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ONE OF THOSE Dr. John Greenlees watched as his wife charged out of the Iris, stomped across the room, glared at her bed, started to reach up to unpin her fashionable little hat, stopped: she glared at her husband, stomped up to him, came up on her toes and kissed him and said, "I need to throw a stereoptical fit." Dr. John Greenlees' eyebrows raised and he said mildly, "That's nice, dear." Marnie tried to glare at him. Her glare lasted about eight seconds, after which it crumbled into laughter. There was a slither, a splash, a happy "Mommeee!" and something pink, wet, fast-moving and buck naked came streaking out of the bath chamber, slid on the floor, skidded on his backside and ran into his Mama's feet. He looked up, all big eyes and innocence, and declared loudly, "Hi!" Marnie looked at her husband and only then realized his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, he was wet-speckled, he'd obviously been giving Little John his bath and came out when the Iris chime sounded. Marnie dropped to a squat; she pulled her dress material back against her shoetops to keep from covering the giggling little boy: she took him firmly under the arms, and between the little boy's efforts, and her own, he came to his feet, still dripping water. "Finish your bath and get all dried off," Marnie smiled, her voice Mommy-gentle, and Little John declared "Hokay!" and took off running for the bath chamber. John came over and offered his hands. Marnie took them. He helped bring her upright; she paused a moment, surprise on her face. "The baby?" John asked, then thought she wasn't far enough along, she couldn't be Quickening this soon, and Marnie shook her head, wobbled again, grabbed her husband's arm. "I gotta sit down," she mumbled: John helped guide her into the nearest chair and she sat for a moment, blinking slowly. "That's been happening," she said slowly. "Just like my last pregnancy. I get dizzy as hell when I stand up." Her husband nodded, his eyes busy: Marnie knew he was assessing her, not looking at her, and offered no objection when his long, slender fingers found her wrist pulse. "How's Michael?" he asked quietly. Marnie sighed. "That good?" "Oh, Michael is coming along fine. I'm having the medical reports routed to your inbox. It's ..." Marnie took a long breath, her lips pressed together the way a disapproving woman will. "Hospital administration is not made of horsemen." "I don't understand." "Michael is spending as much time as he can with that Fanghorn horse -- you know, the really big, ugly one? -- he's regaining use of his legs by saddling that big hell raiser. I spoke with Physical Therapy and they agreed his progress would be nowhere near this good was he in their care and with no saddle time." Dr. Greenlees nodded, slowly. He'd had his own differences with hospital administrations. "I've had to pull every negotiator's trick out of my saddlebag. I don't want to just pull rank and club them over the head with Diplomatic Override, but I won't let them take over Michael's care just because they're unhappy he's in the saddle instead of on a treadmill." "Perhaps a treadmill would be useful." "It will, once he's able to use his legs again. He's regaining function, John. He's riding heels down, he's putting his weight on the stirrups, he's moving with the horse. He's able to carry that God-awful heavy saddle from its peg over to the mounting block. It's not pretty, he ... when he walks ... he's ..." Dr. Greenlees held both his wife's hands, waited. He knew this was hard for her to put into words. "The best he can do, John ... is kind of a drunken shamble." Marnie bit her bottom lip. "Remember ... he and Victoria would go running, they'd take one loop or another and run it like an obstacle course ..." "I remember," John said gently. "I tried it once. Thought I was going to die!" "Michael wants to run it again. That's why he's pushing himself and riding as much as he is. He's getting his legs back, John, it is working!" Dr. John Greenlees nodded, slowly. "Have you had supper?" Dr. John asked quietly, but before Marnie could reply, something fast moving, mostly dry and wearing white flannel jammies, came running barefoot out of the bath chamber and charged his Mama. He hit a wet spot from his first passage through here. His feet shot ahead, his backside hit the floor, he ended up rolled against his Mama's shin bones, rolled back and looked up with a delighted little-boy grin. "Did you brush your teeth?" she asked quietly. "Aw, Maaaw," he complained in a little-boy voice: Marnie lowered her head, raised one eyebrow, and he recognized this as Mama's Sign that No More Foolishness Would Be Tolerated! Little John got to his feet, ran back for the bath chamber. Dr. John Greenlees looked at his son's departing backside, looked at his wife and asked, "I was one of those?" Michael Keller opened the gate. It was nighttime; nobody was about -- had the staff known a Diplomatic Personage was anywhere near, the full staff would've turned out, and that was exactly what Michael did not want. He walked slowly, awkwardly. He could almost -- almost! -- get into a decent pair of boots like God Almighty intended, instead of those hated hospital slippers: he'd rather have his boots on, simply because that would mean his legs were strong enough to thrust into them. He draped the saddle blanket over the saddle, pulled it free, nearly went over backwards: he caught himself, wobbled, staggered awkwardly out into the corral. Lightning was pacing back and forth, snorting. Michael hung the saddle, stepped up on the block, unwrapped two red-and-white peppermints. The Fanghorn threw her head, danced away, then turned, lowered her head and stuck her neck out, for all the world like she was sneaking up on the treat. Michael waited. She drove her lips into his palm like a striking viper, lifted her head, happily crunching the peppermints, while Michael wiped the horse slobber off on his jeans leg. Lightning waited while Michael slung the blanket over and worked the wrinkles out. She folded her