Photo by my talented friend and former colleague, Joan C. Jones.
Friday already! During the summer, the days melt into each other in endless succession. I lose track of time, forget about the calendar, sleep in 'til 8:00 or even 9:00 am (gasp). Lately I've had to pay closer attention to the quickening pulse of life, though.
1. My son, Derek, left for Utah today to attend The Violin Making School of America. Last night he packed the little U-Haul with nearly all his worldly possessions and drove it to our house. Alas, when my husband opened the back door of the trailer, things slid out onto the road. They spent all morning repacking the trailer to distribute the weight evenly. Early this afternoon, he left, feeling a little nervous and anxious about the future. I cried. I know I won't see him again for months.
2. I got my late August letter from my superintendent, welcoming me back to work on the 3rd. The first day is always a series of long, boring meetings. I went in earlier this week to order the magazines, since I missed the last few days of work in June due to illness. The new books still hadn't come in. The arrival of the new books is something I always look forward to, like Christmas. Each of those plain, solid brown boxes is a gift. I have some great titles coming in that I can't wait to open -- House In the Night, January Sparrow, The Magician's Elephant, Knucklehead, Chains, Lucy Long Ago, Beware of the Frog to name a few. There's never enough money for all the books I want to order.
3. The temperature has taken a steep dip into the 60s. I wore a jacket to the gym today. It's been a weird summer - perhaps the weirdest yet.
4. My WIP is coming along, but much more slowly than I'd anticipated. What starts off as one chapter, often becomes two. When I start revisions, I'm sure I'll need to do much cutting and tightening.
5. I recently discovered that my youngest - the one who was too ADD to crack a book, for the most part -- has a growing appreciation for poetry. For his birthday, I bought him a book of Billy Collin's poems and he loved it. I think he likes language and wordplay much more than he realizes. Maybe all those years of reading to him when he was little have paid off in more way than one. Maybe some of the poetry of the English language seeped into the recesses of his gray matter. I hope so!
And I want to add one more thing: If you visit this blog, couldya, wouldya please leave a comment (or something)? Lately I've felt a little like one of those strange old ladies who talks to herself in the grocery store. It's getting lonely, sigh.
