Hope.

It’s a funny thing, my life.

I work all by myself, I’m a one man company. Which is fine but it means it’s generally pretty quiet unless I’m talking to myself.

In the past I’d listen to Howard in the truck and Miss Carol bought me a portable Sirius radio so’s I could listen to him all the time but satellite doesn’t work inside houses.

So I listened to the local rock and country stations till I couldn’t stand the playlist any longer. It’s a long day and working and listening to the same old same old got, well, really old.

Then I switched to talk radio and spent the day getting pissed off and ranting and raving at things that I’ll never change or spend the energy to try and change. Did I mention I’m mostly lazy?

After that I mostly wallowed in silence. And then, I had a customer remind me about books on CD.

And the stars and heavens opened up and a blue sky rained down on me and sunlight warmed my fevered brow.

Anyway.

So now that’s what I do, what I listen to while I work alone. And I just finished listening to Rocket Boys by Homer H. Hickam whom I’m guessin’ is a big wig in rocket and space circles? Or was?

Anyway.

I don’t know who he is and, frankly, don’t really care, and his audiobook is hokey and maybe just a touch too much of a fondly remembered ¬†remembrance of his childhood building rockets in West Virginia.

Doesn’t matter.

It was cool and it gave me hope that maybe, just maybe, if you keep your dreams lubed and moist and work hard that maybe, just maybe, they’ll take off.

Hope.

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