legs and knelt and Michael stopped and said, "Thank you" in a quiet voice: he got the saddle on, said "Stand," and whether because of his command, or in spite of it, the Fanghorn stood and waited patiently for Michael to tighten the cinch. He closed his eyes, climbed back up on the block. He lifted his left leg, brought his knee up, his jaw set as he forced the unwilling limb to his will. He lowered his leg, then raised it more quickly, got his foot into the doghouse stirrup, grabbed saddleskirt and cantle and hauled himself off the mounting block. His leg didn't want to cooperate. He swung it down, swung it back up. He only just got it across the saddle. Lightning swung her head around, looked at him as if asking what in the world was he doing back there. Michael, for the first time under his own power, got himself into the saddle and got his starboard hoof into the stirrup. "Yup, girl," he murmured. A little boy with legs that were relearning how to work, and a Fanghorn who liked peppermints, trotted out the open gate, and into the planet's night. Marnie was considering the menu displayed on the screen and was about to suggest something when the screen flashed, a chime sounded: "Ambassador, this is Director James." "Yes, Mister Director, how can I help you?" "Your brother Michael ... you don't know where he is, by any chance?" Marnie's face and her voice were equally serious. "He's not there?" "He is not, madam Ambassador." "I'm on my way." "I'm quite sure that won't be --" Marnie cut the connection, keyed up an Iris, shot a zippo to her sister. If Michael was in the wind, either he'd been taken, or he'd taken off. She knew where to start looking. Sheriff Linn Keller came out of bed like he'd been clap boarded across his backside. Shelly was slower to rouse, mostly because her better-than-a-warm-brick husband wasn't there. Linn was dressed, fast, he slung his gunbelt around his middle, picked up the double twelve that lived at his corner of the headboard, and headed for the door. Shelly heard it, realized she'd heard it once before. It sounded like a steam whistle in heat. Sheriff Linn Keller came out his front door, a canine shadow silent and deadly at his heels. He listened -- Hooves -- Something's spooked the herd -- Linn stepped out into the night-dark grass, listening, watching -- Movement, in the pasture, something visible between the whitewashed boards -- The Bear Killer rumbled a warning. Linn frowned, turned his head as if to bring a good ear to bear -- That's Michael's voice, he thought. He advanced on the whitewashed boards, looked under the top plank -- "Well I'll be damned." Linn came through the gate, The Bear Killer bristled and suspicious beside him. "Hi, Pa," Michael called cheerfully, as if it was a normal and routine thing to ride an off-planet beast with fangs and a blunt horn, at two in the morning. "I ... wasn't expecting you," Linn admitted. "Pa, my legs are workin' better!" Michael declared: Lightning swapped ends, Michael leaned forward, came up in the stirrups a little, his hands pressed against the huge mare's neck just under her mane. Linn watched, assessing his son' ride, as best he could by moonlight: Michael rode back, sidled the lightning-patterned Fanghorn up against the board fence, reached over and pulled himself out of the saddle. He tried to climb down: he closed his eyes, one step, another, a third ... Linn waited. Michael stood beside the fence, holding on by one hand. He released his hand, lowered it to his side. Linn waited. "Pa," Michael said, "I can walk." Michael took a step -- it was awkward and it was shaky -- he took another, he sped up as best he could until he was making kind of a fast shamble. The cloud came away from the moon and Linn saw his son's jaw clench and he leaned forward and Linn knew Michael was going to run. He did. He leaned forward far enough he started to fall forward, he managed to make his legs move fast enough to keep that from happening. For the first time since Michael was nearly killed, he ran. He couldn't stop. Linn laid the double gun down, went to one knee, opened his arms and his son SLAMMED into him and seized him, shivering and gasping, and Linn held him and whispered, "You did it, Michael!" and Michael leaned back a little and looked at his Pa and said "I did it, Pa," and behind him, something that looked like a very large, very ugly horse -- with fangs, with a fighting, bony cone thrust out of its bony, reinforced head -- slung its neck upward, pointed a pale muzzle to the stars, and screamed like an insane steam whistle. Father and son hugged one another for several long moments, then Linn slacked his embrace and tried to think of something intelligent to say. He didn't have to. Michael had a grin on his face broad as two Texas townships, and the Fanghorn made enough speech for the both of them.

....... also helps in regard to the 'toothpaste tube' wars ........🙃

Separate bathrooms promote happy marriages.

A lot of people have never seen one of these. https://www.throttlestop.com/vehicles/1013/1942-harley-davidson-xa-army

The Rain Song.

I heard #4 was "Daddy O, Laddy-O and the Spook." Either way it's still hilarious.....and it's older than either of us, maybe both of us together. Thanks.

The Henderson motorcycle was known for long distance reliability and speed. The 4 cylinder motor was highly developed by 1928. This was also the first year for the front brake. This fully accesorized Henderson deluxe was originally used by The Arizona highway patrol.

It took 2 decades, but I finally won the toilet paper debate. I relented on the paper towel roller - it’s an upright model. She likes it to unroll to the left. I like it to unroll to the right. I started putting the paper towel roll the way she likes it. It’s her kitchen, even though I do most of the cooking since we retired. Now she puts the roll on the way I liked it. I always switch it back to unrolling to the left. I think she’s trying to make me crazy. But, I love her anyway.

ICMEDBD iiiii

The treat or a turd??

Uh, Bach wasn't classical. He was Baroque. Classical could get heavy.