Sometimes, writers can be off on Sunday. Way off.
A week or two ago I promised you I was going to try to write something every day. Well, we all know that life happens. Even boring life happens. Like this past week, when the possum got into my garage and decided to build a majestic possum palace. I believe the decision was made to use some valuable and precious manuscripts of mine for a starting point.
Now that must have upset the mouse or two who were trying to raise a family in that spot, since they had previously been displaced from the catacombs of my wet-vac and its hoses.
A possum is large, but still pretty quiet when uninterrupted, but a tribe of tiny mice can be disconcerting, when they run into your house, trying to tell you of a large intruder.
They can disappear into, and conversely, reappear out of the smallest openings in your house. Your unsuspecting peripheral vision is their wheelhouse. Especially at dusk or later.
This particular possum was one Petey Wheatstraw of the Williamson County Wheatstraws, a large family of possums who had moved from Cheatham County years ago.
I heard once that it was better to dwell in the corner of the attic, than in a wide house with some contentious mice. So I bought a camper.
We will continue this delightful story in a few minutes.
