Ringo the mule! Not as mad as it seems...

Donie made the trip to the bog. It was almost a daily ritual when Jonnie was alive. Well! A fair day ritual then. There was nothing as miserable as a wet day in the bog, no shelter and maybe a whipping wind. The wind in summer, made the bog cotton dance on their tall thin green stalks, and the gentle breezes created miniature tornados, never, ever, more than a few few tall.

Thank God. The turf is all saved. Poor auld Jonnie. I miss you. At this time of the year with your turf saved you’d say: Sound now for the winter. We have a shed full of dry turf.

I went to the Nursing Home to see The Sister. Most days now she just sits beside her bed muttering, and sobbing. I think she’s remembering things that upset her. She’s troubled. I’d say she’s angry about something. You know the way she used get. All huffy - with that look on her face.

Maybe she feels ashamed that it’s turned out this way. Sometimes she gets frustrated when you don’t understand what she wants.

Poor Peggy her mind is trapped in the past. She just has today and there will be no tomorrow: all she has is yesterdays. Just yesterdays. Only the past for company...

I have your caged birds. They're singing again, went silent for a few days after I moved them.

Ringo, the Mule, with his fringe, took a bit longer. The call eegits birdbrains, feather heads, but I think the birds missed you as well.

What that lot are at isn’t right. She deserves a lot more.

Somethin’ has to be done about it. For all our sakes, I better start looking for him. For the boy.