kvetching up

On pleasant spring evenings, I have taken to reading outside on the front patio. As I do on such occasions-- weather allowing--I took my book and curled up in the plastic Adirondack chair last night, excited to read Wm. Gibson. His writing is pithy, his sentences carefully structured. It requires more concentration than reading a Stephen King novel, but less than the typical Philip Roth joint.  For my next trick, I'll need a volunteer. The last few weeks, each time I sit, within a couple of minutes the Adirondack chair shifts a bit, which I presumed was it settling. It feels as if the legs are spreading a couple of inches. The movement has been--or so I thought--no cause for concern--it always stopped after the initial brief shift. It had become so regular, so routine, I didn't pay much notice to it last night when a couple of minutes after sitting down, the chair began to shift. I imagine this was the attitude Harry Truman had when he felt the earth rumble just before t...