I’ve been smelling Autumn coming on lately. In the evenings especially. That thin crispness that comes with cool weather. I’m ready. Thankful even, this being the busiest and most social summer in recent memory. I welcome the oncoming cold and folding in. Autumn really is my favorite season anyway, right up until the greys and browns of November. Only then do I start longing for sunshine again, but there are the holidays to carry me through until January, by which time I’m most definitely ready to flee to a warm climate for vacation.
And I suppose I’ll miss the summer produce. Between a mini — and by “mini” I mean three plants — personal garden, the local farmer’s market, and an abundance of road-side farm stands, we’ve eaten rather well this summer. Every time I bite into a fresh cucumber or a cob of hot sweet corn I’m reminded why I love rural living so much. We may not have opera and grand theater, but the city’s got nothing on food so fresh you can taste the sun in it.
This week’s word is from a little modern British novel, Felix in the Underground by John Mortimer, I picked up on a sale some time ago and am just now getting around to reading. I can’t decide if I like it, but I do keep picking it up so that’s something.
Have you ever had one of those weeks where you’ve just come home from a camp at a meditation center that felt like a blissful meat grinder (yeah, I’m contemplating that one too), and every piece of clothing you own is damp and dirty from camp but you have an interview first thing the next morning for a job you really really want, and all the beings you left behind while at camp are aching for some of your attention so you’ve got to carve out extra quality time to re-bond, and then you’re supposed to do some work but a whole 10 days without technology felt like some kind of freedom so you’re not really sure you want to touch the phone or the computer, and then a friend from college contacts you to say, “hey, I’ll be in town, let’s get together” so you drink lemonade and talk and hike and eat at the local organic burger joint, and then your daughter reminds you that her financial aid paperwork needs to get done and you’ve got to dig up records and papers that haven’t yet been properly filed since moving to the new house five months ago, and once you’ve gotten yourself elbow deep in papers you decide you might as well go through it all and file it which takes all of one night and into the next day, and you’re still trying not to think about the fact that it’s now been three whole days since you’re interview and you’ve not heard anything so you go to the movies, and then the week is nearly over and you still haven’t written a blog post for your favorite word-nerd crew, and you sit down to write it and you get as far as the the title but your daughter informs you the toilet is clogged, and you realize you don’t own a plunger so you run off to the grocery store before they close, and as you walk out of the store – shiny new plunger in hand – a young couple is just taking off on their scooter under navy clouds and you think, “life’s alright”, and you smile as you drive home, and then you realize you’re missing some of your favorite people so you reach out and one reaches right back and you spend three hours on the phone, and then it’s midnight which means it’s now Friday and that’s it, the crazy week is over and you still haven’t written that blog post?
Oh you have? Good, then I don’t need to explain. I’ll just give you a word from Of Woman Born by Adrienne Rich.
This one is open until Sunday, midnight. Go forth and write.
Oh word-nerds, I am tired. Tired right down to my soul bones. From Wednesday on I’ve been together with family and then friends. First a little getaway to a lake in NH with Mr. Verbosity’s family, and then a mini college reunion of sorts at my house. In case you missed it, I’m an introvert. And by introvert I mean that for every 1 hour with people I need 4 hours to myself.
Except at work. People on the job apparently don’t drain me.
Anyway, I’ll only embarrass myself by babbling if I write much more. I’m already draped across my pillow blinking stupidly at the screen. But not so tired that I’m not going to throw a new twist at you this week. Instead of a one word prompt, write a descriptive piece about being utterly drained, tired, exhausted, [insert other synonyms for tired here]. In 100 words of course.
I’ll go back to the one word format next week. Speaking of next week, I’m leaving Thursday for a 10 day family camp I and my daughter attend every summer in the green mountains of Vermont. We’ve lost count of how many years this summer makes for us. Internet service (not to mention my time) is very limited so I may not be able to post next week, or even tell you I can’t. So if all is silent next Sunday, I’ll be back the week after.
P.S. I’m hitting publish and will set up linkytool tomorrow. Sleep. Sleeeeeep. Need. Now.
We spent most of the weekend watering our little piece of land at the new house (I wonder how long it’s appropriate to call this place the “new” house). Our little New England state may not be in the red zone of drought, but it’s been weeks since we’ve seen more than a 5 minute spitting of rain and had a good root-soaking downpour. I hear on the news about the severe drought across the corn belt and feel awed by those who must rely on something so temperamental as the weather for their livelihood. We have only to save our vanity dogwoods and rhododendrons and, in front, the more important roots that hold up the soil on the steep slope from our driveway down to the road. I appreciate the luxury of our 7 dollar sprinkler and a ready reservoir of water to run it. We brought the rhodies back to life, but left the brown-patched lawn to struggle on its own, not quite having the audacity necessary to run sprinklers over grass whilst so much of the country stands parched and burning.
I may just be the sentimental type, but all the news has made every drop of water we use feel precious. I’ve taken to drinking warm water with half a fresh lemon squeezed in. Daughter read that it’s good for the metabolism and the skin which sounds reasonable enough so I drink two of these simple concoctions daily now. And what with my current sentimentality over water, and the bright fragrant lemon wedges, these twice daily beverages seem both frugal and epicurean all at once.
Yes, it is certain I am sentimental – which seems as good a word as any to kick-off another week of 100 words. But then? This one is more interesting:
The word epicurean developed out of the philosophy of Epicurus (c. 341–c. 270 BCE) and while it has now come to mean either a person who delights in worldly, sensual pleasures, or as an adjective, having luxurious tastes and habits, the original philosophy was very much about the discipline of moderation. Language is funny that way.
Just pulling my nose above water for a second to drop you this week’s 100 word prompt. We had guests (wonderful, lovely guests) that were (delightfully) unexpected and last minute. This week’s word is from Mockingjay, the final book in the Hunger Games trilogy. And my reading half the book today has nothing whatsoever to do with my schedule being off. The word is:
Now let your inner writer rebel yell. (had to)