Party Line

Yesterday afternoon the sirens went off in town, I tuned to the weather channel, and a severe "Straight Line" storm was moving through at 60 MPH (meaning no tornado threat) and torrential rains. D and TR were on the road to and from Cincy, and they had to stop several times, a miserable trip, but they got a new Carter, willed from someone's estate, and some furniture we'll auction off, and I waited a little late for them, to help unload. The power was out, the house was sticky hot, but I wasn't going to drive back into town just so I could be somewhat cooler. And write, tell you, what had transpired. I'm anxiously awaiting my docents from Columbus. A simple sequence of events happens, to be there maybe you'd have to smoke an illegal weed. I was very good. None of these docents had ever experienced anything like a tour with Tom. They were great, bright, interesting and interested, and we talked about the work. Thunder, I have to go. Becoming a pain in the ass. But this year, especially, a part of the package. Black Dell chirps "Please Wait" while she reboots and I shut down and go take a nap. It's intensely exhausting to perform for a couple of hours. My knowledge of a particular body of information is very large, I have all this first level data, the letters, the photographs, and I lay it out for them, and they're blown away, that in a backwater, I'd be the one, an aging dude in denim, had the scoop. It doesn't really make any sense, I think, to them, that they could learn anything from me. I get this a lot, because I'm out there, in the field, making the best of a given situation. Pat. They asked me to come to their museum, on a Thursday, because the ten of them were just the Thursday docents. I have to digest that. Just the Thursday docents, I mean come on, consider what that means. How many docents are there?