I'm thinking about what to write tonight, sifting through the past few days in my mind and considering what is worth your time to read.
Should I write about the guy with the flat tire who told me he got fired from his job at Long John Silver's for bringing a gun to work? He figured that they wanted to get rid of him because his wife had chopped off her finger there a few months back. May...be....
Or about the older lady at the grocery store who told me more than I ever wanted to know about her sex life over the chicken breasts? And the young contractor working on her house who she was sure was in love with her old wrinkled 70+-year-old self. May...be...
Or would you would like to know about the author Fran Cannon Slayton who visited my library today, and about our lunch together? Her first book, the story of a young boy growing up in 1940's Rowlesburg, West Virginia has won accolades from high places.
Or would the story about my grandson's big stuck-up in the mud in the back of beyond be interesting? Especially the part about the four four-wheelers of somewhat inebriated people who tried to "help" and had him slid over the very steep hill and almost into a tree, and how I used my best drill-sergeant-granny voice to scream "STOP!"--and they did and they helped us get him out with no damage except much, much mud and a really scared little girlfriend.
What about the lady who bought a book about Kanawha County at the book sale, and told me that this was her first trip home in 37 years, and she'd come to bury her father? Her longing for her mountain home brimmed in her eyes.
Then there was the waitress who remembered that I like Chardonnay even though it's been a month since we'd been to that restaurant. Maybe she remembered because my grown sons played with the princess pink sunglasses of a young friend while we were there last time? The photos--priceless.
Or do you want to hear about the many quarts of beans we've canned, or the first ripe tomatoes Larry picked this evening, or how we're worrying over the black rot that is hitting our grapes no matter how hard we've tried to protect them?
Then there was the very beautiful young girlfriend of my youngest son who visited this weekend and very calmly picked up the six-foot black snake that resides in my chicken house. (Larry, of course, was beatin' feet in the other direction). Gotta love a girl who can do that and grill eggplant while looking like a model.
I'm pretty sure you don't want to hear about the long hours I've had to work recently, the up-and-out before 5am drill that is beginning to wear thin, or the many-many-many-page report I'm writing that is turning the rest of my hair gray.
But you might want to know about how Fran Cannon Slayton's parents knew my parents and how Fran and I attended the same small Catholic elementary school in Manassas, Virginia, years apart but still some of the same nuns teaching. A small world, this is.
Or how once again I have learned that the bonds of friendship can transcend many difficulties and still hold strong, testament to connections that hold us despite the challenges we encounter.
So many things I could write about, and so I sit here undecided. Maybe this little bit about each is enough.
Maybe by telling a little about each creates a patchwork quilt of the past three days that is in itself a testament to the variety, surprises and richness of life for two not especially unusual people who live in a tiny house on a small farm where anything can, and often does, happen.