A Glorious, Warm Day

On days like today I want to roll up the sides of the house and let the outside in.  I want to blow all the cobwebs out of the corners and let the fresh air permeate the fibers.  I know that's not really practical, especially living up here where the winters are fierce and unforgiving, but I'd sure like to invite today in.  Look at the autumn leaves, the mums, the morning glory, the apples, and the bluejay announcing to the whole neighborhood that it was going in for a peanut.

I've reached the stage in pre-trip anticipation where I feel like it'd just be easier to stay home.  Oh, I won't, don't worry, but usually about 3 or 4 days before we leave I face what needs to be done and think it isn't worth the hassle.  I'll get over it.  I usually do.  Sometimes the feeling hangs on a bit after we drive away but once those apron strings snap due to stretching too far I'm happy to be gone and seeing new things.  Today and tomorrow I'll be packing clothes, ironing the button bands and pocket flaps of Durwood's shirts so he doesn't look like a foundling, gathering up and prioritizing my knitting projects (lots of plastic zip-top bags are involved) and generally getting the final trip organization rolling.  It'd probably be a good idea to type up a list of destinations, motel reservations, and that sort of stuff too.  So much easier than trying to consult a raft of pages while driving.  And I should hook up the TomTom and make sure it's updated.  Yeah, I'll do that.  All that.  Today and tomorrow.  I'm already working to load a bunch of audiobooks even as we speak.  Multitasking, babies, it's a watchword.  I'm saving lawn mowing and getting a manicure until Tuesday.

September 28--Armand Guillaumin, The Bouchardon Mill, Crozant.  It had been years since the creak of the mill wheel had sounded down the valley but Brendon and Luisa were determined to change that.  They had come upon the abandoned mill on a country drive six years before and it had never been far from their thoughts since.  Luisa dreamt of baking rustic loaves with flour ground there and Brendon loved working with his hands so they saves and planned and now it was theirs.  They had spent nearly a year driving down for weekends working to make a home in part of the building and getting the mill up and running.  Now that the stream had thawed Brendon stood in the water with a pry bar and a pike pole clearing rocks so that the mill wheel could turn freely on its straightened and greased axle.  His legs were numb with cold but he kept working, sure that the next rock he moved would be the one that freed the wheel.  The sun had touched the horizon bathing the world in a red-gold glow when with a great heave he moved a stone and the wheel began to turn.  The gears crunched and squealed but the running water turned the wheel.  Brendon was just about to call Luisa out when he saw the skeleton hand on the wheel silhouetted in the glowing sunset light.

And that's the end of that notebook.  I wrote the last word on the second to last line of the last page so I think I can safely say "finito" and dig out the next one.  One more composition book for the pile.  I wonder if anyone will ever read through these?  I wonder if I even will... probably when I'm old and gray and feeble.  I'll sit in my rocker or wheelchair and wonder who wrote all these bits of stories.  It'll be endlessly entertaining, I'm sure.  Now it's time to wrap this up and get on with my day.  Yoga at 11.
-Barbara