In 1987, my first husband and I moved to Arkansas. Within a year, we changed from urban dwelling in Little Rock to the wilds of Newton County.  During our first weeks there, I scoured the Newton County Times to learn about the area.

I read a story that I’ve not forgotten in three decades.  In a round-up of news of the prior week, the author recounted how the local high school principal had been out in his field, stepped into a depression, and sprained his ankle.

I stepped into a depression myself this week.  I won’t try to explain why, because I couldn’t without complaining.  Take my word for it.  Events piled onto my skinny shoulders and bowed my decrepit back.  I fled into the solitude of YouTube DIY and cooking videos, too tired to read or clean my tiny house and its cluttered cupboards.  From The Sorry Girls to Worth-It, I immersed myself in the rowdy vlogs of my son’s generation, from Canada to Tokyo, from IKEA hacks to a thousand dollar cup of coffee.

I owe those people a lot.  Because of them, nothing got broken, nobody was hurt, and I made it through my four-day work week.  *Heavy Sigh*  All those chores await, but my attitude has vastly improved — not to mention, I have some new ideas for cooking eggs and decorating my four-foot kitchen.

It’s the twenty-eighth day of the sixty-third month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

Winter sky on Andrus Island.