Don't Move

Never having had the experience I can't swear to it, but it seems to me that John Dear steers like a Sherman tank; at least how I imagine a tank would steer.  John is a big boy and I definitely get an upper body workout when we mow a yard.  Note to the John Deere designers:  consider power steering on the next model.

Between the yelling muscles in my shoulders and arms from working with John and those screaming from the back of thigh from bending over for sticks with Pete, the order of the day was Don't Move.  More accurately, don't move after milking and cleaning the barn.  The real rain had stopped, but there was still mist in the air and the ankle-high weeds in the pen were dripping wet.  Back in the house, I stripped off soaked socks and put on slippers, fixed a cup of hot cocoa, picked up a lap cat and sat down to watch the race at Bristol (it had been delayed by rain on Sunday).  Warm at last and comfortable, the sound of engines had a soporific effect and even though Bowyer was fighting his way up the field after a speeding penalty in the pit, I fell asleep with about 40 laps to go.  Were it not for a text from Clay, I would not have known that Clint came in second at the finish.  Stewart-Haas has given Bowyer a car and support worthy of his talents and it shows.

A sandwich for dinner, put the kids to bed, and call it a day.