November 17

It’s the 17th because tomorrow I get the stitches out.

Andy’s pipe smoke sweetens the whole neighborhood.

My father said that gum grafting was a dentistry scam.

When I spoke to Andy I was hoarse.

The old man was an army sniper who never saw action.

I‘m realizing that Christmas is only a week away.

I should be sleeping, not writing.

Andy raised an eyebrow in concern.

I far prefer pipe smoke to cigarette smoke.

My father smoked Parliaments.

My grandfather smoked a pipe when I was a child.

I feel guilty because my wife did all of the Christmas shopping this year.

I can still taste the acrid smoke that filled the truck cab.

I‘m glad he never saw action.

When I heard my own hoarse voice I realized that Andy was the first person that I had spoken to.

He remained a sniper the rest of his life though, shooting words, not bullets.

I guess I’ll try caffeine again today.

I mumbled something about having not spoken yet today.

I think that his anxiety about the possibility of having to kill, or be killed for his country caused him PTSD, even though a shot was never fired.

Gum grafting is a very interesting process, ingenious in its simplicity.

Kind of funny: Andy thought that I said that I had started smoking.

I do feel guilty about Christmas.

My grandfather was mostly nice when I knew him.

I liked the smell inside of the pipe cabinet.

His comments about gum grafting were just his opinion: the words of god, etched in stone.

Not a shot was fired on our house, but plenty of violent words ricocheted off the walls while I tried to sleep.

Andy said that his dentist recommended that he quit smoking.

I told him all that I know about gum grafting.

I‘m told that my grandfather was a mean drunk too.

I hope Andy quits smoking.

PTSD is an inheritance.

I‘ll miss the sweet aroma, and our chats.

Maybe he could take up the yo-yo.