Cotton Mountain

Dear Jimmy,

I confess shamefacedly that I heard "Calton Hill" as "Cotton Hill." Twas the altitude, I'm sure. Imagine my horror as I attempted to Google Cotton Hill and did not find the spectacular view of Edinburgh. In fact, I found a farm in South Carolina and a sheep herder in Australia. Not at all what I remembered. I know I grumbled and gasped my way up the miles (or so it seemed) of gentle slope. It wasn't that bad, really. It was shocking in a way, as it was such a gentle hill and yet we ended up being on top of the world. It was thrilling in so many ways. To be so high, to have climbed so high, was a great accomplishment. I know you're wondering what in the Scottish tat I'm talking about...but see, Jimmy, we in the Midwest don't walk anywhere. Ever. Certainly never up a hill. But it was beautiful and I wish I'd taken a photograph. I would defend the city from invaders up there, I swear I would.

And Oxford Bar...what a lovely place. I've had such a time of it I tell you! To mesh my vision with the reality. I think what made it work best for me was having Peter's dog under the table with his occasional snuffle.

Reminds me of when we were in the church and the minister (Canadian!) would mention God and you'd hear this low moan from across the aisle. I lost it, I tell you. I'm always a bit nervous in a church - always a bit afraid there will be a bolt of lightning (errant, I'm sure) and that will be that. Best not to even catch my eye in church as you'll then see my shoulders heaving and you'll think the Spirit has caught me (finally).

I've a funeral tomorrow - my Aunt Shirley passed away. Did you know my mother's name was LaVerne? No lie. LaVerne and Shirley from Milwaukee. Sounds like a sitcom. Oh wait. Anyhooo, I've spent the evening trying to find a suitable dress, shoes and hosiery to pay my respects. Although I'm sure Aunt Shirley (we called her June) would rather that my outfit actually fit so she'd forgive me wearing my "normal" attire.

So we soldier on watching those in the previous generation pass on to the Shotz Brewery in the sky. Actually, John and I are convinced our mothers live in our attic, smoking and drinking and complaining about our housekeeping. Perhaps Auntie June will join them and they'll put another pot of coffee on and empty the ashtrays in anticipation of her arrival.

I hope there will be a dog in the church tomorrow so my heaving shoulders will look like I'm hiding a laugh or that I've been caught by the Spirit.

All for now, more later.