I haven’t had an honest-to-goodness cold for years but the run of good luck has come to an end. Last week we went to Bloomsburg Fair because my husband likes to see the farm animals – he is a farmer manqué since he discovered many of his antecedents were farmers in fact!
It is well known locally that the week of the Fair can be relied on for rain no matter how dry the summer has been until then, no matter how the organizers nudge the dates. Last Friday must have been one of the wettest days in their record books – if they record such things – and we were both soaked, literally through to the skin and, in my case, my feet too as my old sneakers filled with muddy water. So, as a result, I have found myself coughing, sneezing, and shivering most of the week. I had forgotten just how rotten a cold makes you feel. Maybe I needed this gentle reminder.
This morning was one of those sublime autumn mornings: faint trails of mist hanging around the trees until the sun mopped them up. Now there is no wind, just pure blue skies and only the purr of a grader from the neighbours on the hill who are having work done on their garden. It’s the sort of morning known well by George Eliot who, in The Mill on the Floss, described the mists tangled in the valleys as ‘pools of milk’. Keats too captured the comfortable warmth of the late September sun which seems in a hurry to ripen the last of the fruits before the first frost.
Ellie is finally on the virtual shelves of amazon in both pbk and e-format. Now I must catch up on all the chores I postponed during the fraught weeks of proofreading etc. I am working on another book – quite different in genre and have yet another in draft format running around in my head. The one good thing about the approaching winter is that I have no excuse for not sitting at the computer and writing, which means I shall have no excuse for not posting to this blog more regularly.
Watch this space …