It is 6:10am; do you know where your mother is? The answer to that musical question is found in the third segment of the old folk song, “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad.” I am in the kitchen, baking cookies for tonight’s Relief Society Christmas party/dinner. [Dinah, like Middlest’s ex, is AWOL.] And we are taking advantage of Mother Nature’s icebox by cooling the fresh cookies, on parchment, on the cookie sheet, out on top of the window unit that keeps the living room bearable in August.
Obviously, I am driving in today. The cookies and the two cans of cranberries will spend the day in the trunk.
Last night was the first in several in which I did not wake at 2:00am with screaming ankles. My friend who is a retired nurse has diagnosed hives from the iodine in all the salt I have consumed since Thanksgiving. I suspect that there is also a metaphorical component, something which is bugging me just under the surface of my life, and when I solve the metaphor, the hives will magically clear up.
I could, of course, be wrong. That happens fairly often.
And now I am out the door...
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!