I Bet You're Making Shells Back Home for a Steady Man to Wear

THE AIR CONDITIONERS are in, finally.  Two days of giving the pigglies bowls full of ice to prevent them from melting (this group is very different from all the others - they love lettuce first and last and always, where the previous line from Harriet and Magda on down to Miss Parsley were all about the carrots.  They wouldn't turn down lettuces, mind.  This crew will turn down carrots).  Previous piggits never showed this much reaction to the heat.  Deedees is now out from under the kitchen table.  She shows all kinds of reaction to the heat, poor thing.

MY GRANDFATHER was awarded 3 bronze stars in the war.  No one knows where or when or how, not even his sister.  He was shot in the Battle of the Bulge, which we did know about.  He and my other grandfather crossed paths at UNH, and the impression that my other grandfather got of him was that he was a coward.  He never elaborated on that.  I'm not how to find out more about him; Amundsens never talk.  It's frustrating.  I keep following the bullet back up the the barrel of the rifle, the squeeze of the trigger up the finger to the man who shot him.  I wonder who he was.  He could have been a terrified kid, and he could have been the Red fucking Skull.  He might still be alive, outliving the man he tried to kill.  Then I wonder about the lives my grandfather took (he operated the squad machine gun, most of the time, and I hear those things are unkind to mortal flesh).  It's frustrating.  I didn't expect to feel frustration, but that's the emotion.  The past is another country and all the guides are gone.

I AM HELLA TIRED.  I sat down a little while ago and started laughing, it was such a relief to stop moving.  I have ginger water simmering, a clean sink, drain opener working its way through the bathtub drain, and Tiger Balm.  I still need to redo my laundry.  I forgot some clothing in the washer.  Readercon is coming.