Mutant Alien Ice

When I got home from walking and voting I went out to clean out the birdbath and put the little heater thing in so the birds will have water all winter. There was ice floating on the water when I tipped it out to empty it. That was 3 hours ago. The ice is still out there in the grass. I know it's above freezing out there because the thermometer says so. It says it's 43 degrees and that is way more than 32 degrees, so why isn't the ice melting? D'you think it's some sort of mutant alien ice that'll never melt and emits some sort of death ray when the light hits it just right? Nah, I don't either. But that'd be cool, wouldn't it?

Dusty had the brilliant idea for us to walk along the newly paved Baird's Creek trail by her house on the east side. It was a lovely 3 1/2 mile walk along the babbling creek in the bright autumn sun. It was a whole lot less windy too.

Last week's wind storm blew down part of the privacy fence across the back of our yard. The fence belongs to the office building behind us and today some Gomer in a gimmee cap, a Winston hanging from his lip, and Rush Limbaugh blaring on his truck radio is out there fixing it. I went out with a hand saw and some lopping shears to help him cut off the apple tree branches that were keeping him from strengthening the fence and he seems nice enough but he sure looks like a cliche.

Excellent suspense, Roi. I thought about Nano last night before bed but decided that this year I don't need the stress. Happy writing!

November 1--Cook Islands. Aitutaki lagoon looked like it had fallen out of a calender. A cliche if ever there was one. Brea looked out of the window of her bungalow and shook her head. The place was straight out of Central Casting, white sand, tall coconut palms, a far horizon where sky and sea met under a smudge of clouds. There was even a hammock strung between two of the palms. This had to be the end of the earth. It had taken over two full days to get here and it was truly the corner of No and Where. It made no difference what kind of phone or laptop she had, there was no Wi-Fi here. There was barely any here here. Exactly what she would do for the next few weeks was a mystery. She couldn't paint like Gauguin but she had her watercolors. She didn't write like Robert Louis Stevenson but she had notebooks too. Maybe she'd let her hair down, kick off her shoes, and spend the time turning into something wild.

Time to go make soup so I have lunches for this week and next.
--Barbara