Thursday, August 7, 2008

80: Here


I write to all of you from my grandmother's back porch, two walls entirely screened windows, bare floorboards, the lake hypnotizing us yards away. We had an afternoon storm, and I took photographs of the rain, little dashes with the blurred trees as background. After, the ducks hobbled out, making that special, childhood raising quack, and I chased them with my camera, which, according to my husband, was hugely amusing since I seemed to be hunting the poor birds.

We made our traditional trip to the used bookstore, and I pulled down volumes, collections of essays on Robert Bly and H.D. and William Carlos Williams. My husband has his own equally dense texts, the same fuzzed hardcovers without dust jackets--these on programming and mathematics. If we accidentally traded, which is possible given the dull colored academical anonymity that comes with those plain covers, we would be hopelessly lost in our opposite's pursuits.

There is a chicken roasting in the oven, to join seven different kinds of vegetables, all from my grandmother's garden (where her dahlias will win ribbons and her tomatoes are fat and red) or last week's CSA pick up. Green beans, corn, red potatoes, onions.

I think of what writer's retreats must be like, especially after conversing with Eireann and talking of the Anderson Center in the summer, and this seems like it would be an ideal place for it.

I am hoping to fill in some gaps in my chapbook manuscript while I am here. I am hoping I know where to go from there.

1 comment:

nicole said...

I cannot believe how beautiful this was to read! you have such a way with words. . . xox