Tradition
We got an inch of rain last night, my hand is healing nicely, and I’m back in the wordy saddle. It feels as though I got a good night’s sleep. Lots of dreams. I mean seriously, lots of them and really detailed, too, but none worth repeating. It is as though I am living a second life, in dreamland. Busy, busy, busy. I wonder what’s going on with that. All the dreams. I think I dream almost every night, about something. It actually feels pretty good. Interesting.
Back to the hand. I’m supposed to give the new born skin on the back of my hand another week of recuperation. That seems reasonable. It’s tender and fresh. I no longer need to do wound care, although I can rub the scar with Aquaphor to keep the area soft and pliable. That’s good. It’s amazing the change just since yesterday morning when the bandage came off and the stitches were removed. It looks like my hand, except now it has a two inch scar to serve as a reminder to go to the dermatologist the minute I feel a rough spot.
The next several days will be occupied with me getting ready for this weekend’s camping trip to the banks of the Nueces River outside Uvalde. An ancient custom that dates back well over 40 years, although in the beginning we went on July 4. Would you like to guess why we changed the date? One word. Heat. There have been changes to the crew, too. For one, my wife passed away. Secondly, five little ones are now in the mix, two with my daughter, three with my goddaughter. I think it’s safe to say the tradition will carry on.