Cold Tuesday

 


Oh, Myrtle Mae, it was cold and windy today.  But sunny.  Sunny is always good.  I went out to shovel the driveway and was glad to have a warm wool hat and mittens and happy that it hadn't snowed more than a couple inches.  No need to fire up the snowblower, just the shovel.




I got cold last night while I slept so I went downstairs to open the bedroom vents a bit.  When I reached for the long shaft screwdriver so I could reach the vent turn-y things, I felt a breeze coming from the window over the workbench.  A breeze is never good, especially when it's below freezing and windy.  I saw daylight over the window frame.  I needed to get that filled in, tout suite.  I had to think about how to deal with it when it's this cold.  I guessed that it'd have to be 40 degrees to use something like spray foam to fill the gap so that was out.  I found some insulation that I could tear bits off of to shove into the gap, which I did.  I had a vision of a line of mice moving into my basement.  Just what I need.  I'll be foaming that gap once it warms up.  *sigh*

 

Once I finished shoveling and warmed up with a bowl of soup, I sat on the couch and finished the toe of the Choco Rainbow sock.  Hooray!







10 December--Barbara Malcolm, Spies Don't Retire. 

Irina stood at the doorway looking at the women gathered for the Art League meeting.  She could see Billie Holland-Smythe swanning around in her patented art patron mode.  Billie was one woman who had a costume for each of her personas; she could look artistic, literary, regal, or wealthy, but very seldom common.  Being the richest of the expatriates on the island gave her an elevated view of her worth, Irina thought.  And the way Billie stirred people around like a puppeteer made Irina very suspicious of her motives.  Irina thought that Billie enjoyed making messes and delighted in the discomfort of others, especially those who she felt were beneath her in either status or wealth.  Like the way she persisted in calling her housekeeper Minnie when everyone knew that the tall, dignified native woman preferred to be called Minerva.

Irina’s gaze traveled past Billie to light on Sonia and her friend from home.  What was her name?  Oh, yes, Harriet, a common enough name to set Billie on the path of putting her in what Billie saw as her place.  No matter what Harriet’s status truly was, Billie would find just the right words to make her feel somehow less than she really was, or to doubt her own self-confidence.  Well, tonight Irina would not let that happen.  She had promised Dimitri to be nice to Sonia to ease his way in accomplishing his mission with George and tonight she would begin by being nice to Harriet, to make her feel welcome in the small insular community of expatriates on the island.

Irina stepped into the room, greeting acquaintances and slowly worked her way to Harriet and Sonia where they stood admiring a painting by Christina James.  To Irina, Christina was a true artist.  She could, with just a few lines, sketch a scene that everyone could recognize for what it was, and still make you see things you had not noticed, like how the light makes drama where no one sees.  Tonight Christina had watercolors on exhibit, surely the complete opposite of her precise drawings.  These canvases were riots of color with no defined edges that nevertheless depicted recognizable objects.  Irina was sure she saw the tumble of bougainvillea that trailed over the wall in front of a house just around the corner from hers in one and the others were scenes from the annual sailboat regatta on Bonaire.  Then there were the underwater scenes.  The viewer had to lean close to discover that Christina had laid on swaths of color and then used something sharp to scribe shapes into the paper.  Those were the ones Irina liked best, even though she was normally one who liked precision and order in her life.  Those undersea canvases embodied passion to her eyes.

She leaned toward Harriet who was peering at one of what Christina called her fish pictures, and said, “I think that one is my favorite.”

Harriet jumped back to look at Irina, unsure of how to answer.  “I, I can’t really see what it is,” she said.

Sonia leaned across her friend to smile at Irina.  “It’s the reef, Harriet.  I think it is one of her best, don’t you, Irina?”

“Yes, I do,” Irina said, “quite different from your altered photos of the reef, Sonia, but just as interesting.”

“Why thank you, Irina,” Sonia said, “but I don’t consider what I do on the computer art, it is really more of a trick than it is artistic.”

Irina was surprised at that.  “You do not think of your pictures as art?”

Sonia laughed.  “No, not at all.  A clever eight year old could easily do what I do, and do it better.  I am too old to learn many new tricks, especially on the computer.  I am amazed that people like them as well as they do, but then many silly people pounce on new technology before the value of it is proven, don’t you think?”

She went on.  “I keep expecting to be unmasked as a fraud at any moment.  I made a few when I was first playing with the computer program for storing and cropping digital photos, exploring the features you might say.  Mason from the Cinnamon Art Gallery saw them on my wall and thought they might go in his shop.  I let him take a few to sell cheaply and the rest, as they say, is history.”

Irina was stunned at the humor and honesty in the British woman’s face.  “I think they are interesting, but not really art,” Irina said.

Sonia nodded.  “My feelings exactly.”

Harriet’s head had been bouncing back and forth during the exchange like she was at a tennis match.

Sonia turned to her.  “Don’t you agree?”

Put on the spot, not sure if she should defend her old friend’s artwork from criticism, she decided to be honest.  “I enjoy Sonia’s works, but they are too fuzzy for me.  I like those sketches,” she pointed to the framed art in front of them.  “I like a picture I don’t have to figure out what it is.”

Irina laughed.  “Spoken like a Russian, Harriet.  We like things orderly and straightforward, none of that fuzzy impressionism for us.”

Sonia spoke up.  “But what about Marc Chagall?  He was a Russian and his work is anything but straightforward.”

Irina could only say, “Touché.”

All three of them laughed at that, Harriet because she wasn’t exactly sure who that Chagall chap was and what his paintings looked like, and Sonia and Irina because they had done as they had promised their husbands they would and it hadn’t been so difficult after all.

The three women moved together down the row of art on display, sharing likes and dislikes about each one, leaning back from some and peering closely at others.  They traveled around the room in a bubble of quiet astonishment, every other woman in the room having heard how they felt about each other many times over the previous months.

It's supposed to be even colder tomorrow.  Oh goodie.  I've got a writing date with ACJ in the afternoon so I'll be bundling up.  How many layers can I pile on and still be able to move my arms?
--Barbara