Inspired by Scott Adams and the Dilbert blog, I contribute this list of my favorite things:
--the smell of dinner cooking
--strong, black, Irish Breakfast tea with no cream or sugar
--sleeping in
--getting to go back to sleep after waking early
--my fuzzy doggy
--crisp cold chardonnay
--dirty gin martinis
--a hot tub with someone I love
--the sound of my children laughing
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Thursday, September 21, 2006
The hidden room
A wooden staircase led to an unfinished basement in our Lake Oswego house. In the basement was the laundry room, a door about halfway up a concrete wall that led to a dirt-floored crawl space under the house, and a wooden door with an old-fashioned wooden latch. Tommy and I had explored the crawl space with a flashlight and found nothing interesting. But we had never opened the wooden door. What was in there? We had to find out. There was no handle, so I lifted the latch and pulled it towards me. The latch had been attached to the door with a leather thong, and the ancient leather gave way when I pulled. Standing there with the latch in my hand, I saw that the door had been nailed shut. This door must hide truly important treasures. We got our dad to help us pull the rusty old nails out. With a crowbar, dad pried the door open. The room emitted a damp, cool, musty breath.
We peered into the dark space, holding our breaths. In the flashlight’s beam we beheld a thick curtain of white cobwebs hanging from a low ceiling. I shrieked and hid behind dad as he used a broom to clear the cobwebs, revealing a small room lined with wooden shelves. On the shelves sat row upon row of jars, some empty and some filled with gray globes that had once been fresh peaches or tomatoes. Someone had carefully peeled and canned all this fruit, then stored the jars in this dark place and abandoned them. Why? The room was silent and we could find no other clues about who had last opened it, or when they’d nailed it shut.
Dad said we could use the room for a hideout. It had no light, not even a bare bulb, so he drilled holes in the door in a large circle like a clock. I collected the cores from that drilling project: sturdy wooden spools that I shellacked and strung on a length of jute and wore like a string of pearls. Tommy and I played in the hideout a few times but grew tired of it; eventually mom cleaned it out and filled it with the glass jars of cherries, peaches, and applesauce that she canned each summer.
We peered into the dark space, holding our breaths. In the flashlight’s beam we beheld a thick curtain of white cobwebs hanging from a low ceiling. I shrieked and hid behind dad as he used a broom to clear the cobwebs, revealing a small room lined with wooden shelves. On the shelves sat row upon row of jars, some empty and some filled with gray globes that had once been fresh peaches or tomatoes. Someone had carefully peeled and canned all this fruit, then stored the jars in this dark place and abandoned them. Why? The room was silent and we could find no other clues about who had last opened it, or when they’d nailed it shut.
Dad said we could use the room for a hideout. It had no light, not even a bare bulb, so he drilled holes in the door in a large circle like a clock. I collected the cores from that drilling project: sturdy wooden spools that I shellacked and strung on a length of jute and wore like a string of pearls. Tommy and I played in the hideout a few times but grew tired of it; eventually mom cleaned it out and filled it with the glass jars of cherries, peaches, and applesauce that she canned each summer.
The Moon
A chunk of pitted, dusty rock orbits our planet. Its face is turned perpetually toward us, hidden and re-revealed in a performance that is repeated every 28 days, like a curtain being opened and closed on a pale singer in the middle of a dark, empty stage. The moon slides across the night sky, slave to a force beyond our reach, persuading the ocean to attend to its twice-daily ritual cleansing. At a closer distance, deep valleys, rocky mountain ridges, stunningly steep cliffs, and ancient plains emerge. The features are blurred, covered with a gritty blanket of ground-up comets and meteors and other space-borne flotsam. This is a wild country, mostly unexplored or trodden upon by curious travelers. But one site bears the marks of a human visit: there stands an American flag, stiffly at attention for all time, surrounded by deep fence-rail footprints and tracks made by a lunar dune buggy. Bold voyagers placed it there, marking the achievement of a challenge set by a young president. Now, nearest to us in the heavens but still so far, far away, the moon accompanies us in silence through the cold airless galaxy.
