Sudden realization

A co-worker long ago likened me to a paleolithic tribe's flint-knapper -- the guy who went around fashioning and repairing arrowheads and spearheads. Actually, it's worse than that: I'm the kind of flint-knapper who can't let a blade go until he's thoroughly satisfied that it's a thing of beauty. Which is lovely if you're making arrowheads for a museum, but . . . a knapper who's less, uh, fastidious knocks out a good-enough blade in a few minutes and ties it to a pole, and pretty soon his tribe is chowing down on an aurochs. Three days later, I've got a spearhead so beautiful it brings you to tears mounted on a perfectly-balanced perfectly-straight piece of ash, making a spear that's a joy to behold and practically throws itself, but my whole tribe has died of starvation.

My back is all better!

Well, as "all better" as a 55-year-old back gets, I guess. It still tweaks me a little, but no more than it always has. When I picked up my toolbag and threw it in the back of the car this evening, the only thing that hurt was my arm. And I can bend over and touch my toes. And this is on no meds, not even an icepack, for more than 24 hours. Yay.