Inspiration Strikes

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

Once Again I Plead For Forgiveness

Yesterday's drive home was long, not nearly as long as the drive down, but still after being in the van for 11 hours, unloading, finding something for supper, and then throwing all the dirties down the laundry chute, I was just too pooped to write, much less post. I promise, cross my heart, that I'll post every day for the rest of the month. I brought my notebook and the prompts to work today and have written in between customers. Here's what we've got for today...

October 13--Boris Mikhailovich Kustodiev, At Home. Katya sat in the shade of the birch tree holding the new puppy in her lap while Lara made a daisy chain. The twelve year old was all long legs and coltish speed these days. Katya remembered when she was twelve and her body suddenly felt all wrong. She would be sorry when her girl turned into a young lady. She was teaching Lara to knit and relished the quiet hours they spent sitting side by side with their fingers busy and just talked about school and books and music and everything that popped into Lara's head. Too soon her girlfriends would be more important and her Lara would be looking at, giggling at boys. Katya stroked the puppy's silky ears and thought, at least I'll have Bruno here to keep me company.

I can tell I spent the weekend with my DD and I miss the days when she was still so young. It's hard to be the grown-up some days.

October 14--Wedgewood &Sons, Stoneware copy of the 1st century Portland Vase. Marnie stood at the kitchen counter stripping leaves from the peonies she had cut from her garden. She loved the sweet fragrance of the lush dark red flowers but hated the army of ants that crawled all over them. She had bought a brown Wedgewood vase at an estate sale the weekend before and couldn't wait to see it filled with the sensual blooms. She had always thought that peonies with their overlapping and jagged-edged petals looked like floozies all tousled and tumbled after a roll in the hat. They would contrast just right with the formal classic lines of the vase. Maybe her straight laced mother-in-law would take a hint when she came to dinner that night and unbend enough to smile at her, just this once.

I never knew I thought of peonies like that. Interesting. Stay warm.
--Barbara

Look What I Got!

This was waiting in the mail for me when we got home last night. It's a summons for jury duty. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to serve, it's just that I'm the only employee and my boss has another job. If I have to do jury on days she works, we'll have to close the store and that's a bad idea in this economic climate. I'm going to see if I can do it on the days she's off, but I'm not holding out much hope. Although the last time I got called I never had to go and was frankly a bit disappointed.

All The Pretty Horsies

Instead of showing you knitting today, here are some pix from our trip to The Red Mile, the harness racing track in Lexington. It was a very different experience from Keeneland's thoroughbred racing we went to in April. A very much more democratic and varied crowd, and they warm up the horses between races so you can watch and see which one you like or if it has a cute jockey you want to wager your $2 on (not that I would ever do that).




We shared a funnel cake and had a blast cheering home our favorites. Durwood was the big winner of the day; he put $2 on #6 in the 11th race to win and darned if the horse didn't win. He came back from the betting window with $29.60, the lucky duck. We made him buy the funnel cake. That's him with our DD plotting which horse to bet on next.

Columbus Day

And it's the real Columbus Day too, not a convenient three-day-weekend government mandated holiday. So thanks, Chris, for bumping into America and giving us someplace new to live with all the other rebels and malcontents.

October 12--Frida Kahlo, Self-Portrait with Velvet Dress. She was only sixteen when she painted it, Emmaline thought as she stared at the painting. The skin of the subject looked like porcelain and Emmaline could see the determination, the passion in Frida Kahlo's steady gaze. The dark storm and the waves rolling behind her symbolize the despair, the dark vision of many a sixteen year old girl as she relinquishes the safety of girlhood for the fierce joys of being a woman. A talent like that would have been both a pleasure and a curse to a young woman in Mexican aristocracy. How had the young Frida broken out of the staid and proper society to work to fulfill her destiny? He the older Rivera been her ticket to freedom? Was their marriage a shelter that provided her the luxury of freedom? Emmaline hoped it had. She admired the strength of Frida Kahlo's vision and envied her great artistic gift. But she also would have plucked or waxed that uni-brow in a New York minute. That just drove Emmaline nuts.

Happy Monday!
--Barbara

The Play's the Thing

DD's best friend works for Lexington Children's Theater so she got us tickets to see their production of John Henry, a 3-person play they send around to schools. It was wonderful, with spare sets and lots of singing. I'm not too proud to admit, I cried at the end when John Henry died just like the little kids did.

Small project knitting is super for passing time waiting for things to happen when you're out of town. I forgot my #10 DPNs so this is as far as I can go on Foster Hat #2 until we get home.


Car Knitting Ballband cloth #2 also got a lot of attention on our longlonglong drive down here.

Day at the Races

We had a blast at the harness races yesterday. I think I liked it better than thoroughbred racing. It was a lot less snooty and way less crowded. I'm no better picking winners though. But we shared a funnel cake (Durwood's first!) and had fun cheering on our choices in the chilly fall overcast.

Today we'll see a play and then go out for gyros for supper. There might be some yarn shop visiting; it's too soon to tell.

October 11--Gustave Caillebotte, Sailing Boats at Argenteuil. The hot sun simmered behind the scrim of clouds. A grudging breeze filled the sails, pushing the sailboat away from the oven that was the land that year. That summer had been a fierce one all along the coast. Crops had baked in the unrelenting sun, starving for rain until they curled crisply on their stalks and died. No rain also meant that every puff of wind sliding down from the mountains picked up dust that came in through the tiniest openings making every surface gray and gritty. It also filtered down under collars and into creases making the people irritable. The only respite was to sail away from the baking land out onto the salty sea for a momentary peace in the spray.

Not bad. I like the desperate atmosphere this description gives me. Interesting things could happen in that kind of weather.
--Barbara