There are just too many words for wordless wednesday . . .

After 2 weeks of trying to get quarters and postcard stamps in this town, only to discover that the bank and the post office both close at 4 and at 12 on Wednesdays (many, many harsh words were said towards the good people of the USPS), I finally made it to the bank. I had just judged Mrs. Whis's yawping contest for her American Lit class and sounded my own barbaric yawp over the rooftops of Judson and thought I'd run some errands before making my way into the office (we had a really late night here at the JC . . . but more of that later).

I pulled up to the drive-through and saw this:


At first I thought she might be out of her own car because she couldn't reach the bin, or maybe her window wouldn't roll down. But when the car ahead of me drove away, this happened:

And I knew just then that I was one step closer to seeing it all. She finished her business at the window and walked back around to her car in the front. Marion . . . of all the cities in the USA . . .

Now for the late-night story . . . I can't say much because I'm bound by the honor of a sisterhood spanning 171 years, but I can tell you that there was a fiery robe and a mad dash around an inner circle (thankfully, Jewett is not set to catch fire for another 40 years). It seems stop, drop, and roll isn't the first thing that pops in your head when you're on fire. AND there was a bit of hurling in the place where men (and women) tell no tales.

And, finally, a little confession of insanity: I believe I might be the reincarnation of Anne Kirtley.