This song title from The Eagles seems to fit the day. It’s the end of January, February peeking around the corner. The wind is blowing like a March wind but it’s a cold wind, less promising.
My desk, after editing two manuscripts, one for my old friend Mary Dian and one from an even older friend from back in my K-State days when I took ballet class with here, resembles the wreckage an earthquake leaves behind. Nothing is broken and the bookcases still upright, but mercy there’s a lot of stuff scattered around and behind my laptop, which is also running on it’s hind legs and endeavoring to get me through a couple more months before dying. Maybe spring will revive it, too.
There is, however, a great deal to be thankful for. My large and extended family, six siblings, plus nieces and nephews, great-nephews and nieces, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, are all fine. No one has succumbed to Covid, or even colds as near as I can tell. And thankfully, we all keep in touch reasonably well, which is something to applaud as our family residences dot across the U.S. from Hawaii to Florida. The downside, as is probably the downside for many of you, is there’s nothing much to talk about except Covid. Oh. And the election. Since all of us have been Democrats since we were kids and Dad indoctrinated us, we’re pretty relieved Joe Biden is in the White House.
We went out to our hairdresser, Venessa, for haircuts (yes, with masks and she wears a mask and has a notice on her door saying mask required) we were safe. We’ve been going to her for somewhere around 15 years now. That was our big excursion for the week. Other than getting our hair cut, about the only excitement to that trip was a sort of wiener-shaped little black dog with very long toe nails and white hair around her snout, which Venessa rescued out of the parking lot just before we arrived, and which went clicking around the salon while we received haircuts. After she cut mine, I went into the little kitchen, found a container for water and put it down for said little dog. She lapped at it for awhile but mostly, I expect she was hungry. The end of the story came later in the day when Venessa called to say she’d called her vet (they are a dog family), took said little dog to vet for nail trimming and then home for food, and little dog was happily running around their yard.
Listen, with all the chaotic news, the news about a little dog being rescued and treated well is a good story. I found a picture and seems it was a small Dachshund.
We got some sleet and then snow on top, but nothing like what the upper Midwest and East Coast are getting. I suddenly remembered a note my mother sent me years ago saying she didn’t have much to say, so she’d give me the weather report. “It’s partly cloudy as opposed to partly sunny,” I remember her writing. I guess that’s where I am except I wanted to say hello. Here is all the way cloudy.
An up date on my book: The publisher is now working on From Ocean to Desert and it should be out soon. Whatever “soon” means as I asked her to set aside my book and work on the manuscript for my 91 year old friend, Mary Dian. Her husband is 93 and they spent several worrisome weeks/months in hospital after Mary Dian was exposed to Covid from a woman who came to work with her on exercises. They may be the only 90+ survivors of the nasty virus. But fabulous news that they did.
My husband gave me Barack Obama’s book, A Promised Land, for Christmas and I’ve been reading the 500+ page book bit by bit. What’s so interesting is that his time entering office was just as chaotic as Joe Biden’s is now. To remind you, that was during the financial crisis when money was melting. Well, not exactly melting but certainly disappearing. And what happened then is so eerily similar to today except the crisis was money instead of disease. That was twenty years ago and we’re back in turmoil.
“I grow old; I wear my pants legs rolled,” one of my favorite lines in poetry from T.S. Eliot – at least I think it was T.S. Like everything, my memory is getting wobbly.
I’ll let you know when my book comes out. Likely, it will be hard to miss the announcing from the rooftops I’ll be doing. My next task, after making sense of this desk, is working on what I call the Mexico book. It came time wise before Ocean to Desert, but it’s huge – and years more than Ocean, which is probably why I’ve been putting it off all these years. After cleaning the desk, I plan to pull out all the primary material – the journals from those years, the notes, some of the pages I once started, and the stack of journal entries my dear friend, Kay Unger, send from the journal she kept. Right now, in my mind, it’s called Two Gringas Loose in Mexico. She, hearty soul, brought her car from Montana to Mexico (although it was impounded for some weeks when it arrived) and we traveled and wandered. Including to the mountain in southwestern Mexico where monarch butterflies roost over winter. There. That might peak your interest. It was an extraordinary trip. I can still remember the butterflies lighting on my shoulders, in my hair, as we walked, the branches loaded with butterflies. Well. I guess I’ve finally talked myself into writing again.
Thanks for listening/reading. I’ll be back again eventually.