Icy, Dicey

Pretty much just me and Sheryl Crow here at the bus stop in Hillsdale at 9 this morning. I don't know why I'm still alive half the time, and half the time, I don't know why I'm still married.
Our plans kept changing this morning. Finally, we decided that Eric would drive me to my sister's, so she and I could visit while he was at a fairly nearby rehearsal up in the hills above Terwilliger Blvd. But, we were running so late that it made more sense to drop me off near a bus stop so he could be on time, and I could break my hip crossing a very icy intersection. Then, instead of waiting 15 minutes in the freezing cold for the bus, I walked to the next stop, the one in this picture, and it was freezing cold there, too.
A nice visit with Barbara, though, and then Eric picked me up and off we went to a memorial for a 52-year-old trombonist.
The gathering included a trombone choir, a big band, a string quartet, and many, many, many tears. I don't think I've ever seen so many men in tears. The man who died was well-loved and very funny. The friends and family who spoke cried, and made us laugh. He was someone who would spend years perfecting a particular joke with a friend, or a brother, and we got to hear the favorites. Like the one about the jazz player who walked into 12 bars.