After our rabies scare of over six weeks ago and the quarantine we were subjected to, I am happy to report that the rabies-free fairy has dusted our dog, Milo, with good health. We are now able to welcome friends and family back into our home. Now if we can only teach Milo to stick to the dog treats instead of the occasional sick bat, he'd be more likely assured of a longer and healthier life. But as dogs rarely think about the consequences of frolicking with unhealthy things, we will probably have many more trips to the vet before he reaches his dotage.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
I'm never prepared for the shorter days and the impending desire to hibernate that I feel so strongly. If it weren't for the need for exercise and healthy living, I'd probably never move from in front of the computer or the comfort of my cozy sofa. Winter makes me recall fondly (though foolishly) the snowy seasons of my youth when I didn't have to dress children in snowsuits, constantly clean up their puddles of melted snow just inside the door, brave the elements for another run to the grocery store, bring in the (literally) frozen sheets and clothes that had been hanging outside to dry. I've lived in and visited snow in my adulthood and would not choose to do it again. The adult version is much less romantic but for those few hours after a snowstorm when the sounds of the world are muffled by the natural acoustic insulation that had fallen from the sky.
I suppose this is the time when writers are supposed to be their most creative--locked in their writers' caves distracted less by the chirping birds and the dappled light through the foliage. There is, however, a folding in of mind and body that occurs in the colder weather. It's like the spring crocus closing at night in order to restore itself for the new day. Does that mean that writers who live closer to the equator are more prolific? Or is it just that they are more likely to be drawn outside to ponder nature and muse in preparation for writing?
I'd like to think I will prevail. A season-free writer, if you will. The words will continue falling from my mind onto the keyboard come rain, sleet, snow and sun.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
In August, an old friend of my father's came from Pennsylvania with his wife to attend a nephew's wedding. He and I made arrangements months in advance for me to drive to Palo Alto from Sacramento to make sure Dad and he were able to enjoy a visit. To the South Bay we went for a long lunch and visit with Dick and Marge. Dad is a retired Unitarian Universalist minister. Dick is a retired piano professor at a college near Philadelphia. They became friends in Canton, New York, where Dick was a student at St. Lawrence University and Dad was the minister at the Canton Universalist Church. While I'm no spring chicken--in fact, retired after many years of paid employment--visiting with these two men--one an octogenarian (Dick) and one a nonagenerian (Dad)--was memorable for me. Also memorable for them, they were able to reminisce in a way that gave me hope for my dotage.