This is the only writing I did over the weekend. I did chop the ice off the patio using a shovel and a sledgehammer, which was a whole lot of fun, and I knitted, but still not much writing. *sigh* Maybe after the wedding's over I'll get back into it in a bigger way. I hope.
It was quiet in the museum in the afternoon. That was why Bunny went there then. In the heat of the day the un-air-conditioned display rooms were empty of tourists who roamed from case to case quickly reading the little labels and feeling superior. He hated to see the sour little smiles on people's faces that told him that person though that where they came from was somehow better than Bunny's island. Just because there were a lot of rich educated people in America or Europe to pay money for scientists to search and to build fancy museums didn't make them better. In fact, Bunny thought, he liked Bonaire's dusty and sparse displays better because the people who found the shells and pottery, who saved the old photos, and wrote down the old stories did it out of love for their own history not because they would get fame or be paid well. The things in these dim and dusty rooms were real, Bunny thought, not like the glittery trash that Manning and Jack kept arguing about.
What are we doing on Thursday? Exercises maybe?
--Barbara
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