Saturday, almost noon, and the breeze off the bay is stirring the leaves in the trees just outside the window, as if announcing itself before it enters and swirls around the house. The birds have settled down from their early morning ruckus. The pots hanging in the kitchen clang like wind chimes.
The house is a bit topsy-turvey, in preparation of guests later. Important guests, too.
All is quiet. Sue is off doing errands. The kids are doing whatever it is they do that makes them appear so busy. Bob, the Wonder Aussie, is happy to do guard duty on the floor at my feet. Lu is, I'm sure, plotting as I type these words.
I have a story due on Monday, and like all writers, am procrastinating. Anything is more intriguing to me right now over American Impressionism. I can do laundry, play scales, scoop up dust bunnies. But still a wizen face is in my mind's eye. No worries.
There are certain people on my mind right now. As always, Sue is right there. The two kids of course. Two friends are ill. One, I'm assuming, will feel better today with some rest. The other I'm not even sure if she's out of the hospital yet, and will call her later. There's a good buddy whom I always wonder and worry about, and another who better be out riding Suzi or else he's nuts.
And that's my world. Nothing important. Nothing earth-shattering. Things are coming along, and that's the way I like it.
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