An ancient book of prayers, a not so old mandolin, and a hot cup of fresh coffee. It was among these things that I greeted this Tuesday morning. I could play the strings, but to do so would interrupt the morning chorus from the resident birds.
Perhaps another day I would attempt to play along, but not today. Today is the 93rd anniversary of my father’s birth, and I’m almost certain, if he was still here, he would set the mandolin down as well and opt for the back porch seat to the natural morning music