>>The sun shines brightly today. After days of slogging through rain, the deep mud sucking my muck boots off in the middle of the paddock and not knowing where to put that bare foot down, shivering, poking … muttering, “Eeeuw *insert really foul language*,” the world suddenly has a bottom. The chicken pen is less … noxious (we take solace where we can on the farmette).
The last of the tomatoes struggle to ripen, though helpless I watch the stem ends shrivel and give it up to fungus or whatever the heck rots them from the inside out. I shall make sauce today, saucy sauce for a saucy sun peeking over the ridge and spreading long shadows on the hill beyond.
>>A dear friend’s father passed away last week. He was 99 and more than ready. I visited. He recognized me. We spoke of nothing in particular but he was alert and cheerful in his pain. Three days later he was gone. In place of sadness I feel a small measure of joy in sharing a last moment with a man who had an impact on so many for so long. Sometimes it’s best to focus on the memory of a life lived, rather than its passing and the sorrow of loss.
>>My Firstborn, my only born, and her gallant steed conquered the mountains in southwest Virginia. 18000+ feet of elevation spread over two days, 105 miles of tough, rocky trail in heat and humidity. They earned the Iron Horse award, one of only two horse/rider combinations to complete both days, finishing strong. Young master Czar lost 40 lbs, 0.04% of his body weight. Today, as I look out my window, he seems intent on making up for that.
>>The countdown to DragonCon commences. Firstborn leaves Wednesday night, driving to Atlanta during the wee hours to get a jump on the long lines for registration. There will be costumes, of course: fetching corsets and multilayered, frilly skirts and chain maille jewelry she creates with a twist and turn of metal, astounding me with the cleverness, the sheer inventiveness of the technique. I would go but for a troublesome back injury that precludes the walking and standing and jostling that are part and parcel of the experience. So instead, I tend to a full house of critters and wait for the FaceBook photos to arrive so I can enjoy it vicariously.
>>The words continue to spill from my fingers onto the keyboard, though lately hesitation and questions about why I continue to bleed onto the page interfere more than they ought. It’s cyclical and I recognize it as such, but writing is such a solitary, vacuum-like existence that perspective is easily mislaid.
But then a Frenchwoman tells me she fell in love with two books in a series and asks about translating them, am I interested…
It takes so little to bring pleasure, does it not?