Life sure is funny sometimes. Just when you think you’ve got it all figured out, along comes a twist in your knickers.
Not that I’m complaining.
I’ve lived long enough to know that not everything goes according to plan so I really shouldn’t be surprised when weird things happen. Well, maybe weird isn’t the right word.
You see, I’m one of those folks who is quite happy to be home with nothing but a book, a snack, and a glass of Dr. Pepper. Lately, though, I seem to have lost the desire to read. This may not sound like a big deal to many, but it’s a big surprise to me. I’ve been a bookworm for decades and have always been of the opinion that I’d rather read than sleep, but these days I’d rather pile up on the couch with my dog and watch TV.
I’ve always been more of a cat person. Cats are independent. All they need is a full bowl of kibble, clean water, and a tidy litter box. They only want about 5 minutes of lap time each day and they’re pretty content to be off sleeping on the foot of the bed in the spare bedroom.
Dogs just need more. A lot more. Mine wants constant attention. She wants to be petted every second of every day and, if I’m sitting down, she wants in my lap. She is not a lap dog. She is a 70-pound golden retriever named Molly.
It’s the dog’s fault I don’t want to read anymore. When I do try to read, she squirms and tries to nibble on the book. Besides, she is just too cuddly and I’ve gotten really attached. Just look at that face!
There are rainy days and then there are good rainy days.
I love a good rainy day. They’re usually in the Fall and involve a good book and an ample supply of chocolate. We haven’t had enough rainy days this year and I’m hoping that 2020 will bring us a healthy increase in the number of “book days.”
You see, my pile of books-to-be-read is about to overload the little table I store them on. It’s skinny little legs are looking a bit shaky these days. It’s not my fault, really. Between the lack of rainy days in 2019 and the fact that many of my favorite authors just keep on writing more books (a huge thanks to all of you, by the way), my little table just can’t keep up. What to do?
I know. Get off this post and go read. Silly me.
But first, if you haven’t already, try great reads from the following authors:
- Jodi Taylor—especially The Chronicles of St. Mary’s series, starting with Just One Damned Thing After Another
- Genevieve Gogman—start with The Invisible Library, it’s outstanding
- C. J. Archer—start with The Palace of Lost Memories or The Watchmaker’s Daughter
- Petra Durst-Benning—The Century Trilogy, starting with While the World Is Still Asleep
- Cathy Lamb—All About Evie, Henry’s Sisters, Julia’s Chocolates, and many more!
- Abbi Waxman—The Bookish Life of Nina Hill
- Fiona Davis—The Dollhouse, The Glass Ocean
I could go on about this forever, but my rainy day awaits. Enjoy!
My mom has always been, and always will be, the voice in my head that keeps me on the straight and narrow, especially through times when I couldn’t see two feet in front of me, much less what’s around the bend. She has been the strongest influence on my life, though most times I’d chafe at admitting it.
Throughout her 87 years, she relied on herself to overcome life’s hurdles. Her strength of character and determination saw her through many difficult trials—from the devastating loss of a child to the gauntlet of Alzheimer’s. Yet, she remained strong. It wasn’t in her nature to give up, no matter how difficult the challenge or risky the outcome. She loved an adventure.
Not to say she is the only person who ever told me I’m wrong, but she is the only person who would always tell me when I’m wrong or making a mistake. She was honest, hardworking, and had more character and personal integrity than anyone I’ve ever known. Her love, though quiet and somewhat reserved, was always there for me. It never faltered.
Over the years, Mom and I sometimes didn’t “get along.” Maybe because we were so much alike—I can be as stubborn and determined as she could—that it caused friction. We didn’t talk a lot, finding it difficult to chit-chat. Small talk wasn’t part of our pattern. Scrabble was our thing. We could get into deep conversations over a Scrabble board. We both enjoyed prowling through junk shops and the trips to them always got us talking as well. I learned more about Mom while playing Scrabble and driving to places where we could poke around dust covered bits and pieces than I would’ve dreamed possible. I cherish every game we played and every junk hunt we made.
Mom left us slowly, day by day. She lived with my sister for many years and for that I am truly grateful. I don’t know how she managed, day in and day out, watching Mom fade away, but I know I couldn’t have coped. It was hard enough to see just when I visited. Thank you my dear sister, for all that you did to take care of Mom, for keeping her safe, for making her life better.