Sears promised to ship seven boxes of parts for my broken washer; six have arrived in the last two weeks. The repairman will return when all the boxes have arrived. Perhaps I am too glum about this but I have been wondering about the hand-cranked washer at the Gene Autry Museum. Jackson certainly loved it when he was little. He'd rummage through a basket of Western Cowboy clothes, putting on a pigskin vest and chaps, a cowboy hat and a red bandanna and grab a rope for lassoing something I don't remember. In the scheme of things not having a washer for a few weeks is completely unimportant; it was just there and I did take it for granted - but I would very much like to have it working again and soon would make me very happy.
It may be a coincidence that I've been more amused by small things this month. My iPhone pictures are not clear (it's a first generation phone, very old school) but it's so discreet for taking pictures in public. The menu is from Cafe Fifty; I'd never thought of fried green beans or macaroni 'n' cheese but there it is. There's a two column listing of milkshakes, also old school, served in a fountain glass with whipped cream along with five or six offerings of French fries, including a huge platter of wickedly good garlic fries, some come with onion rings. Chocolate milkshake with whipped cream: divine.
I'm not sure where the poem is from.