Claiming my island

When the process gets far enough in the way of the message, it's time to change the process, so I'm fighting every tightwad tendency I have and going ahead with satellite net service -- which at least I can turn off when not in Tennessee to save some cash and turn on again when here -- after waiting more than half an hour for this meager picture of the greenhouse to upload (and, as it turns out, another 15 minutes to edit).

When I prepped this photo for upload I was going to tell you how sweet it was to get into the greenhouse again, to smell its richness, to see the ferns and bananas and bromeliads flourishing afterwinter, even the bougainvillea doing its thing, when the outside is shivering. My mood was actually quite good.

The temperatures in there are what I've come to love: steamy, as opposed to the arthritis-taunting cold-damp outside, though in the last few days, we've had sun enough to make me love walking around this place again. And to get out to see some wonderful people, and beautiful things. Old friends in a good place.

But to sit here for a half-hour every time twiddling your thumbs on a dialup . . . .

No more. I don't care if they have to put the satellite dish in the middle of the courtyard and a nephew or two doesn't get his inheritance. It's on order.

Life is too short, and there are too many pretty things not to share -- right now.