor are we out of the woods yet, politically and socially, from the Trump years --- a fifth plague if you like --- and that bears watching and caution, too. But that's a topic for another day.