Today Durwood and I are planning a day "out." He wants to go to the Penzey's spice store in Appleton, 30 miles away, for curry powder so we're going to make a day of it. We'll troll through World Market because I love me an import store, have lunch at Cracker Barrel, and then stroll through the mall to get a little exercise dodging shoppers, oh, and Sam's too. See what I mean? Old people's fun. Not taking a hike or learning to snowshoe, not bike riding or skiing, no, we're walking through stores and eating lunch at a place that has lots of tour bus parking. If it weren't for my confidence in my innate coolness, I'd be depressed.
January 6--Joseph Laurent Mast, Harp Guitar. The golden plank of maple felt smooth and firm under her hand. She trembled and reached to pluck the strings, releasing the music trapped there. Leonie felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise when she strummed the chords of the hymn. Only six strings under her fingers but they made sounds like dozens. The notes echoed through her, vibrated in her bones, and carried her along with the music. She bent over the harp guitar lost in concentration when the felt a hand tremble on her neck. Monsieur Simon had never touched her, had never been anything but proper. Her fingers stopped moving and she pressed the strings to still the sound. As her head came up she felt his hot breath on her ear as he stood close behind her. "Your music moves me, little Leonie. Let me show you how much." She suppressed a shudder as his fleshy lips slid down her neck toward her cheek.
Ugh, I hate slobbery lips on me. Ick-ick-ick. Why do some people always ruin moments like that? Have a Friday. I'll be off with Durwood pretending to be old.
--Barbara
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