Write about: the mute.
Bakery was fairly slow for most of the day. Did have a lady buy 13 loaves (for herself and some friends, I believe) late afternoon, so that helped. Plus Shannon did want 15 loaves in the freezer for a restaurant order, so it wasn't a problem, really.
Just was a lot of bread to deal with at end of day.
Miles came down with a nasty sounding cough yesterday, so Kat took him to the doctor this afternoon. I guess he's got laryngitis, but it's not too severe.
Not much worse sounding than an infant with a hoarse throat though.
Little Ricky never spoke a word to nobody, as best anybody could tell. That don't mean he didn't communicate though. He had his ways, you know?
Like, if he was wearing one of his red shirts? You best keep your distance, man. He had the fire in him them days. And that temper of his was not something you wanted to mess with. Burning, burning hot, man.
And if he was wearing his black hat? He was sad about something, that's for sure. No way to know what, of course, but I guess the details didn't matter much. I mean, if he wanted somebody to know what was bringing him down he'd have told 'em, right? But he never did, so...
And then there were the times he wouldn't shave for weeks. Months, even. That was trickier business, that's for sure. Because you wouldn't even realize something was up, right? Not until the hair on his cheeks got thick enough for you to see it.
Poor Ricky had hair as yellow as sunshine, so it took a while for it to show.
Anyway. That facial hair was a sure sign that something was troubling him. Driving him to distraction. Keeping him up at night. That boy done got obsessed when certain thoughts or ideas or people (pray that it wasn't you, man) got stuck in his head.
You know, for a kid that never said nothing, Little Ricky sure had a lot to say...