Wednesday, February 25, 2009
It's a sunny afternoon and warm for February. Suzanne played outside for a while with Randy, Lisa, Steven and Brian, and now she's watching cartoons. I'm reading "The Confessions of Nat Turner" (very upsetting!) and listening to "Light my Fire," by the Doors.
This morning I washed and waxed the kitchen, utility, bath and entry floors, cut out and sewed on Suzanne's dress, washed three loads of clothes and made a meat loaf for supper. I can't seem to accomplish much of anything anymore!
Yesterday, Suzanne and I went to Bloomington to buy me some shoes. I found just what I wanted downtown at Roland's...a plain brown leather with a chunky heel. Also bought Suzanne a cap, two pairs of corduroys, two cute little blouses, and a pair of Red Ball Jets.
Suzanne is such a little character. She's getting over a cold but still has a runny nose and a cough, so I've been giving her cough drops. While we were having chocolate milkshakes at Woolworth's, she said, "Mommie, I wish you could get me some sniff drops." I said, "What for?" "To keep me from sniffing!"
I've got to go to a Stanley party at Cheryl's Tuesday night. Don't need anything, but I guess I'll have to buy a brush or something!
I'm worried about the Vietnam War. Heard yesterday that President Johnson is going to start bombing in North Vietnam. And he's calling his critics nervous Nellies. I don't think we should even be there, but I'm afraid we'll be there for a long, long time, like the French. Carroll's cousin, Eddie, is over there, and we're all worried about him. He's a helicopter pilot.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
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The past is not dead. In fact, it's not even past.
-Henry David Thoreau
Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.
Technique alone is never enough. You have to have passion. Technique alone is just an embroidered potholder.
Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.
It is the purpose of literature to turn blood into ink.
No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.
To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about, but the music the words make.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
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Monday, February 9, 2009
Looks romantic, doesn't it? But romance was not on our minds. When this picture was taken, Bill and I were wearing our coats, gloves, and I had on my knitted hat. (It wasn't a pretty picture!)
Mornings found us hovering around the heater, waiting for our coffee water to heat up.
We soon grew tired of running to restaurants for breakfast, so we decided to dine in.
I had to brown the biscuits on both sides. And I found I like'em better that way.
As you can see, Tallulah, Dudley and FurGirl were all just about as depressed as we were.
Especially FurGirl. I heard her muttering to herself: Those two little toots are driving me stark, raving mad!
Anyway, I'll be posting regularly from here on in. Unless another ice storm hits us. If it does? Well, I'll probably pull my hair out. It has already turned gray.