Both Sides of the Fence
A Tosa resident since 1991, Christine walks the dog, raises kids, cooks but avoids housework, writes and reads, and works too much. A Quaker and
The Aging Maven, she has been known to stand on both sides of the political and philosophic fence at the same time, which is very uncomfortable when you think about it. She writes about pretty much whatever stops in to visit her busy mind at the moment. One reader described her as "incredibly opinionated but not judgmental." That sounds like a good thing to strive for!
Slow scales and asters
By Christine McLaughlin
Thursday, Sep 13 2007, 02:09 PM
Yesterday was such a bad day.
The highlight was when the Triple A guy who came to fix my flat tire said "Dang, M'am, but you sure do look like Diane Keaton!" Actually, I look like about two Diane Keatons, but I took it as a compliment.
"Um, wow! Oh. . . well. . .God! Thanks!"
Apparently he didn't notice that I also talk like Diane Keaton. Something to do with coming of age in the Annie Hall era, I suspect.
When I told my kids, they said "Who's Diane Keaton?" Sigh.
But today is another kind of day entirely. For one thing, I'm home, recuperating from some vague unpleasant thing that probably explains yesterday's badness: I was off my game.
I got to sleep in and then indulge in my spiritual practice, walking the dog.
Someone was practicing slow scales on the clarinet across Underwood Creek from the Oak Leaf trail, and on my side, children shouted on the playground. The New England asters have popped, purple and pale blue next to the goldenrod. The air smells clean, like walnuts, even so close to the concrete creek bed where sometimes, stench is too polite a term.
Idgy and I walked down to the water. I emptied the lint from my pockets and asked whoever it is I ask to be forgiven for my forgetting.
We climbed the bank. It's a huge year for wild grapes, and I ate a handful that grew along the bank.
On the paved bike path where we emerged, someone had scrawled in large chalk letters one word: "Sweetness."
Indeed.
