See that bratty boy? Here he is at breakfast today, his last day of school, blocking my shot!
And then giving me sassy face. Little knucklehead. He wonders why I like Mr. B better...
School's out for summer at noon today, but it's a dreary, drizzly day only reaching 60 degrees tops. Bummer of a way to start vacation.
On a happy note, the stuff I busted my tail planting on Monday is getting watered well.
Columbine is in full bloom.
Hummingbirds and barn swallows put on a great show of swooping around the back patio last night.
Lupine is growing like mad by the porch.
There are lots of white flowers and starts of berries in the strawberry patch.
I picked rhubarb and made this wonderful recipe (complements of Lisa at Two Bears Farm). Mr. D and I toasted Pauline with full forks of crisp. This nasty weather had me in the kitchen making this and that and last night was the first time I've felt full after a meal since my trip to Virginia in April. I made a salad, couscous, beef, seasoned pretzels, the rhubarb crisp and some other random stuff out of the fridge and freezer.
I've nearly finished reading last month's Bumble Book Club read, putting me on pace to finish this month's in time for our June meeting.
And I'm bundled up in sweats and socks, trying to ignore the temptation to turn the heat back on because this weather makes my house freezing cold today. I've got pages and pages of substance edits on a manuscript to read and digest...creating a combination of doubt, exhaustion, excitement and inspiration in my mind as I decide how to proceed with future revisions. Just when you think you've taken a book as far as it can go...but this particular work is worth the effort.
I've teased you enough, haven't I? Here's the opening:
ACROSS THE RIVER
Home. Mona Butterfield felt the familiar peace settle inside her chest like a deep sigh as she drove past the familiar billboard on Rural Route 20. The billboard depicted a giant wide-mouthed bass, its body arched in a shower of splashing water, a cartoon-ish fisherman triumphantly reeling it in. Beneath the picture large red letters announced Welcome to Bassville—The White Bass Capital of the Western Hemisphere. Two miles east of the sign, minding the sneaky decrease in speed limit designed to trap out-of-town visitors, Mona came to the stop sign before the two-lane bridge connecting both sides of town and glimpsed the Wissipaw River (also referred to as the “Wissipaw Wivah,” a phrase coined by Smokey Bruley who never could say his “R’s” correctly). The pocked gray surface of the ice stretched between the banks and around the bends where Mona knew ice shanties still stood in shaded spots. Their owners played the odds every year, leaving them near open water that grew wider with each passing hour of springtime.
Since the new state highway routed traffic two miles east, Bassville didn’t get much traffic. Now the town appeared abruptly if you took a wrong turn on a back road, interrupting the curving flow of rural road between trees and fields. Whenever Mona returned home, this time from a trip to Northport to renew her driver’s license at the DMV and buy a winter jacket on clearance at KMart, she felt a sudden sense of relief, as though the act of leaving had somehow disrupted her equilibrium. Arriving home felt like stepping out of a roller coaster car and back on to the safety of solid ground, she thought. It didn’t help that she’d gotten lost again in Northport. Constant development redefined the landmarks and borders as Northport sprawled across former meadows, forests and cornfields. Some new construction out by the mall caused a traffic detour, and she’d wound up five miles out of her way at a truck stop asking for directions.
Halfway across the bridge Mona checked the little blue cottage for signs of life, and seeing none—and no black pick-up truck parked nearby—she sped up and continued driving towards her parents’ farm.
Spill it, reader. Warm thoughts.