Little is happening of late, after the mayhem of course. The dogs are enjoying their morning naps. I think I’ll join them in a bit. As for my hand, it still hurts, and it still makes life complicated. My left hand just doesn’t do. In order to bring my coffee to the den I rested the cup on my right hand and held it with my left. It jiggled. I was careful.

When I was a young kid, all of four, I broke my right wrist jumping off a fence backwards. I used my hands to brace my fall and ended up with a buckle fracture. I thought the cast was a badge of honor. Oddly enough, not more than a few years ago, I broke my wrist, the same wrist as before, but no badge of honor this time, no cast. My finger fracture is hidden by the wrap. I see the surgeon Saturday. I’ll also get to see my finger with all its gory details.

When I was growing up, I was an active kid. I was a brownie first then a girl scout. I even got my ten year pin. From the time I was ten until I left for the cape, I marched with St. Pat’s Shamrocks drill team. In the winter, we practiced at the armory, a really neat building. I used to bring index cards with French vocabulary and whatever else I had to memorize. At every break I studied my cards. We were learning our summer routine. In the summer, it seems my whole life revolved around drill. All my friends were in drill. We practiced a couple of times a week and competed on the weekends, sometimes both Saturday and Sunday. When we didn’t have a contest, we’d go to one to watch. I remember when we won our first championship. We got off the bus in the square and matched pass the fire station and the town hall to the schoolyard. They firemen blew the fire whistle as we marched pass their station. We were giddy.

I also remember the first time we ever placed at a contest. It was in Lawrence, and we came in second. I was so proud when I got home and told my parents. What I didn’t tell then was there were only two drill teams in the competition.

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