Cycled on

In the last 36 hours, I've sold four books, which were my second, third, fourth and fifth orders this month.

Yesterday Dr. Gruman called me and said all my tests were unchanged except the cholesterol, and it was normal. He added that he expected me to quit smoking after the holidays. Let's see: in January there's New Year's, Valentines Day in Feb., St. Pat.'s day in March, all my kids' birthdays in April, Mother's Day in May, Father's Day in June, oh the fourth of July--so I guess I'll have to quit in August. Nobody's brave enough to have a holiday in August, except maybe a few saints in a cooler climate.

If anyone was offended or astonished by anything in my old Christmas poem, please consider that it was all supposed to be humorous and, as Jed said, randomly insane. I.e., Santa was pulling things out of the tow sack and randomly stuffing them in the stockings. No way would I ever give Jude a wild cat. He could have Wilder, if he wanted it, but Wilder doesn't even growl unless I run out of canned chicken cat food.

I miss Betty Lou. I also miss writing every day. I've got to get back to that. Writing the book made me remember what a cute girl Bobbie was, and how curly was her hair. And the time Maw Maw wrestled Doug down on the floor and squeezed his jaws open and poured a spoonful of 666 into his mouth, which he refused to swallow; and Gordie walked by, bent over and blew in his face. Doug swallowed and coughed, then hollered, "Mama, Gordie made me swallow vat old Free Sixes!" And my mama made Betty Lou's graduation dress, or maybe her prom dress--it was long, and had a little bolero (in the picture, that's me in my pink organdy Tom Thumb Wedding bridesmaid dress, and red-and-green-striped tennis shoes). Boy, was I skinny!