A good week and it's only Tuesday

I've mentioned from time to time how inbred is my valley; these folks live here generation on end, and the Hatfields and McCoys have nothing on how long a grudge can be nursed. So, long story short, one fellow got mad at another and made a public record request for what amounted to seven hundred pages of personnel records and time records on a fishing expedition to prove who knows what. I hoped our legal counsel would tell me I could say it was too broad, but he tapped his finger on the letterhead of a very high power, big city attorney and said give them everything.

Now my artificial hip has been bothering me for the last several months, not to mention a back that does not tolerate standing, so I wasn't too happy. However, what's good for the goose is good for the gander or somesuch; I did file a FOIA in March against the federal government for wage information, got it (in May!), and have used it to my ends, so karma says return the favor. I enlisted two young women I know to tote boxes from storage and we set to yesterday.

Laura had box lifting and staple pulling duty, Emily ran the copier and I stood and restapled my copies back together. The high power fisherman get their 3" of paper loose; better hope they don't drop it on the way out the door. Now, that is petty (of me).

But a long day of standing and stapling and walking papers back to Laura to refile and heave on a shelf and I was barely walking. Thank goodness my long ago scheduled appointment with the orthopedist was today. I was convinced he would tell me a tune up was needed and I was working out why I couldn't see him again until after I go to Ann's later this month.

As I sat in the waiting room an extra hour waiting for the appointment I walked a friend through turning the heel of her first sock. I'm so proud of her, and she's so pleased with herself. Then off to x-ray my thirteen year old fake hip, and see the doctor I haven't seen in almost that long. He's getting so grey. My hip is perfect; I had a bursa. Son of a gun. A shot of cortisone dead center in the little bastid and I was out the door.

I went to pick up Emily from her sketching class with Mrs. P, and the thirty five steps to her studio were not daunting tonight! Here's what Emily is up to:

I said "Oh, look, prickly pears."

Shame on me; they're bing cherries.

But there's a story with her other sketch tonight. A couple of weekends ago she helped Linda at a show in Columbus. A man stopped in the booth, indicated he was deaf and said he was asking for donations for a baseball team for deaf young men. Emily said he did not speak as well as my niece, who is deaf, but she got the gist of it. She answered back in sign language, and they had a little conversation. 

He was surprised and pleased she knew enough sign to get by, plus the alphabet, to spell what she couldn't say, and will study it another year in high school. I am so pleased I told her to look into sign for the rest of her foreign language requirement and that the high school both offers it and counts it toward foreign language credits.

Emily and Mrs. P discussing how a hand looks.