Thought I’d brag on Sunny for a little bit, even though she and her sister celebrated their prayed-for snow day this morning by sleeping in, while Rocinante and I slalomed through the snowy streets—ten inches predicted by evening—and over a bridge glistening with, apparently, buttered ice to reach the library, because literacy is beautiful and responsible dedication to one’s profession sometimes bites down hard.
But Sunny recently brought home some things from school that have re-established and elevated my sense of maternal pride, so I forgive her. And I’m sharing:
If Jane is my Machiavellian draftsperson—Cupcake Wars, anyone?—then Sunny is my artist.
She doesn’t get it from my side of the family, though I did inherit my mad stick figure skillz from Dad. The Wessons, though, have artistic talent to spare and passed some of it to my kid, who would rather draw and color and decorate than eat.
How many five-year olds color the sky all the way to the ground? How many, when they draw a man standing in front of a tree, draw the man first¸ and then work on the tree trunk, which is set in the grass slightly higher than the man’s feet, because “it’s farther away, mommy”?
I might be biased—well, of course I’m biased—and I’m no art critic, but I like her use of color and perspective and placement.
Like this:
I want to write the story that belongs to this picture, so I can use it for the cover . . .
Of course, last night, she was drawing a leprechaun for our front window with a pink marker and decorating his waistcoat with flowers, a pink rainbow, and, for some reason, a television set showing a Powerpuff Girl—Blossom, I think, from the color. But he does have a waistcoat.
Random Thursday (ˈrandəm ˈTHərzdā): the day on which Sarah plunks down all the odd bits and pieces she’s acquired during the week in an effort to avoid writing a real post, the assembly of which usually ends up taking twice as much time as actually sitting down and creating real content.
Never in a million, trillion years would I be able to do this, even if the human race evolved into sentient rubber bands who still enjoyed the ballet. Even if I was that guy whose only job was to wear that head thingie and not drop her. My spine fuses at the very thought.
I’m not sure this really needed to be done—if you ask me, Swan Lake doesn’t need gimmicks—but it is astounding and quite beautiful.
I found out this morning over at Sherry Stanfa-Stanley’s blog that it’s International Blog Delurking Week, the week in which bloggers try to coax the people who are reading by not commenting to do so.
A few people prefer to send me e-mail comments—thank you, guys!—but there are always a few post hits around here that I can’t attribute to spam or referrerbots.*
So if you’re a regular reader around here but haven’t commented because my brilliance—or abject ignorance—renders you speechless, or you just dropped by to find cider recipes or ear fetishes or to look at that danged baby polar bear image I put up almost a year ago as an instead-of-post that still gets four hits a day,** I encourage you to leave a comment or drop me an e-mail or tweet to prove you’re nether spammer nor ‘bot.
Use an alias, if you prefer not to be seen here—a lot of my friends do. I’m sure they have good reasons . . .
And if all those extra hits are only from just one lovely person hitting the reload button several times for each post to make me feel happy, and you are that lovely person, please leave a comment—I want to thank you.
At the writing of this particular bit, it’s snowing. Has been since about 4am this morning.
We were supposed to get five inches between now and Sunday, a little at a time. A few pretty showers of tasteful, feathery flakes, easily cleaned up with a shovel, that’s what we were told. Heck, Sunny could probably do the driveway herself.
Instead, we’ve got five inches of wet stuff on the ground, about four to go, and I’m ten miles and a slushie-covered bridge away from home. I know this because my husband picked up Jane for me, about an hour ago, as there’s no way I’ll make the three miles from the library to her school in the thirty minute I have on these roads in the dark.
One day, I will not have to leave the house when it snows. I’m looking forward to that day more than I am to menopause—you’ll just have to trust me on the intensity of that statement, as I have no intention of expounding. You’re welcome.
By the time this is posted, I’ll be going fifteen miles an hour along a choppy river the color of an angry bruise.
Wish me luck—and that Rocinante’s brakes do what they’re supposed to do all the way home.***
A friend sent me this the other day, and since then I’ve been seeing it everywhere, so chances are, you’ve seen it, too. But you can’t seriously be tired of it yet—I’m not—so here it is:
This must have taken weeks, if not months, of moving books back and forth and up and down like Sisyphus with a camera and the Fury of Continuity breathing down his neck while holding a very large whip. . . But the first thing I thought when I saw it was, “I knew it!”
‘Fess up^—didn’t you?
___________________________________
*That I take the time to do the math makes me sound totally obsessed over my blog stats, which is absolutely true.
**Am I bitter that it’s my third most popular post? Possibly. But not enough to take it down and lose the hits. See? Obsessed.
*** Why not do so in the comments?
^ In the comments, if you wouldn’t mind, just this once?
We have two to four feet of snow in our driveway right now—that’s not the official amount, but the wind patterns around here whip everything right up to our garage door: leaves, snow, stray potato chip bags, squirrels. . .
I’d love to spend the day writing, but the kids are in here with us and they’ve had enough tv for now. So we’re about to have a balloonball tournament and a go at cleaning a couple of bedrooms. The tantrums will pass the time. . .
Of course, I’ve run out of diet Pepsi yesterday, so it may very well become the Shining in here after a while.
Enough to land me on my rear in the library parking lot—let’s hear it for natural padding—but not enough to keep me home from work or from driving my child to school down streets of blanketed ice.
C’mon, already. Accumulate or go away.
It’s not like writing at all. If the words don’t accumulate, you have to go get them and hope you don’t fall on your can. ‘Course, if you do hit the ground, it leaves a mark you can smooth out—or, in the case of Volkswagon-sized plotholes, fill in—when you come around for the second or third, or fourth, pass.
Right? Anyone?
Hope I’m right. Chapter Seventeen is getting a little slippery.
Nature’s Christmas tree, right outside our window.
The apple tree was caught off guard by the early temperature drop right after Thanksgiving. If you squint, you can see the snow on top of the frozen fruit.
We’ve got about eight inches of White Christmas on the ground right now, and it’s still coming down. I’ve got an hour before I have to drive my little shepherd and sheep to church, which is literally over the river and through the woods. We have to be there at four, the pageant is at five.
We’re leaving at three.
If you celebrate Christmas, have a merry one!
And if you don’t have to drive in the snow, feel free to celebrate that, too.
Earful of Cider 