This is it, the last day I work in a row. Happily it's been a busy week so I haven't sat here twiddling my thumbs or knitting while plugged into a story on my iPod. (I love my iPod! Love it! Thanks, Skully.) I didn't have any time to cut out more skirts either. I need to shop for a different pattern. I like the one I've got but I think I want to branch out into a different style, maybe fuller (I have a pattern for that) or straighter (that's the one I need the pattern for). Maybe I can find one of those "wardrobe" patterns that has pants, skirt, jacket, dress, and top all in one. Gotta have pockets though. Gotta. I sewed up a skirt last night after Durwood's birthday ribs supper but I'm saving it to wear on Monday. It's brown gauze with bunches of red and cream flowers so I can wear red, cream or green (leaves, you know) tees with it. I have all of those! Isn't that lucky? I'm (We're) also getting serious about getting back on Weight Watchers. I bought the new Point Plus books, etc. at a rummage sale last week and my friend Cookie and I are buddying up to keep each other strong. I also plan to get back to daily workouts. Really. I've slacked off a bunch this year and porked back on more than a few pounds so I need to get serious again so I look even more cuterer in my new homemade skirts than I do now.
August 5--Fairfield Porter, The Cove. Donnie went to the cove every day looking, looking for Pap and Ed. The cove wasn't that big or even that deep, except for Pap's bass hole out off Rover's Point. Pap and Ed had been out fishing in the skiff when a blow sprang up. Next morning they found the skiff overturned on the lee shore with a tangle of tackle, nets, and oars nearby but no Pap and no Ed. Donnie spent days combing the woods around the cove and further out calling for Ed. "Ed, here, Ed," his ma would hear him call as she hung out the wash. "I got a bone for you, boy. Ed!" That last word would be choked off and Martha's throat would tighten at the loss of her father-in-law and his dog. "Pa, how come Ed didn't swim to shore and get help for Pap?" Donnie asked his father innumerable times. Art rubbed his hand over his jaw like he always did when he was tired. He'd been searching too. "I don't know, son." He reached to give his boy a rough hug. "Maybe those old stories about the bass hole being a whirlpool and sucking people down in a particular kind of storm are true."
Oh, I like that. It's like a real story. More, please.