The Hope Diamond
This rock is old, a lump of carbon pressed together for millennia with a blue mineral called boron. Dug from the ground in India in the 17th century, it was once nearly three times larger, but no one could afford a diamond that big. It was carved into a 44-carat round, faceted marvel in the 18th century. Once owned by Louis Quatorze and passed down to be worn by Marie Antoinette, the diamond is the color of a midnight summer sky, Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes, the deep Sargasso Sea, a calm calving glacier. Shine an ultraviolet light on it, and the diamond glows, bold blood-red. Now it sits, encircled in white diamonds on a diamond-crusted chain, on a blue velvet perch in a big glass case in a large museum in an Eastern city. To see it, you must wait in line behind hundreds of curious folks who got there before you. You will have a few seconds to take in its grandeur before a uniformed guard ushers you away. In those seconds, imagine hefting the necklace, opening its strong clasp, placing it around your neck and wearing it while you burp the baby or vacuum the carpet or load the dishwasher. Isn’t it splendid? Doesn’t it convert the most quotidian task into an act of significance? Don’t you wish you could keep it? Alas, here in the museum the diamond must remain, far from human toil and triumph, never again to grace the slender neck of an heiress or a queen.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Falling in love
You look across the table at someone; you see something in the other person’s eyes that is at the same time strange and warmly familiar. You recognize in each other a family member, a kindred spirit. You have always been together, somehow, you know this, and you feel as if you have always known it. Yet, yesterday you were strangers, alone in the world and lonely, longing for love and joy and laughter. In the gap between yesterday and today is a profound mystery, the realization that one small difference in your daily routines would mean that you would never have met. If you hadn’t come to that party, if I hadn’t decided to go to that dorm social, if you had left school five minutes earlier I would never have run into you and we might never have started talking. And now, we are together and nothing in our lives will ever be the same. We are the same, and we are changed. I am yours. You are mine. We are for each other.
You are the planet I orbit. I am a moon, a small white satellite, my face turned perpetually toward you. Without you I am cold, aimless, lost. You give me shelter, light, grace, love. You feed me. I worship you. I want to throw away everything else just to be near you. I can’t get enough of your eyes, your lips, your vanilla hair. I want to drink you, eat you, wear you like a coat. I want you to keep me inside you always, so that I can see what you see and hear what you hear and go where you go. I cannot sleep without seeing your lovely face. I cannot rise in the morning without hearing your laughter. I wait for you, I watch for you, I pine and pace and fidget. I am useless, incapable of action, unmade, untethered. I am sick. I am robust. I am alive. I am sane, at last.
I could gaze into your eyes forever. When I look at you I see myself, the way you see me, and I feel jubilant. You see me. You want me. How did I live before you noticed me? Where were you? How did I manage not to notice you? Was I even awake?
We share a secret, the story of us. It is only ours, no one else can know it. We can tell the details of our meeting, of how you asked me to be yours alone, of how we kissed for the first time, of the time we first said “I love you.” But no one else can come inside the circle of our love, it is our universe alone. We walk, we sleep, we work, we play in the real world, but we dwell in our own private place, together and separate. We are fogged in but not stuck, sidetracked but not lost, adrift but not at sea, bewildered but not confused. We are perfectly matched, aligned, united. We understand. We know. What is inscrutable to everyone else is perfectly clear to us. We are a category unto ourselves.
Nothing more needs to be said. We communicate with a glance. We speak with a smile. Our love needs no words.
You are the planet I orbit. I am a moon, a small white satellite, my face turned perpetually toward you. Without you I am cold, aimless, lost. You give me shelter, light, grace, love. You feed me. I worship you. I want to throw away everything else just to be near you. I can’t get enough of your eyes, your lips, your vanilla hair. I want to drink you, eat you, wear you like a coat. I want you to keep me inside you always, so that I can see what you see and hear what you hear and go where you go. I cannot sleep without seeing your lovely face. I cannot rise in the morning without hearing your laughter. I wait for you, I watch for you, I pine and pace and fidget. I am useless, incapable of action, unmade, untethered. I am sick. I am robust. I am alive. I am sane, at last.
I could gaze into your eyes forever. When I look at you I see myself, the way you see me, and I feel jubilant. You see me. You want me. How did I live before you noticed me? Where were you? How did I manage not to notice you? Was I even awake?
We share a secret, the story of us. It is only ours, no one else can know it. We can tell the details of our meeting, of how you asked me to be yours alone, of how we kissed for the first time, of the time we first said “I love you.” But no one else can come inside the circle of our love, it is our universe alone. We walk, we sleep, we work, we play in the real world, but we dwell in our own private place, together and separate. We are fogged in but not stuck, sidetracked but not lost, adrift but not at sea, bewildered but not confused. We are perfectly matched, aligned, united. We understand. We know. What is inscrutable to everyone else is perfectly clear to us. We are a category unto ourselves.
