If man plans and God laughs then if you’ve a lot of thunder during the last two weeks, then that’s just God slapping his knee. During 2011, I horded ten days of paid time off which would expire by January’s end. I scheduled this time well. I had one week of vacation, and another week of tying up loose ends: get a headstart on editing my new book, prepare two older computers for sale or donations, a few household DIY chores. Most of all I intended to relax.

Was that thunder I heard?

My wife, Anna, broke her birdie finger while walking down a friend’s stairs. We were attending a friend’s pre game party. I’m no sports fan and barely knew who the teams were. One was from Pittsburgh and the other team had that guy who prayed on the sidelines. As we were leaving, Anna slipped on the steps, but caught herself on the railing. She thought she sprained her finger. Later, at the emergency room, the X-rays showed a fracture under the first knuckle. The ER doc referred her to a bone doctor. Thank God for Percodan. It was for her, of course. She had an inpatient operation that Friday and her broken little birdie finger was wrapped in bandages like Tutankhamen’s pee-pee.

Nowadays, doctors are free and easy with meds like breadsticks at Olive Garden. We have the Pfizer Narco sampler in our medicine cabinet.

Since you can be just as miserable and sedated anywhere, we went ahead and traveled to our Savannah summit where we’d relax, tour old homes and tip craft beer pints The Distillery (The only domestic drink they serve is tap water) and let gorgeous parks and walkways calmed our nerves. When the city was rebuilt after the Civil War, the planners insisted on having small parks sprinkled amongst the grid. Centuries before suburban sprawl, people actually planned cities rather than carpet bombed the landscape with big box stores and strip malls. I’m sure the antebellum folk would’ve appreciated at Venti Latte, but they wouldn’t mind walking a few blocks to get it.

The Distillery - want domestic? Drink tap water.

We toured the supposedly haunted Sorrel Weed house. Anna believes in ghosts but hours of Scooby Doo has made me skeptic. Our tour guide was a pretty girl in a white period dress.  As I toured the house and heard how the antebellum folk partied like it was 1899, I did feel a presence. Somehow, generations of life, birth and sorrow had ingrained themselves in the house, a barely perceptible thrum of past activity. It’s why people are drawn to old houses. We can stare out the same windows the departed occupants once gazed and wonder it this is all there is.

Our tour guide encouraged us to snap pictures in hope we would capture orbs. Orbs are considered a supernatural phenomenon that can only be captured on camera. She led us to the basement where the slaves practiced voodoo and the bones of three Revolutionary War soldiers were excavated. A set of 4 monitors showed light enhanced views of the two rooms. Several orbs diagonally floated in its view. We watched as the guide walked through the rooms, singing an Italian opera and the orbs seemed to follow her.

Below are a few photos my wife took. I’m searched the web for a scientific explanation, but I haven’t found much. Even the hardcore skeptics are uncharacteristically mute. Until I get slimed I’m still on the skeptical side.

I visited my family and in-laws in Florida and I don’t have much to report except everyone seemed content. The dust of recent trials had settled and plans were being made and had a good chance of being fulfilled.

Only two days left. Like the last Sunday before school starts, I will miss my vacation, but I welcome getting back into the old rut. I have a book to edit and another to sell.

The rut beckons.