A Grey Monday

The house was very quiet, and the fog—we are in November now—pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost. E.M. Forster, Howards End It's a grey day. The fog is low and I am home alone. It's quiet, save for the sound of the King's College Choir coming from my Bose speaker. I'm sipping yerba

Friday Stew

It's Friday, right? Right? Because some days I can't keep anything straight. Case in point: I was looking forward to an appointment I had scheduled for 11:00 this morning but it turned out the appointment was yesterday and I missed it. It's not the first time something like this has happened in my post-retirement days.

Monday Meandering

This morning I feel like whatever I write will be inadequate. To write something cheery seems an insult to those in British Columbia who are already dealing with loss from mudslides and flooding, and insensitive to those in the north who are waiting for a second atmospheric river to hit the province. It would be

Ode to My Writing Group

My writing group met virtually this morning. We meet via Zoom and have the blessing of meeting with women we might not otherwise connect with. Two of the women were also in the group I started when we lived in Washington state. Without the magic of technology, we might have lost the connection we forged

Now it is White

The first fluffy flakes have fallen, and the driveway has been shoveled for the first time this season. Gerry and I, out and about on an early morning errand, encounter a pickup truck coming toward us with its lights flashing, warning us of something ahead. We brake, and slide, and come upon a young man