When I saw the art for today, I was immediately struck by an idea, a story started playing in my head, and I hurried to get it onto paper. I love it when that happens. I couldn't write fast enough.
October 15--Gustav Klimt, Roses Under the Trees. Ed was washing his brushes and getting ready to pack away his easel for the day when he glanced into the woods crowding the riverbank. Night was quickly falling and the pale light on the river couldn't penetrate the gloom. He was stunned when first one tree then another lit with an unearthly green flash and then flicked off. As soon as he saw it he knew what was causing it. "Vera," he said, "honey, come up here. Hurry." He heard her drop something metal. "What do you want?" she said. "I'm cooking." Afraid to move or raise his voice he repeated, "Hurry." She lid the skillet to a cold burner, set down her wooden spatula, and went out onto the foredeck, wiping her hands on her apron. "What?" she said, looking at him with her hands on her hips. "What's so damned important that I had to quit fixing supper?" Ed put his hands on her shoulder and turned her to face the woods. "Look." She peered into the darkness. "What am I supposed...?" Her breath caught as one entire tree lit up, flashed off, and was answered by another one across a clearing. "Oh, Ed," she said, "it's like fairies are having a party." They stood in silence for many long minutes, reveling in the wonder of the fireflies mating dance until long after the light of the sun had left the river and the stars had winked on, one by one, in the indigo sky.
There. It may not be perfect but it fills me with excitement to take this little bit of morning writing and turn it into a full scene in the growing story of Ed and Vera spending summer on the river.
--Barbara
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