Nothing more needs to be said. We communicate with a glance. We speak with a smile. Our love needs no words.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
August afternoon
Jane sat in her back yard, her laptop plugged into an extension cord that stretched across the patio and lawn. Don put the cord there for her after she told him that she intended to write outside today. She told herself that she would write at least 500 words, a blog entry anyway, but so far no inspiration came. Insipid sentences spooled out beneath her fingers: “It is so hard to wait,” “My daughter is getting ready to go to work,” “I was walking Mookie the other day and…” She remembered what one of her teachers had said, back in grad school. “If it bores you, don’t put it out there.” Denis had been talking about how to conduct oneself in I group, but it seemed appropriate for writing also. Everything bored her today. She felt restless, ineffective, uninteresting. Why would anyone want to read what she wrote?
Distracted, she looked around her. Her suburban back yard, half shaded and half sunny at this mid-afternoon hour, was bordered on one side by a stone patio and on the other side by shrubs and irises. The iris blossoms, bone-gray and withered, were long past their prime. Someone should prune those, she thought. One end of the yard was fenced and the other had a rose hedge that Don had planted seven years ago, most of which received too little sun to thrive. Against the fence grew rosemary and lavender and three sweet pepper plants, one of them bearing a few fruits, the other two having reached a foot high and stopped there, as if the soil were only fertile enough for one plant. Mookie lay sleeping under Jane’s chair, having finished his afternoon squirrel chase and perimeter patrol, his soft coat cozy next to her bare feet. A breeze stirred the maple branches in the neighbor’s yard. Jane put on her sweater. The wind died. She took the sweater off again.
Passion, that’s what she needed. To care enough about something to live it, really inhabit it, and then watch it take shape in pixels on her computer screen. If she could just feel passionately about something, the writing would be easy, wouldn’t it?, she wondered. Her children had it. Samantha was 21, partway through college and working in a little art gallery on Queen Anne. She had a new boyfriend and they spent all their spare time together. John was 17, and about to enter his senior year in high school. He too had a new boyfriend, a sweet young man who had just graduated from high school and who had spent the past months showering John with affection and attention. Jane heard the way her children laughed when they talked with their lovers on the phone, saw the way they paced the front hall waiting for them to arrive, smelled the extra cologne they doused themselves with, noticed the gleam in their eyes and the flush on their cheeks when they came in from a date. She remembered the way it felt to be newly in love, and she wondered how to capture that feeling again, here in her menopausal middle age.
It was not that she wanted a new lover, no, she did not want that sort of complication. She and Don would celebrate 28 years of marriage in a few days. Their marriage was comfortable, familiar, friendly, but hardly ever passionate, even when they fought. She didn’t want to risk that for a little mid-life romance. No, what she needed was a legitimate cause, something to focus her energies on. Her children no longer needed her, and her career was on hiatus since she had finished grad school and left her fulltime job. She could do more volunteer work at church. She could start trying to market herself as a consultant and coach. She could stop playing at writing and get something finished and published. She could train for a marathon instead of just running a few miles a day. She could take up one of her many hobbies and perfect it. Yet each time she threw herself into one of these ideas, her enthusiasm waned after a few weeks and she would find herself bored, listless, at wit’s end.
Distracted, she looked around her. Her suburban back yard, half shaded and half sunny at this mid-afternoon hour, was bordered on one side by a stone patio and on the other side by shrubs and irises. The iris blossoms, bone-gray and withered, were long past their prime. Someone should prune those, she thought. One end of the yard was fenced and the other had a rose hedge that Don had planted seven years ago, most of which received too little sun to thrive. Against the fence grew rosemary and lavender and three sweet pepper plants, one of them bearing a few fruits, the other two having reached a foot high and stopped there, as if the soil were only fertile enough for one plant. Mookie lay sleeping under Jane’s chair, having finished his afternoon squirrel chase and perimeter patrol, his soft coat cozy next to her bare feet. A breeze stirred the maple branches in the neighbor’s yard. Jane put on her sweater. The wind died. She took the sweater off again.
