Labor Day Sunday

I confess that I entered the world on Labor Day Monday, 09/05/55 at 9:05 p.m.  My mother claimed to have found the coincidence less than amusing, though she also admitted to an easy birth.  I should be grateful.  The rest of my life has been middling difficult.

This week marks my 68th birthday followed by what would have been my mother’s ninety-seventh.  Each dawn brings another gift, though sometimes I feel as though I squander these precious hours.  As my birthday nears, the solitude seeps into my pores like poison.  Deep within my soul, an old malaise stirs.  So I got online, made a last-minute hotel reservation for which I paid too much, and headed west.

I spent an hour sitting on a picnic bench at a state beach, reading and letting the ocean’s voice soothe me.  The poor fare at the restaurant where I had a late lunch nearly derailed my mood, as did the unhelpful desk attendant at what must be the worst inn in Half Moon Bay.  But I still believe that this sojourn by the sea will ultimately raise my spirits.  My lips tremble; tears threaten; but I intend to drive north a few miles to see if I can watch the sun set on the Pacific.  It can only help.  It certainly will not make anything worse.

It’s the third day of the one-hundred and seventeenth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

There are five pictures in the gallery; it might lag.  My apologies.

To read about my September fundraising effort, click this link.

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