On My Way To Being Born Again – part 3

         That night was one of the longest I’d spent.  Feverishly I waited for the sun to rise higher in the sky for Linda to reach work so I could telephone. All three attempts proved futile. She refused to come to the phone. With a sinking heart, in hopes of gleaning a clue as to what was going through Linda’s mind, I thought about calling Sis. After all, she had talked to her yesterday in the apartment complexes’ parking lot when returning her apartment keys. But hesitated because of the cross words we had shared.

On My Way To Being Born Again . . . part-two

While channel surfing  I paused  to watch a story  about a New York mafia (crime family) boss who went for walks in pajamas and displayed all sort of bizarre behaviors. Despite the feds belief that his craziness was an act, they had been unable to gather enough evidence to convict him. That was when the idea of faking a head injury, to guarantee a super size settlement, first dawned on me.

On My Way To Being Born Again

      Over the course of fall and early winter of the year two thousand and six, I turned half of the second bedroom office into a small wood and craft shop. No longer physically able to maintain control over every arm movement I turned to a stationary saw blade (band saw) and away from the hand held jig saw I once used to cut out shapes in plywood. Except for Tuesdays and Thursdays when I volunteered at the adult day care program, a fraction of the day was spent on the office side of the room and another part on the work shop half.

 

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