Saturday I was a picture framer, retail pleasant and efficient and precise, though underpaid I be. Sunday found me pulling grass that’s grown to weeds around my gardens, happy working in the sunshine, cranky at the evils nature has thrown in to keep us balanced: moles and chipmunks, rocks and weeds with roots that go to China, and of course, the unseen slug that’s sat upon before it’s noticed. Sunday evening too I put my specs on, held my flashlight in my left hand, philips head in right and only called for help when I became entangled in the web of cords and scanners, pc’s, network cards, and modems, routers, screens. He came and rescued and unraveled me, free to work again, and now two out of three computers are on a network. The most important shall have to wait a day or two, although it is at least a wireless thing and I am grateful to it.
Today I fired up a forty, maybe fifty year old mower and walked in circles, squares, and up and down to trim and do the hilly parts within my father’s yard. I huffed and puffed and sweat rolled down my face to water grass and get it growing I would think, and yet I needed to pretend it was no effort, or this man whom I adore would feel badly that his darling youngest little girl should work so hard.
Tonight I hope to write a bit creatively, include the feeling of the moment looking up from doing dinner dishes to find someone still eating; the doe has cleaned out the bottom bird feeder each evening, and tonight she’s really early at the table.
But every one I am, though all are different, get along somehow, blend but are persistent still to get a word in edgewise in the final story that I hope to write.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Yes, yes, the many faces of the modern woman, seeker of truth in writing. Why does the artistic expression always come last, at least for me? A good daughter, wife, and mother, and a great writer too.