I am avoiding my exercises and heart rate run this morning, the weather man says it is raining outside somewhere - Seattle is so big and wants to dominate. The road is damp but it isn't raining here right now, and the neighbor has his wet weather gear on but is mounting his motorcycle for his trip to work, much more dedicated than I? or the only transportation he owns? I slide my wooden shoes on and move the garbage can out to the curb. I got the wooden shoes in Holland, one of many adventures into a beautiful little country, with flower gardens, long legged ladies that love to walk or bike, and where paratroopers from both sides in WWII would battle. I did the Four Days with the military and loved the greetings of the crowds in town on the final day, with flowers, they say it all with flowers. Of course, after one has the cheese, sees the canals and windmills, takes too many pictures of the flowers with ladies, and notices the homes are really small - then one finds out that the shoes are made in Wisconsin and shipped to Holland for tourists to buy, unless they are that special pair that a young man makes for his lady love - that pair would be from Holland. I track though the wet grass and spongy moist ground and know that wooden shoes with memories are the only way to keep my feet dry.
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