Listened to the show Saturday and it was not bad. Lot going on this week on every level, almost too much if there is such a thing. Mostly packing up two kids for college, and my gosh. I ran out late the other night to pick up a fingernail clipper and a large plastic storage bin and socks. Yes. Socks. Just before 10:00 p.m. On top of three days of Gathering Miscellaneous Things, during which I sprained a finger trying to shove a box into a too-small space. Broke a shelf in my refrigerator by doing the same thing with a too-large bowl. Shrunk the heck out of my daughter’s new wool sweater. Burned my hair a bit when I bent over too close to a lit candle.
Listened to the show Saturday and it was not bad. Spent the evening in the kitchen making just about everything I felt like making, summer comfort food mostly: crockpot scalloped potatoes, broccoli salad, meatloaf filled with green peppers and Monterey jack cheese, sugar cookie cutouts shaped like sunflowers and some simple circles, all of which I frosted yellow and – on the plain circles — sprinkled sugar into smiley faces.
Listened to the show Saturday and it was not bad. Got a call from my best friend Angela during intermission, and she had some good stories to tell about a workshop she attended last week on something called “equine assisted psychotherapy”, a form of therapy where horses help people understand things about themselves and their emotions.
Listened to the show Saturday and it was not bad. Funny how music can pick you up and take you out of your life like a dream. It carries me away, often, and on those days when the din becomes a roar, or silence grows loud, I turn on the radio, or put in a Johnny Cash or Eva Cassidy cd and float on through whatever it is the day has brought that begs for music to take the edge off.
Listened to the show Saturday and it was not bad. Been a hot week, and I’ve done my best to avoid air conditioning and go with open windows. Gets a bit toasty, yes, but if there’s a breeze, it makes all the difference. I like how it feels on my face and neck and forearms as I wash dishes, and I can breathe in all the scents from beyond my own yard — the neighbors’ barbecued chicken, hot tar, the blooming flowers and lawn clippings across the street, the tall field grasses down the road, lake water, and wood smoke from a campfire somewhere. And the sounds, too, of lawnmowers and children hollerin’ and dogs barking and people talking and old trucks barreling on by. And the cicadas. Summer sounds.