This past winter was a day at the beach for a writer. Buried under 100 inches of snow, surrounded by 10 ft. tall drifts, my office became the adult version of a child’s snow fort. Trapped in a blue crystalline world with my imagination and my muses I was hard at work. Sorta, kinda….until the snow melted and the muses abandoned.
Today I saw two articles in my local daily honoring youth who had died of heroin overdoses. One was from a mother who wanted others to know her son was more than an addict, although heroin was the final definition of his 23 years on earth. He also loved baseball, his nephews and Friday night movies. He died on her couch at 3 am on Christmas morning, just 9 days into sobriety.
Last night I was the hostess for the monthly meeting of the writer’s network, a friendly meeting of self-sustaining writers in my area.
After we had gathered and before the formal meeting began we introduced ourselves. I hate this moment in every meeting. I hate to promote myself, but I also know that if I don’t offer a self-promotion, those listening will mentally dismiss me.
My friend, Vera, tells me she is not an environmentalist. Not because she debunks climate change or hates polar bears.
Vera would qualify for “environmentalist” if I were the one doing the judging. Vera has been recycling for the past 35 years, long before anyone else was doing it. She is currently building a tiny house on wheels (THOW) using her own designs and labor. Sixty-percent of the interior of her tiny house is repurposed materials, including old drawers that will become stairs. She plans to use her “Silver Bullet” to teach others how to downsize into a tiny “houseprint.”
A bloody mess lay near the median strip. A small body sliced in half by the passage of a car wheel, still wearing the tire imprint like a new t-shirt, the head and the rear of the animal still intact.
I am paying attention because I am looking for my cat. She has been missing for two days. Can this be Dolly?