I Pretended To Be A Writer Today

I met my writing partner ACJ at The Attic this afternoon, read her the rewritten 10 pages from the Madison critique, then buckled down to start outlining the manuscript to see if I can find places to add scenes to beef up my word count.  It's been over a century since I outlined anything so it was a slow start but I started listing scenes and days and just kept going.  Tomorrow I'll email the rewritten pages to CDS in Madison to see if she feels like I've got a handle on it.  Which I thought I already had but I'm notoriously bad at objectivity where my writing is concerned.


After I got home I stalled as long as I could before going out to mow the lawn.  Diggers Hotline came again today to repaint and reflag the places where important things are buried; this time I didn't run over the flags with the mower.  I kind of hate my yard, it's hilly and a real pain to mow.  But it's also about a mile walking around and around, up and down, so I need the walk, especially since I've kind of been slacking off on working out.

I've been having a tough, sad couple weeks (it didn't help that an old friend who lives in Ohio only found the obit online yesterday so I spent some time on the phone with her rehashing the last year of Durwood's life and decline) and I'm trying to think of ways to get through it.  I had a brainstorm today and threaded Durwood's wedding ring (which he barely wore but it feels like him to me) on a chain and wore it.  Having it around my neck and being able to touch it helped.  I promise that tomorrow I'll go to the Y and work out.  Cross my heart.  You know, I was sure that by this time I'd have "gotten over" the crushing sadness but I'm not and I don't need to be.  I mostly paste a smile on my face and keep moving forward.  




The bleeding hearts have burst into bloom the last couple days.  We all know that I'm not a pink fan but these arcing sprays of flowers make me smile.


 
The sky was all orange when I went out to unplug the fountain tonight.  It doesn't show the vivid color in this photo but, trust me, it was lovely, tinting the very air golden.






29 May--Barbara Malcolm, Horizon. 

The buzzing of the timer called us back to the hot kitchen to finish the pickles.  It took us the rest of the afternoon.    I don’t know why I didn’t tell her that I’d signed up for the watercolor class.  She’d been my best friend for over thirty years.  We’d supported and consoled each other through the loss of our parents, Clara’s stillborn baby, and Bert’s sudden death--all the big and little tragedies of life.  But I was reluctant to share this with her.  I felt like I was taking the first step into a new part of my life and, since she was such a huge part of my past, I wanted to keep them separate for a while.  Every time she got near the feed store calendar I’d watch to see if she noticed the note about class starting, but she was too interested in passing on all the gossip she’d heard at her Red Cross volunteer meeting the night before and didn’t see it.

Friday morning I stood in the kitchen surveying the ranks of jam jars, shining like jewels in the morning light, and rows of pickle jars, with their greens, whites, and reds glimmering in brine.  Admiring them, it made sense why so many of the Old Masters had put ordinary objects into their still life paintings.  It felt good having things put up for the winter, even though there wasn’t anyone else around anymore to eat them.  I enjoyed their homey beauty.  Putting the last big canning kettle back in the pantry, I decided to drive to the craft store after I showered and get the supplies for class before I chickened out.

Tomorrow I get a haircut.  Hooray!  I promise to wear workout clothes to the salon so I can hop into my car and zoom right out to the Y.  Promise.  You know, I've had the furnace and the air conditioner on this week, and also had it all turned off.  I'd like to have it all off and the windows open for a time before the heat and humidity of summer arrives (if it ever does).
--Barbara