Gone

We’re in the middle of redoing ceilings in the basement and on the back porch. What doesn’t kill me—think dust, and plenty of it—will make the house more appealing. I guess. A quarter-century ago, Clare and I would practice in the basement, usually in the fall and winter. She’d hit a wiffle ball or throw a league. Ever so often, a ball struck the ceiling, leaving more of a line than a mark. Early on, Michele also got hit in the head with a wiffle ball while she tried to work on the computer. It didn’t take too many errant throws to get her upstairs. In between gasps for air, I can see how good a job the contractor’s done. One thing is missing, though. I’ll have to get my grandson down here to do some hitting and throwing.