(And Lo) I Did Not Turn to Ash

Yesterday, a Father’s Day tradition, for my grandfather: entered, endured, and escaped a church service. At least I managed to get some work done on the blank side of the prayer list – though the value of said work is TBD and they misspelled my wife’s last name.

True to form past, the longwinded preacher managed to obliterate his message (I think it may have been about Jesus; he may have also mentioned pancakes) by prattling on; could’ve done with the exorcism of 20-25 minutes of his 30-minute excuse to hear himself talk.

The only thing worth watching was the clock – and the straw hats flanking the big on the wall behind the Prattler: some sort of sacred hunting trophy, like a deer head?

(I repeat, I did not turn to ash.)

At least my grandfather was thrilled to have us there; lunch, too, was tasty, even if blood sugar (one of those days where the appropriateness of the BS initialism is legion) refused and still refuses to cooperate. Thinking about fleeing to Canada.