Thursday, September 06, 2012


A hint: henceforth, the shortest posts will be (for the next fourteen weeks) on Thursdays. You want good writing? Not tonight, dear. Not any Thursday night.

Morning. Engage me in the morning. On the proch, maybe.

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But those days are drawing to a close. The morning chill, not here yet, is a threat.

For now, I pick my pear...

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...and I get going.

And then comes the part that I don't write about -- the classes, the meetings with students -- such a fine day, a day of great, wonderful progress, but one that runs in the shadows of this blog. And on Thursdays, it is a day that lunges forward without interruptions.

So I finally come home, late and I take a minute to regain the quiet that I need to make me happy. Flowers: there are still those. Hello lillies.

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I creak open the farmhouse door. Hi Ed...

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He invites me to dinner at the Dane Pub. Come on. We have time for the market, too.  Well, just barely. But we take the Honda and scoot out. And yes, there are a few ears left (we take them). And there are the curds and the other veggies to admire.

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So we stock  up and then we do a few rounds of tennis and that's a real bummer because my game has rarely been this bad.
The sun is too strong!
I'm hungry!
I'm thirsty!
I'm tired!

Excuses offered. Surely the last one is the most accurate.

At the Pub I ask if he minds that I order a steak. It's been so long since I've eaten beef. I hadn't missed it, then I did miss it and now I really miss it.
Sure, eat that hunk of flesh.
Have you ever seen a person smile and frown all at the same time?

At home now. Tired, but that's exactly when writing doesn't flow and sleep, too, is tough to hold onto.
Isis is by the door. I can hear him -- the doorbell sounds. I peek out. Oh, Isis, gross!

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He's tossing a mouse around. Eventually he drops it. As if it's a gift.

Thank you, Isis. At the end of the day, there's always the possibility of this, a mouse, delivered to my doorstep.