Passion, that’s what she needed. To care enough about something to live it, really inhabit it, and then watch it take shape in pixels on her computer screen. If she could just feel passionately about something, the writing would be easy, wouldn’t it?, she wondered. Her children had it. Samantha was 21, partway through college and working in a little art gallery on Queen Anne. She had a new boyfriend and they spent all their spare time together. John was 17, and about to enter his senior year in high school. He too had a new boyfriend, a sweet young man who had just graduated from high school and who had spent the past months showering John with affection and attention. Jane heard the way her children laughed when they talked with their lovers on the phone, saw the way they paced the front hall waiting for them to arrive, smelled the extra cologne they doused themselves with, noticed the gleam in their eyes and the flush on their cheeks when they came in from a date. She remembered the way it felt to be newly in love, and she wondered how to capture that feeling again, here in her menopausal middle age.
It was not that she wanted a new lover, no, she did not want that sort of complication. She and Don would celebrate 28 years of marriage in a few days. Their marriage was comfortable, familiar, friendly, but hardly ever passionate, even when they fought. She didn’t want to risk that for a little mid-life romance. No, what she needed was a legitimate cause, something to focus her energies on. Her children no longer needed her, and her career was on hiatus since she had finished grad school and left her fulltime job. She could do more volunteer work at church. She could start trying to market herself as a consultant and coach. She could stop playing at writing and get something finished and published. She could train for a marathon instead of just running a few miles a day. She could take up one of her many hobbies and perfect it. Yet each time she threw herself into one of these ideas, her enthusiasm waned after a few weeks and she would find herself bored, listless, at wit’s end.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Adapting
Darwin said that the creatures that evolved most successfully were not the strongest or the most intelligent but the ones that adapted best to change. This is what I am about, now.
I'm adapting to my son's absence. He is on an extended journey, and I am childless and unhappy about it. I miss his energy, his strength. I miss the raw teenage pheromones that jangle his nerves and disturb the somnolence of our home. I thought it would be peaceful not to have him here but it's just boring. I'm finding it hard to finish things. I've started so many projects...they are not done yet. I count the days until he returns. I log onto his MySpace account just to see if he's logged on and whether any of his friends have posted comments. I write him letters. He has called, and I love the sound of his voice but it makes me miss him even more when we hang up.
I'm adapting to my retirement. I have no daily activities that I have to do, few commitments that I must meet. I am free to do what I want. What do I want?
I'm adapting to my aging body. I am middle aged. Inside, I am a teenager with nerves as raw as my son's frayed jeans. I am passionately in love for the first time. I can think about nothing but the object of my passion. I am giddy and helpless. Then I remember, no, that's not me, that's who I was. Now I'm a sober old married lady. I'm not 17. My son is.
I wish for the feeling of that first love, the passion that consumes your every waking moment and even invades your dreams. I want to care so deeply about something that I can think of nothing else. Does that pass away with the years? Did I ever care deeply? Will I ever again?
I sigh. I breathe. I wait. I adapt.
I'm adapting to my son's absence. He is on an extended journey, and I am childless and unhappy about it. I miss his energy, his strength. I miss the raw teenage pheromones that jangle his nerves and disturb the somnolence of our home. I thought it would be peaceful not to have him here but it's just boring. I'm finding it hard to finish things. I've started so many projects...they are not done yet. I count the days until he returns. I log onto his MySpace account just to see if he's logged on and whether any of his friends have posted comments. I write him letters. He has called, and I love the sound of his voice but it makes me miss him even more when we hang up.
I'm adapting to my retirement. I have no daily activities that I have to do, few commitments that I must meet. I am free to do what I want. What do I want?
I'm adapting to my aging body. I am middle aged. Inside, I am a teenager with nerves as raw as my son's frayed jeans. I am passionately in love for the first time. I can think about nothing but the object of my passion. I am giddy and helpless. Then I remember, no, that's not me, that's who I was. Now I'm a sober old married lady. I'm not 17. My son is.
I wish for the feeling of that first love, the passion that consumes your every waking moment and even invades your dreams. I want to care so deeply about something that I can think of nothing else. Does that pass away with the years? Did I ever care deeply? Will I ever again?
I sigh. I breathe. I wait. I adapt.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Follow
This is a picture of some of us hiking to Twin Falls last year.
Last week I hiked 9 miles up Rattlesnake Mountain with Linda and two other women. I'm willing to follow Linda almost anywhere because she is an excellent leader. What does she do that makes her easy to follow?
