I might as well...

It's been so long since I've written, and I certainly don't have the time now, but I might as well. Why not take a moment? I've had lots of lovely things to say, but no time in which to say them.

Summer and drought quashed my designs on gardening. My celosia withered into dribbles of pink-crimson, like tassels left in puddles on the side of a busy road after a party, unraveling and graying. My beautiful snowdrift crabapple has died. I'm certain of it. The wildflower bed became unruly with weeds as did the foundation beds. A few plants have thrived, namely the flaming lips sage and a French variety of carnations...the lantana of course and some marigolds deposited on my front door step by a little old lady who lives down the lane. Everything else looks miserable. Even the grass died. And I haven't lifted a finger to improve the situation. The heat was just too intolerable.

I never painted the shutters haint blue or the doors sunflower gold as I intended. The old wooden rockers are still chipped, ugly green. Rugs still cover the spaces in the living room where the wall was removed. Etc. Etc. Etc.

And yet I haven't been doing nothing.

I even have a few friends. I mean, real friends who live right down the street and drop in just to say hello or eat dinner. It's an exciting time for me. I'm exploring this whole new world of normalcy. Gardens and garden clubs. Church. Work. Mothering. Scolding other people's children. Cooking roasts and mashed potato. Hanging clothes on the line. Waving to neighbors. Dreaming of Thanksgiving Day turkeys.