I am not known for my patience. I come by it honestly, as my father will weave a cloud of profanity that encircles his big red truck at whatever intersection he is stopped at; it is almost art. He is a craftsman. So as Nurk and I were mugged at the County Courthouse by the passport office; my bandit was the cutest little orange dyed ringlet headed highwayman, I felt (and saw as evidence my nostril flared photo) my hackles rise. And as I am headed off at the completed taxes pass by lame Medici internet connections, I float to last week when my popsynopsis and I after snacks watched a trucker spin and back his semi on a dime practically, while discussing books and farming techniques for a couple of hours.
He is my reset button. No one I have ever met has known more pain in his life personally. Period. He has more love, faith, and hope in me than anyone. When I don't have me, he does. Knowing him has made me a better person.
So as I sit here, readying myself for the next scrambling steps, I think on my Patron saint of sand-in-the-gums,-grin-and-bear-it-and-come up swinging, and smile. He's got me. Why would I need anything or one more? Thank you Lee Jackson Coffey, aka Pete. You are the best. And a hell of a model to live up to.
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