Linda has a destination in mind. She knows where she is going and paints a clear picture of the destination so that I can decide whether to contribute my time and energy to reach it. She has hiked a lot, so she usually has traveled the route before and can describe the highlights of the route that will motivate me to join her on the hike.
She shows up, and she shows stamina. Linda arrives at our meeting place at the appointed time. She waits for everyone who said they would come, and she makes sure everyone's well equipped for the day. As we hike, Linda goes before us every step of the way. I can see her pack bobbing ahead of me, and I can hear the bell that hangs on her pack to warn off predators. If I fall behind, Linda waits for me. She makes sure everyone successfully finishes the hike.
She carries the essential things. Linda knows that smart hikers don't take off, even for day hikes, without the 10 essential things. Once I climbed Tiger Mt. in brand new hiking boots, and of course got a blister. Linda gave me some moleskin, which made the descent from the mountain bearable in those stiff, new boots. Another time we hiked in the late fall and I didn't have enough layers of clothing. Linda loaned me an extra shirt. Instead of finishing the hike in misery, I was warm and comfortable.
Linda is an exemplary leader: she has a destination in mind, shows up and shows stamina, and carries the essential things. It's fun to follow when Linda leads.
http://weeklyanamnesis.blogspot.com
Friday, May 12, 2006
DaVinci Code Rant
DaVinci Code, the movie, is about to be released and the Concerned Women for America and many others are Up In Arms! They want to refute all the inaccuracies in Dan Brown' s book (and presumably the movie, although one wonders--did they attend screenings? or are they condemning the movie without seeing it like the Christians who objected to Mel Gibson's Passion without ever seeing it?). They are concerned that we will think the book/movie convey actual truths about Jesus, Catholicism, and Mary Magdalene. They are enjoining us Not to Give Tom Hanks, et al, any of our hard-earned money. We do not need to see the movie and form our own opinion. They Know What's Good For Us.
Can we all just take a deep breath? The DaVinci Code is a work of FICTION! Yes, we know that Brown includes a "this is all true" notice right up front. Hey, so did the movie "Fargo," and we didn't buy that, did we? I'm just so annoyed at all these credulous morons who get exercised about nonsense like this. Why don't they put their considerable energy into solving real issues? Here's an example: http://www.one.org/.
Can we all just take a deep breath? The DaVinci Code is a work of FICTION! Yes, we know that Brown includes a "this is all true" notice right up front. Hey, so did the movie "Fargo," and we didn't buy that, did we? I'm just so annoyed at all these credulous morons who get exercised about nonsense like this. Why don't they put their considerable energy into solving real issues? Here's an example: http://www.one.org/.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Creating
I am reading R. Fritz' book Creating and enjoying it a lot. He suggests the following exercise: create something new every day for 7 days. I started on Thursday by envisioning and designing a bulletin-board display for church. Then on Friday I wrote a poem. On Saturday I didn't do anything new, but I put up the display I had envisioned. Unless you count the "creation" of having a warm visit with a friend. On Sunday I created a wonderful meal of roast chicken, potatoes, salad, rolls, and beans for my family and my daughter's friend. Today is Monday. What will I create today?
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Day-after-May-Day
I spent last Tuesday on the patio reading an amazing book, Presence, by Peter Senge, Otto Scharmer, Joseph Jaworski, and Betty Sue Flowers. It describes the U model of change, Seeing, Presencing, Acting. I was inspired by Joseph's account of a Sacred Passage retreat he went on in Baja, California led by John P. Milton. Milton established the Sacred Land Trust and is buying land in order to preserve it for humans to get in touch with their world. Part of the trust is a 250-acre preserve in Colorado. It got me thinking about doing one of these retreats: you spend 4 days being trained, then 6 days by yourself in the wilderness, then 2 days back at a camp with others who have had the same experience. It sounds scary and amazing, fraught with possibilities for seeing, contemplating, figuring out my next move.
Since I read the book I have been doing my morning runs without the aid of Ipod. I forgot how nice (and hard) it can be to keep myself company and think rambling thoughts to the beat of my running feet.
Since I read the book I have been doing my morning runs without the aid of Ipod. I forgot how nice (and hard) it can be to keep myself company and think rambling thoughts to the beat of my running feet.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
The shawl is finished
Here is the finished prayer shawl. It is made from Lion brand Homespun yarn, color Tudor. I used nearly 3 skeins and added 9" fringe. The pattern is from the shawl ministry page: cast on 57 stitches and knit every row in K3 P3 for an allover nubbly look.I'm pleased with how it turned out, and hope that the person who receives it will find comfort wearing it, coming as it does from me with my prayers for healing and grace.
