I can see that we're sliding back into late-winter mode today. It's overcast and not nearly as warm, supposed to rain tonight and Saturday night too. That's okay, the farmers need rain because we didn't have enough snow to replenish the ground water. I went out with a shovel and spread out the last patch of snow so it melts faster, and encouraged the daffodils and hyacinths. I'm sure they heard me.
Last night I was the only one at writer's so I spent the time working to make scene cards and to decide what other things I need to write to make the story fuller. I'm glad I went anyway instead of just coming home after work and frittering away those hours. Frittering, that's a good word, and I could eat a fritter (or six) right now. Mm, how about some nice corn fritters? Mom used to make those and they're so good, I could eat a plateful.
March 18--Bermuda. Geneva wouldn't trade her view from Gibbs Hill for anything. She had friends who complained about the long drive up the hill to get to her house. They consoled themselves with comparisons of how short their walk to the beach was and how convenient it was for them to get to the market or the clinic or to church. "Oh you poor thing," one of her lady friends would say, "it must take you forever to get your errands done, Geneva dear. You should sell up and move closer to town." Regularly one of them would call with the news that a cottage on their street or an apartment in their complex had become available. Geneva would thank them for thinking of her and put it right out of her mind. Nothing short of death would pry her out of her hilltop home. In the peak of the summer's heat she always had a breeze, and her view was beyond compare. The blue water, green foliage, and bright white buildings were so perfect-looking from her high perch that it was as if she were the custodian of a model island unsullied by humans. No, she wasn't going to move, not for love nor money.
It was a pretty picture. I'm in a rotten mood. That is all.