Grampie is doing well. He doesn't like being in the hospital, but oh how he loves the nurses. I couldn't help but smile because he reminds me of a poem that I've been using in lesson plans that I've been creating:
I'm an alley cat with on life left,
I started out with nine,
but lost the first in a knockdown fight
with a cat named Frankenstein,
my second went soon after that
to something that I ate,
my third went under a garbage truck -
I noticed it too late.
While strolling through the zoo one day,
I heard an awful roar,
I'd strayed into a lion's cage-
so much for number four,
I lost my fifth one morning
to a ton of falling bricks,
then tumbled from a window ledge,
and gave up number six.
My seventh went to a Saint Bernard
I was no match for him,
my eighth was squandered in the lake -
it seems I couldn't swim,
so now I'd better watch my step,
I'm down to number nine,
I'm an alley cat with one life left,
and glad that life is mine. (by Jack Prelutsky)
Needless to say, I smiled a lot when I read this and couldn't help but have thoughts of Grampie. A lot of living has been done in his 87 years. And now he's coming to stay with me for while until he heals properly. I hope we keep life #9 well intact. :)
I was laying in bed this morning waiting for my alarm to go off, and I started thinking about Brad out of nowhere. He was a fellow that I worked with years ago and the first guy that I ever had a really good, furiuos make-out session with. And for the life of me, I can't remember his last name. Anyways, I climbed out of bed with a smile because life rarely hands you what you expect - and it's consistent.
Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive body, but rather to skid in sideways, champagne in one hand, strawberries in the other, body thoroughly used up, screaming "WOOHOO! WHAT A RIDE!"