I did some yoga poses to warm up before step aerobics last night and Horst was just as polite as could be. Whew. I was afraid he'd have something to say about my desertion. I have come to the realization that you can't trust the scales on the thing, though. It told me I'd gained half a pound and I knew I hadn't but still it nagged at me all evening and I came this close to eating a bag of potato chips or a big dish of ice cream. No, potato chips, I wanted something crunchy. It nagged at me and nagged at me until I went to the kitchen, got out the baby carrots, chopped them into half-inch pieces, and ate them from a bowl while I watched TV and knit. Take that, Wii balance board, you can't tell me I've gained weight and make me eat bad things. So there.
May 21--Eugene Delecroix, Young Orphan in the Cemetery. Giselle is lost. The only place she knows to go where things, where people are familiar is the cemetery next to the village church. Only there can she see the names that she recognizes, there lie the people she loves, that loved her. Giselle was away on an errand to the dairy farm down the road when the raiders came. She made her way home in the gathering dusk, her basket full of butter and fresh cheese, smelling smoke, wondering who was having pork for supper, when she came around the curve and saw the devastation. All that was left of her home was a pile of smoking timbers and the tumbled stones that used to be the fireplace. A hand, she saw her mother's hand reaching out where the door had been, beckoning help, beckoning her. The dairy boy found her the next morning as he and his sleepy horse clopped down the road toward the farm. Women from the village comforted her and made her meals that went untouched. Men buried what they found of her family and carved a stone. Now Giselle lived in the cemetery, the only place her heart beat, the only place she could draw an easy breath.
It's writer's tonight. Bring your latest project and get something accomplished.
--Barbara
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