A proper Thanksgiving

After north of a week, I am still fighting off this cold: light symptoms, not overwhelming, but still there. A battle rages within me, whether to act like it isn't happening, in traditional guy way, or to embrace it and milk it for every moment of rest it opens the door to.

For the most part, I've been doing the former, but with Mary out in the yard raking and the leaves pouring down like snow and a large feast approaching this evening, the pressure is mounting. I think I need to cede to it and get out there and join the autumnal Sisyphean ritual, for whatever the reason is that we do it. Mostly, it makes her happy.

By now it is late enough in the morning that I think I've got to cave. I have, in any case, pushed past the halfway point in the Naipaul novel, which has been a little on the slow side but interesting in its own way. Enough procrastinating.