I got a dream, you got a dream, all God’s children got a dream

Today, January 19th, the United States is (British, are) observing a federal holiday in honor of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday even though his actual birthday occurred last Thursday. Dr. King was born on January 15, 1929, in Atlanta, Georgia, and was assassinated by James Earl Ray in April 1968 in Memphis, Tennessee. In recognition of Dr. King's dream, all banks, schools, and government offices are closed and mail delivery is suspended, but commercial establishmenrs are open for business as usual. Go figure.

January 19th also happens to be the 80th birthday of Dolly Parton and the 217th birthday, if anyone cares, of the leader of the Confederate forces against the Union during the U.S. Civil War (1861-1865), General Robert E. Lee. Dolly was born in 1946 (as was Donald J. Trump) and Robert E. Lee was born in 1809 (as were Abraham Lincoln and Alfred, Lord Tennyson).

But enough already with the brain dump. Instead, let's all go out there and work on the content of our character as we interact daily with others. No one is guaranteed another breath. I recall that two of my work colleagues were taken in an instant. Bill Montague died in a horrific automobile collision on I-24 in Tennessee. Kenn Pollari was walking across a street in Phoenix, Arizona, when a speeding car struck and killed him. Both gentlemen had expected to sit down to dinner with family and friends later in the day.

Emma in Iowa may tell me I'm wandering again. Maybe the very thing the world needs right now is fewer protesters and more wanderers.

Then again, maybe not.

Maybe I shall turn into The Putz (David Barlow of Tooele, Utah) before your very eyes. If you came along too late to experience his unique, almost indecipherable blogposts, you don't know what you missed.

All of us have dreams of one sort or another. Some live to see them come true. Some never do.

This is my fourth post of 2026 and my 2,320th since this blog began on September 28, 2007.

Better late than never

One day in the spring of last year, when Mrs. RWP's 90th birthday was about three months away, I remembered that when her father turned 80 back in 1975 his son had arranged for the then-President of the United States, Gerald R. Ford, to send written birthday greetings. We didn't bother to do something similar on Mrs. RWP's 80th birthday because she is a staunch Republican and the occupant of the White House at the time was a Democrat. But now that a Republican occupies the office I did a little investigating and learned that the practice of sending presidential greetings to older Americans at significant milestones in their lives is still being observed.

So I jumped through a few hoops took the necessary steps to learn how the process worked. I contacted our Congressional Representative's office with the information needed for similar greetings to be sent to Mrs. RWP (the lovely Ellie) from our current president, Donald J. Trump. The only caveat in the process was a warning to be sure to send the information at least a month to six weeks in advance of the event. Since Mrs. RWP (the lovely Ellie) would be observing her birthday towards the end of July, I provided the information in May. I told no one so that everyone would be surprised.

Mrs. RWP's birthday ultimately arrived, and during the day's festivities the whole family gathered for pictures in our back yard (British, garden):

...but no letter ever arrived. I thought perhaps it might show up in a day or two. I waited. And waited. And waited some more.

It didn't. No letter ever came. I was very disappointed but didn't share my disappointment with anyone. After 2025 turned into 2026, however, I finally mentioned to my wife about a week ago what I had done and expressed regret that the surprise for her birthday had never materialized (British, materialised).

Lo, and behold! (as comedian Brother Dave Gardner used to say), today I was the one who got the surprise.

The letter arrived, nearly six months after Ellie's birthday.

It contained both Donald Trump's and Melania Trump's signatures, though they are indecipherable.

Better late than never, although I am tempted to say better never than this late.

At least it did finally arrive.

This is my third post of 2026 and my 2,319th since this blog began on September 28, 2007.

I know it's raining cats and dogs because I can see the poodles

I am not a big fan of rain, and right now, according to my Apple phone, North Georgia is in the middle of a "Flood Watch" that started yesterday and will last until at least this evening. The rain has been pouring down, upsetting everyone's plans (well, maybe not everyone's) and interfering with normal daily activities to the extent it can.

Things could be worse. We could live in Malibu, California, or Hong Kong where mudslides occur (I still remember the one in the film "The World Of Suzie Wong" unless my brain is playing tricks on me again). Speaking of California, the communities of Malibu and Pacific Palisades and Altadena in Los Angeles County could have used some of this wet stuff last year. Unfortunately, they burned to the ground because nearby reservoirs were empty.

Don't tell me to have a stiff upper lip, wear overshoes, and carry an umbrella. I might do that in an emergency but not as a part of daily existence. Places like Seattle and Jolly Olde England and the Amazon rain forest may be nice to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.

I think I remember that the Olympia peninsula in the Pacific Northwest state of Washington receives more rain than any other part of the United States. Parts of Florida run a close second. When we lived in Palm Beach County for six years (I was with IBM in Boca Raton), one year we received 108 inches of rain. And Hillsborough County, where Tampa is, is called the lightning strike capital of the nation. In Florida, it may pour and pour, but half an hour later the sun is shining and the ground is dry because all of the water has been absorbed into the sand. Georgia, which has red clay, is not so fortunate. When deluges like the one we're currently getting come, the ground quickly becomes saturated and downright soggy. Any low, flat places flood quickly. Fortunately, we live near the top of a hill, so unless the rain comes down in such amounts that the tops of the mountains are covered and there is enough water to float Noah's Ark, I should and will stop complaining.

This is my second post of 2026 and my 2,318th post since this blog began on September 28, 2007.

2026 already???

Wasn't 1995 just yesterday?

No, dear heart, it was 31 years ago. Time has marched on without so much as a fare thee well.

Thirty-one years ago, Mrs. RWP (the lovely Ellie) and I had no grandchildren. Next month our oldest grandson will turn 30, we have six grandchildren in all, and we have three great-grandchildren.

Thirty-one years ago, I had never had a heart attack. Later this month I will be staring the thirtieth anniversary of my anterior myocardial infarction (AMI) in the face.

Thirty-one years ago, I thought my retirement from the corporate world was at least ten years away. However, due to unexpected spinoffs, outsourcings, and early retirement packages, I bid that world adieu at the age of 58. It doesn't seem possible, but I have been officially retired for more than a quarter of a century. More proof that I am, how you say, old.

I could go on and on, but I think I am depressing myself.

Here's hoping your 2026 is getting off to a good start. Already one of our longtime friends passed away at the age of 96 on New Year's Day. Nobody is guaranteed a single day more.

If you're alive and breathing and reading this post, have food on your table and a roof over your head, have shoes on your feet and a little money in the bank, count your blessings and quit your complaining. Instead, give thanks with a grateful heart.

The world is your oyster, at least for the moment.