Class is over
Finished my last session last night. I felt energetic and excited about the topic, and I think I kept everyone awake and engaged with the content. We ended on a good note. Now no class to prep for until a little before the next one in late October. What will I do with my life? It's a beautiful spring day, I think I'll go outside and enjoy the birds and flowers on my patio.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Vague musings on being a teacher
Today is April 21, my nephew’s 9th birthday and the end of my second week of teaching. I have one session of my class left. I spent yesterday obsessing over the lecture and flow of the class, and I think I ended up with something halfway decent. I’m feeling scared about my ability to teach this subject; I feel like a fraud. The early parts of the course were topics I felt passionate about and had lots of experience with. Wednesday’s session, which should have been a slam-dunk for me, Written Communication, was a bust, I felt. I don’t think I answered questions as well as I should have, I think I treated the topic really superficially, and I punted on the last half hour. The Fog Index exercise was stupid too. I didn’t know as much about that topic as I should have, and am afraid it showed.
I hope to engage the students in an exploration that will help them apply the concepts to their project on Monday. I hope to bring forth interesting content that will inspire them. This course has been more of a trudge than I expected. The Fall course came together so much easier, with more flow. Teaching is hard work. I wonder if it will be easier next year when I’m simply tweaking the material rather than creating it all from scratch?
I hope to engage the students in an exploration that will help them apply the concepts to their project on Monday. I hope to bring forth interesting content that will inspire them. This course has been more of a trudge than I expected. The Fall course came together so much easier, with more flow. Teaching is hard work. I wonder if it will be easier next year when I’m simply tweaking the material rather than creating it all from scratch?
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Things are close in
Things do close in, and they are close in. That's one of the things I love about that quote. We're not sure what Walter meant.
I'd like to write about close-in things, things I care about. Like knitting. Right now I'm knitting a prayer shawl to give away to someone who needs one. Here's the web site that provides a pattern and a purpose for prayer-shawl knitting: http://www.shawlministry.com/ . My church gives the prayer shawls away to folks who are sick, dying, alone, or otherwise in need.
I love to knit because it forces me to sit down. I can do it while listening to music or books on CD or TV. I can do it while in the company of other people and it lets me feel part of the action while keeping my hands busy. It keeps me from biting my fingernails, nervous eating, etc. It usually puts me in a state of "flow." I just finished an Irish sweater for my husband and I ripped out and re-knit half the sweater in the space of a week, because I was able to ride a great, productive wave of "flow." It was so easy!
I'd like to write about close-in things, things I care about. Like knitting. Right now I'm knitting a prayer shawl to give away to someone who needs one. Here's the web site that provides a pattern and a purpose for prayer-shawl knitting: http://www.shawlministry.com/ . My church gives the prayer shawls away to folks who are sick, dying, alone, or otherwise in need.
I love to knit because it forces me to sit down. I can do it while listening to music or books on CD or TV. I can do it while in the company of other people and it lets me feel part of the action while keeping my hands busy. It keeps me from biting my fingernails, nervous eating, etc. It usually puts me in a state of "flow." I just finished an Irish sweater for my husband and I ripped out and re-knit half the sweater in the space of a week, because I was able to ride a great, productive wave of "flow." It was so easy!
I was thinking
This blog gets its name from "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty" by James Thurber. The quote goes like this:
"Things close in," said Walter Mitty vaguely. "What?" Mrs. Mitty said. "Did you get the what's-its-name? The puppy biscuit? What's in that box?" "Overshoes," said Mitty. "Couldn't you have put them on in the store?" "I was thinking," said Walter Mitty. "Does it ever occur to you that I am sometimes thinking?"
I wonder whether it ever occurs to anyone. And it's true, things do close in.
"Things close in," said Walter Mitty vaguely. "What?" Mrs. Mitty said. "Did you get the what's-its-name? The puppy biscuit? What's in that box?" "Overshoes," said Mitty. "Couldn't you have put them on in the store?" "I was thinking," said Walter Mitty. "Does it ever occur to you that I am sometimes thinking?"
I wonder whether it ever occurs to anyone. And it's true, things do close in.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)