a couple strips of bacon to ease my stomach.

Sunday morning and I was given the day off today at the last minute.

Plan for the day:

-softball at the lakefront
-playing outside
-food on the grill later
-beers on the porch

Let's hang out soon.

All of this writing sort of happens in my head, and just never makes it here. On the way to the bus stop, while running in the park, or just sitting on the train. Those are the times I always feel like jotting something down. Strange how that works out. 

I came home from work tonight, milled around for a bit, and went to the hall closet off the kitchen to get out the ironing board. It set up with a loud metal-on-metal screech, and I plugged in the iron, though not before pouring whatever water was in the iron out onto the board, and floor, and myself. 

My suit was already pressed, and I made sure I had my dress shoes, socks, and a decent tie. These things have a habit of getting lost, or stuffed into the corner of my closet, and become unavailable when I actually need them. 

I set to ironing my shirt--a standard white dress shirt, nothing fancy--and I quickly fell into a rhythm. Long, straight, smooth passes over each side of the front, redo the pockets, then in between the buttons. Then it's the arms and finally the back. 

As I fell into the careful monotony of the task, I thought about the idea of ironing itself. It's a strange thing, taking wrinkles out of clean clothes that will be wrinkled again within minutes of wearing them, but i sort of feel like doing it tonight. It's trivial, but it seems like the small amount of effort and care put into it is sort of a way of showing respect. A token of gratitude. Something like that. 

My great aunt Kitty died this week, and I'm getting ready for her funeral. She was always a sweet old lady to me, and had a way about her that was all her own. She laughed a lot, more chuckling to herself, and she had a voice that was completely unique. 

Her husband, Ray, died a few years back, and I always got along with him well. He had a woodshop when I grew up, and made all sorts of old-fashioned wooden toys that he sold around. Trains, cars, animals, trucks, and all kinds of pull-toys and things for little kids. I used to love playing with all of them when I was a kid, though, when I got older I grew to admire the work involved in making each of them. 

I don't really feel sad about her passing, she was quite old and lived a good and full life. Though, I feel like I should've appreciated more when I was a kid. Stories and histories and family and things.