At seventy with arthritis and a non-functional brain, I gotten down on the garage floor and pinned the blue quilt. Just because I could do it easily at fifty, and do it but uncomfortably at sixty, doesn’t mean it was a really good thing to do it at seventy when you even have trouble walking. But I did.
About one third of the way into the project, I began to berate myself. Arthritis and cold cement floors don’t really combine well. Sometimes my unthinking idiocy beats all my other talents, I told myself. Inching my way around the sides, I talked to myself pretending I was talking to my old truck. The laundry going round and round offered a homey sound to keep me company. The truck said nothing.
Two hours into it all, I was done. Before picking up the quilt, I went upstairs to take two Aleve and grab the camera. Maybe at seventy, I will learn to think first before I act.
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