An absolutely beautiful morning. 9:30 A.M., Wednesday, August 30, 2017. Mostly sunny, slightly breezy, seventy odd degrees.
And here I sit, inside at Big House’s dining room table, pecking on my computer, trying to write a column the Examiner’s editors want in hand by Friday morning early. No good topics in mind, no serious subjects under bubbling pressure to get out, so, what do I do?
How about if I tell you about the possum. Properly, the Opossum, I guess.
Last Monday morning, close to 5:30, I returned from McDonalds with my morning medium coffee, black. I paused at back door of my little van to retrieve a sack of fresh tomatoes I’d brought for staff from the farm, evening before. Tomatoes hung over my finger, coffee in same hand, I stepped up to Examiner’s back door, inserted key and caught movement out of the corner of my eye.
There it sat, looking at me. Middle of a table partly loaded with preprint inserts (circulars) destined for insertion into Examiner next day. As I entered, possum whirled, climbed up over a stack of papers, over the back shop microwave, knocked one of Peggy Wratchford’s decorative displays all out of whack and dived behind back shop furnace.