Sorry, but I’m giving myself a birthday present: a night off. The redirect was a little wonky yesterday, so if you missed that big bleat, it's here.

It was Thursday. My dad came down at the last minute; he got a pass to drive the White Behemoth down 94 to Jasperwood, and thereafter remove himself to the casino for some amusement, and then drive halfway across the Midwest to meet his brother. He’s talking about taking the Harley out on a long tour of North Dakota, too. Hell, you’re only 86 once.

My daughter made me a birthday card. Click to see the large version. I hope you get the joke.



That’s right: she used the fonts I loathe the most, and internet spellings. She drew the background, though; that was intended seriously.

We have this game where we spot Papyrus, Comic Sans and Hobo, by the way. I’m still working on teaching her the absolute importance of le font juste, but she still rolls her eyes when I name a font. Great so you know every font I get it. Showoff.


Did I ever post this? It's hard to remember.


Third birthday. I suspect my cousin Kathy wasn't happy to be here:



We were at the farm; I can tell. My farm cousins:



Keith on the left; he still farms the family land. Bruce was killed in a traffic accident a few years ago.



Three candles. Those pink cups? They were a constant in my childhood, used only for the dreaded warm salt-water gargle when I had a cold comin on. As for the cake:



I'd forgotten all about those until I zoomed in. Camels. The memory of the plastic candles has been waiting for today. This is why I take pictures of my daughter's world as much as I can. One small detail, one random item, zoomed in decades later: it all comes back.

There’s some Wards61 up, which I had to do tonight because I was a slacker earlier in the week. One page, based on the image on the right, is practically a Bleat in itself.

But some slack you should cut me - had two interviews today, one with a collector’s magazine doing a story on matchbooks. I thought it was going to be about, well, me, I’m afraid to say. You know, one man’s website, how’d you get started, what have you learned, and so on. It was about a particular type of matchbook - the ones with pictures on the matches. I didn’t quite know what to say about that. They’re cool? You don’t want to use them? I did say that I admired the salesmanship behind it all, how one guy with a samples case must have worked a bar owner for weeks to get him to pop for an elaborate 40-strike with interior art and printed matches. I talked a lot, but I’m not sure I helped much.

Then I sat in the sun for a few minutes, because it was warm. And then the rain came - a brief but theatrical downpour, which was promptly replaced by sun again. It’s like a cloud wandered over and threw up all over us.

As clouds are wont to do. But then they're off, and it's like the day begins all over again.








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