The first days of spring are such a gift from God. There's a great quote about spring in Charlotte's Web. Wait, let me go find the book . . .Well. Now that I look at it, there's not a great quote about spring. It starts in the spring, that's all. And, of course, as we all know, it ends in the fall. One of my favorite books, really.
I always find myself so shocked when spring begins. When I finally realize things are turning green again. It's as if I lose faith during winter that things will ever be beautiful again. It's such a lovely surprise, every year, to have it suddenly DAWN on me, "Oh, my! Spring is coming!" It's so nice to be naive in that way, not to take it for granted. How special for me that I get this big, surprising gift, every year.
My cat eats cottage cheese. Loves it. I discovered this, this morning, when I had cottage cheese for breakfast and set the bowl down to make a move in my online Scrabble game. She hopped up on the desk (no mean feat for a 19 year old cat) and licked the bowl clean. I keep trying to prepare myself for the inevitable -- I mean, how much longer than 19 years can a cat live?? I just hope she does not die while Sergeant Son is overseas. She was his cat, and I'd prefer he were nearby then it happens.
Well, I'm off to the church to work on the sets for the kids' musical, installing papier-mache mushrooms, etc. Just the normal work in the life of a 49-year old woman.
If you've read this far, you've deduced that I clearly have NOTHING to say, but am trying to live up to my commitment to write in this blasted thing. Maybe it'll be better another day. 8-\
Friday, April 15
Friday, April 8
Back at it
Yes, it has been forever since I wrote. There is a reason -- although it may not be a legitimate reason, but hey, it's MY blog, and I guess anything is legitimate here if I say so. My own kingdom.
Last entry was in February. The day after that post, or so, I called the local newspaper, spoke with a perfect stranger (why do we always assume strangers are perfect?) and said I thought I should have a monthly column. Well, of course, we had to go through some formalities. She had to actually see me -- I guess to be sure I had all my teeth, and all my marbles, as well. She had to read some samples of my writing (two of the samples are in the blog, titled, "Hmph" and "Eddie"). We talked and I guess she found me if not brilliant, at least articulate. Must've been a good day. So. Now I have a monthly column. And so, my quasi-legitimate reason for not writing here, lately, is that I've been getting organized and writing, there.
It's kind of fun, writing for the paper. I wish my dad were alive to read it. Scratch that. He'd only tell me how to do it better, "you should've done this and that," and then I would hear from 100 people that he's bragging all around town about it. Yet, it does in some way make me feel closer to my dad. Which is no small feat. I never felt close to him, always wanted to.
It's fun because, every time I ask someone a question and say, "I'm writing a column for the paper," they get all perky and try to be wise with their words. It's kind of flattering even if the attention isn't really for me, it's so they'll look good in print.
It's fun because, no matter how early I start, I'm always adding another word or removing another comma the very day of the deadline --- and I have a whole month to get it done -- but still there I am, at the last minute, working on a last detail, before sending it in. I asked my editor (get that? My editor) why I do it, speaking rhetorically, of course, and she replied, "Because you're a writer, of course." You're a writer." <>
And, the last reason is, friends are finally beginning to catch on. To turn to the page on the day and see the thing. To call and say, "Saw your thing." My best girlfriend actually asked me, "Did YOU really write that?" I think she thinks all I can write is crap. No, I really can write, well, sometimes.
And so, I have neglected my little blog. I've missed telling you about Sergeant Son being bombed at Abu Ghraib Prison, and our four-day vigil waiting to hear if he's okay. (He's okay.) I've missed telling you about being in the hospital for four days with a very high fever. They found nothing, but I met some very cool people. At one point, I was in Isolation for 18 hours and finally, flat on my back, I called to the ceiling, "OK, God, you have my absolute attention. What is it you wanted to tell me???"
I believe I'm used enough to the paper thing that now I can manage both. Check it out soon and see. Til then.
Last entry was in February. The day after that post, or so, I called the local newspaper, spoke with a perfect stranger (why do we always assume strangers are perfect?) and said I thought I should have a monthly column. Well, of course, we had to go through some formalities. She had to actually see me -- I guess to be sure I had all my teeth, and all my marbles, as well. She had to read some samples of my writing (two of the samples are in the blog, titled, "Hmph" and "Eddie"). We talked and I guess she found me if not brilliant, at least articulate. Must've been a good day. So. Now I have a monthly column. And so, my quasi-legitimate reason for not writing here, lately, is that I've been getting organized and writing, there.
It's kind of fun, writing for the paper. I wish my dad were alive to read it. Scratch that. He'd only tell me how to do it better, "you should've done this and that," and then I would hear from 100 people that he's bragging all around town about it. Yet, it does in some way make me feel closer to my dad. Which is no small feat. I never felt close to him, always wanted to.
It's fun because, every time I ask someone a question and say, "I'm writing a column for the paper," they get all perky and try to be wise with their words. It's kind of flattering even if the attention isn't really for me, it's so they'll look good in print.
It's fun because, no matter how early I start, I'm always adding another word or removing another comma the very day of the deadline --- and I have a whole month to get it done -- but still there I am, at the last minute, working on a last detail, before sending it in. I asked my editor (get that? My editor) why I do it, speaking rhetorically, of course, and she replied, "Because you're a writer, of course." You're a writer." <
And, the last reason is, friends are finally beginning to catch on. To turn to the page on the day and see the thing. To call and say, "Saw your thing." My best girlfriend actually asked me, "Did YOU really write that?" I think she thinks all I can write is crap. No, I really can write, well, sometimes.
And so, I have neglected my little blog. I've missed telling you about Sergeant Son being bombed at Abu Ghraib Prison, and our four-day vigil waiting to hear if he's okay. (He's okay.) I've missed telling you about being in the hospital for four days with a very high fever. They found nothing, but I met some very cool people. At one point, I was in Isolation for 18 hours and finally, flat on my back, I called to the ceiling, "OK, God, you have my absolute attention. What is it you wanted to tell me???"
I believe I'm used enough to the paper thing that now I can manage both. Check it out soon and see. Til then.
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