Guess what. Stymied are you? Try again. Okay, never mind, I'll tell you. It's raining! We've got stormy weather! And I don't know when I've been this happy over Mom Nature making water. Seriously. We were dying here--by degrees. My little baby trees were faltering, and I couldn't seem to water them enough. Have you read "The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How They Communicate--Discoveries from a Secret World?" I haven't yet, but I've either ordered it and it's on its way, or it is at the top of my must-read-next list.
Pele's autobio came today, and I've already dug in. I'd be reading now except it's raining! I want to do a rain dance in my birthday suit,--n the back yard--but since it's already raining, there's no need to scare my neighbors who might be looking at the marvel of this water blessing from their upstairs windows if I did. Besides, I am not into trying to outrun a lightning strike.
It's so cold inside I can hardly stand it. I do love some cold weather. I love rain. Mix the two and it's a heavenly cocktail that goes straight to my cerebrum and hits my soul like triple shots of raw whiskey. Like raw whiskey might! Like raw whiskey might--if I'd ever experienced such a thing. So I grabbed my iPhone and took video of Mom Nature's concert and pyrotechnic displays. Such thunder, lightning--the way I love it is frightening . . . That rain pelted the house, wet the left side of my skirt and parts of my front, but I didn't care. I recorded the wind and the rain and the lone red Mustang that invaded my scene, for almost two whole minutes. Then I came straight upstairs to write about it. Dear pen friends, get ready for some rain mail! Tag! Some of you are it!
So far, there are seven pieces of correspondence and a single package to show for my efforts. I feel particularly chatty today. And the night isn't over.
Oh. I forgot to mention that I'm re-reading Richard Wright's "Black Boy." I first read it when I was twenty-ish. I did not like him then, as a person, and I like him even less now, but his is a compelling story. There was something not quite right with him. Surely he grew up to be a psychopath? Poor thing.
O-Bird gave me a gift of Jodi Picolt's, "Small Great Things" from Audible.com! Imagine that! I bought a hard copy when it first debuted, but having someone read to me takes me back to the first time my parents read to my sister and me. Mrs. Tucker, in Alabama won the prize of best story-reader though. She read to us every night before bedtime; ours was a book club with three members, and we met on the stairs after Betty and I'd had our bath. Thank you, dear Olivia. I enjoy your views. Our discussions about race and culture are invaluable to me.
Such goodness has come to me in June, and carries over into July. I do marvel at the generosity of others. Dr. Wanda-Wise gave me this. She passes on her copies and I'm so glad she thinks of me. Little does she know how much they mean.
Can you believe she gave me this too? I recently read Tracy's memoir and wanted to buy her poems but . . . You know how it is, right? Smith write poetry as well as any of my favorite poets, and she takes me there--to her there--and I enjoy my lingering. Mary Oliver does that too. Thank you very very very much, Dr. Wanda-Wise. How you knew I'd like "Life On Mars" is beyond my ken, but I'm glad you did.
Did I mention my new handbag? Have I ever told you the requirements that have to be met when it comes to choosing a new bag? Well, it has to have room for at least one book, a magazine or two, a portable writing portfolio, my wallet, keys, phone . . . No shoulder straps these days. And, while I'm not into busy bags, this is a throwback to childhood, so I had to have it while I'm still able to remember what a bag is for. *grin*
Do you remember back in the day when tooled leather bags were a must-have for every woman who carried a handbag? They had to be from Mexico too. My aunts had them, as did my horrid second grade teacher, Miss Armstrong--along with good teachers and ordinary people. I loved them because they had story prompts tooled onto the leather; their surfaces were to little girls what Braille was to the blind. Or so I imagined. I could make up a story about as well as Mary Hippy could lie, if Mr. Hathaway is to be believed. My little bag has an extra sweet secret that I'll share. Soon.
But, I'm running out of room, and want to tell you about the value of a "genuine letter" as opposed to a "disingenuous letter." Have you ever gotten one? The disingenuous variety I mean? Sadly enough I have. Genuine letters more than make up for the one. And Dodson, D. has a stamp of genuineness that's as good as a seal of approval. *grin* It's like the stamp that declares that my bag is made of genuine leather. Thank you, D. D.. I quite like your return address stamp too.
Photos of genuine letters to follow . . . The storm has passed on, and I have run out of room. Goodnight. May bedbugs never bite. And may all your mail be as genuine as leather.