As you probably noticed I missed posting yesterday. That's because I didn't write on Sunday night. We went to DS & DIL1's for a birthday supper and stayed later so Durwood could play with Porter, our new grand-dog, then I stayed up nearly til midnight reading a paperback and eating Ritz crackers for no apparent reason. Eating crackers late at night is not good for you. The crackers and salt run right to your fattest part and glom on. Then you berate yourself the next morning for being so stupid as to stay up too late because you have a devil of a time getting out of bed and dressed to go walking. Gah. I am often a trial to myself.
September 5--William Lamb Picknell, Banks of the Loing. The loudest sound was the crunch of gravel under Daylight's hooves. Garrett nearly dozed in the saddle. The only thing that kept him awake was the heat. Loggers had left a row of scraggly saplings next to the towpath on the riverbank. The rest of the forest on this bank had been logged off twenty years earlier to feed the building boom down below Erie. The trees were inching back on the heels of the junipers but there wasn't any cool shade and the rasp of the cicadas took the place of birdsong on this hot day. Garrett had stopped a ways back to wet his neckerchief in the dark brown water. It felt good around his neck but the river water wasn't fit to drink. He heard the slosh of the water in his canteen and wished he could ignore the light teasing slap of it on the tin. The gurgle and chuckle of it made him all the thirstier.
I was thinking when I put my pencil down last night that what I had written was a hit, and I still think so this morning. Have a good Tuesday that really feels like a Monday. I just know I'm going to be all screwed up all week because of this.
--Barbara
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