It's supposed to rain today. Rain. It's March. In Green Bay, Wisconsin. And it's supposed to rain. Not even freezing rain. Just plain rain. I want to go out to the edge of town and check the "Welcome to..." sign to make sure I haven't been transported to someplace in the middle of the country (the North-South middle, not the East-West middle) overnight. I have vivid, adult memories of snow on May 2, piling up a few inches, stick to the ground snow, and this year we're barreling into spring like we're on a runaway train. As nice as it is and as much as we all like this, I'm afraid we're headed for a train-wreck of a spring. And that has been the Wisconsin Pessimism Report for today.
March 9--Capri, Italy. It looked to Martina as if she could walk from boat to boat all the way across the harbor. Tied up, gunwale to gunwale, the blue and white hulls rose the calm water like placid horses in narrow stalls. Like any other vacation spot, real estate was scarce on Capri, and that scarcity extended out into the harbor. Martina's eyes flicked over the placid scene watching for movement, for a flicker of green moving away that would reassure her that Carlo was going like he had promised he would. She knew it would take years for her to feel safe again, but knowing that he had gone back to his wife and her father's money would start the healing.
This feels more like an ending to me than a beginning, but, oh well, it was the end of the day when I wrote it. Stay dry!