Husband got hurt at work and has a bum arm, can't lift it past his shoulder. Sucks, yeah, but enough about him. I have to mow.
Nearly DIED today. Well, not really, but when you start assuring yourself that the "dead man's switch" will turn the mower off before it runs over your unconscious body, yeah, thoughts of death color a woman's flights of fancy.
It got me to thinking of my Aunt Isabel. (Well, she was my mom's aunt.) Her "favorite aunt" is how I was raised thinking of her, and I've heard so many kind stories of her that I feel as if they were my memories. She'd lived through most of the 1900s; the wars, the depression, the recessions, suffragette, Jim Crow, the "Roaring 20s," the "Beat Generation," and Watergate. She'd died when I was less than seven, and in fact, I don't remember her at all.
I do remember the call my mom received when Isabel died. We were in Somerville, Massachusetts, in the kitchen of a second-floor apartment we'd rented from a great Italian-American family with tons of kids. My mom was on a wall phone, next to the refrigerator, the type that couldn't be opened from inside, so are only found in museums now. I remember her leaning against the wall next to the phone, her eyes squeezed tight, her face pinched with pain. My father was home, so it was after work, and he hovered. So, it's true that I don't remember Isabel, but I remember how my mother suffered upon hearing of her passing.
Why, you might ask, was I thinking of "favorite Aunt Isabel" whilst mowing? There's a story in the family about Isabel cleaning windows on her second-floor apartment. (She and her sister, Marion, owned the house, and rented out the first floor.) Isabel liked her windows clean, and back in the day, windows didn't move any way but up or down, so if you wanted a second or third-floor window clean, you had to be a bit of a daredevil. Aunt Isabel must have been, because TWICE she had to be rescued after sitting on a window's casement, two stories up, when the top window slammed and then trapped her fingers. TWICE she was found hanging off the house by her knees and fingers, two stories up, unconscious. Did I mention this happened two stories up, and TWICE?
I suppose being run over by your own mower whilst unconscious might top that story, but mower safety regulation being what they are, I'm relegated to admitting sea salt and Kool-aide saved me from my "cut-grass-scented" flirtation with oblivion. Just doesn't have the same pizzazz, and fails the legend test.
So, here's to you, Aunt Isabel. I'm thinking of you, and long may your legend rein.
I wrote myself a note last night, reminding myself to delete all the F bombs in my manuscript before submitting it to my editor. When I woke, searched the book, found 30 times I used f**k, and tried to find an alternate word that had the same meaning. There is no alternative, folks. If you write f**k, it's because f**k is what you mean. So...yeah. F**k is in my latest book 30 times. "Climax," "orgasm," and sex scenes, are in there, too. If you're a child, you've snuck this book from your parents' room, and reading f**k isn't probably what you'll being focusing on, and, not incidentally, I'm not your mother. We're all adults here, right?
I got gastritis again. My belly. It's my Achilles Heel. Comes from not venting enough, I think, though my husband called me "belligerent" last night, so maybe I just have a bad belly. Anyhoo, there I was, watching "Hidden Figures," enjoying all those women doing math (which I am incapable of, having the affliction of dyslexia) and getting my "lay in bed, feeling sorry for myself, so watching a good movie" vibe on. And who should arrive in my darkened room, asking if she could look at my bookshelves to pick a book? *And The Angels Sang* My youngest daughter. Now, looking for a good book to read is one of my favorite things to do, and her quiet, tentative request had the power to drag me from my death bed to help a fellow reader in need. By the time she'd found "The Stand" (her reading tastes run toward the hubby's horror genre,) I had found Jo Clayton's the "Moongather" series. I have all three books. I don't remember anything about them, except how I "felt" when I read them, and that was when they were first released. Goodreads says May of 1982! I'd just turned seventeen and thought MGM musicals were "goals" rather than propaganda for a patriarchal society (I digress.) Now, I'm working on my final read through for book 3 in my "Secret Agent" series for Kensington, and I only have room enough in my head for one obsession at a time, so I stacked my three dusty, yellowing books on my bedside, and told my daughter, "they're next," patting them, as if they were long suffering pets awaiting my attention. Only to discover "said daughter" had already left the room, was on her bed, reading Stephen King. *sighs* I still have no idea how long I sifted through my books, trying to find a "non-romance" that a fourteen year old girl might enjoy. However, the rush I got reacquainting myself with my "keeper shelves" sent me to the computer and I'm back working on my final read through. What a life. #IAmSoBlessed
Addendum: I had to go into the other room to ask my husband what the word was that he'd called me last night, because I wanted to add it to my post. He said, "Lovely?" I said, "no." He said, "beautiful?" I said, "no. It was funny. Remember? When I said, 'Are you ignoring me because you want me to STFU? And you said...'" "Oh," he said. "The word was belligerent." lol www.goodreads.com/book/show/515111.Moongather
Irma winds are blowing, so I secured a fern on the back porch, and acquired a bumble bee on my sleeve. Discovered it as I stood next to my heroic husband, who didn't run from me as I began screaming at the top of my lungs, while holding my arm out, staring at said bumble bee. He flicked it off, we studied it, and he declared it was hungry. By the time I returned with honey to rectify the problem, the bee had flown.
This is why world peace will never happen.
Repped by Louise Fury at The Bent Agency.