My ancestors mess with me

And not just in that maddening, tear-your-hair-out sense that comes with reaching a brick wall with them.

Sometimes they talk to me.

Not necessarily in words.

Grampa Chapin has been talking of late. His portrait keeps listing ever so slightly to the west.

Not every day, but for the last week or so, I'll look up in the morning, and see that it's tilted. I always straighten it up.

Naturally, I look for logical explanations first.

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The cottage is a mobile home, so I thought maybe this occurred when the washer was on the spin cycle, and the vibrations were moving the portrait.

So I looked several times this morning to see if it happened. Nope, didn't move even a millimeter. Besides that, I only use the washer a couple of times a week. I haven't seen a connection.

I've stomped across the living room floor. No movement. But anyway, I don't stomp around the cottage.

I've slammed the door. No movement. I've slammed the wooden gates on the front and back of the porch.

Nada, zip, zilch.

So, I figure Grampa Chapin wants to get my attention for some reason.

It's those kinds of moments that make me grin, because they just reinforce the truism.

The journey is good.