The Colonel has ADHD.
Well..., at his age, it is more like ADFHD (F for formerly -- there ain't much hyper about anything that the Colonel is these days).
The AD is still accurate. The Colonel is easily distracted; quickly bored.
Take his morning routine for example. Take this morning's execution of the Colonel's morning routine, specifically.
With a large mug of strong coffee under his nose, the Colonel sits at his computer reviewing on-line news. The coffee is beginning to work its magic. To the right of his computer screen a large window provides a view of a significant swath of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's gardens surrounding the Big House at Egeebeegee, headquarters of the Army of Northern Mississippi, aboard the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.
The grass needs mowing.
The Colonel's morning tasks include making headway on the next great American novel. The story is long, pages approaching the count of the Encyclopedia Britannica.
For the millennials reading this post, an encyclopedia was a multi-volume, alphabetized, collection of summarized information.
For the Bama grads reading this post, it's the set of big books in the campus library below the sign "Do Not Color."
The crepe myrtles are blooming.
Ten years ago, shortly after settling into their forever digs here at the center of the universe, the Colonel supervised as the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda moved more than a dozen crepe myrtles from positions crowding the Big House to locations throughout the carefully crafted, yet randomly arranged, gardens. The crepe myrtles are never pruned. They are assuming shadetree stature. With them, also from positions crowding the Big House, came more than a dozen large loropetalum bushes.
The loropetalums need pruning.
Standing ever taller at the far western edge of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's gardens, a trio of young red oaks are doing their level best to turn a former open-range backyard acre into an open hardwood forest. They were puny and alone a decade ago. Stories tall now, their summer shade slides refreshingly across the yard in a slow dance with the southern sun.
The hummingbird feeders are running low.
Frenetic feeders, hummers. The Colonel's flock -- probably 60 strong at this point -- can drain four large sugar water dispensers in hours. The Colonel's sugar purchases probably keep at least one sugar cane farmer in business.
The Colonel loves to write; and he should be translating that love into action to finish his burgeoning narrative of crisis, pathos, and human nature.
The view out the window wins again.