This 'n' That by Liz Flaherty

Every now and then, the "blank page" is more than a challenge and an unrealized pleasure. It's kind of horrifying. The idea that I don't have anything to say (and I admit there are those who would be delighted by this) appalls me. As an identifier, I am "the one who writes."

And I'm afraid of losing that identifier, of becoming "the one who used to write." I don't want to "used to" anything, thank you very much. Other than some muscle- and joint-related things that just aren't happening anymore, I mean.

On the group writing blog I'm part of, we sometimes post about this-and-that, simply because we can't think of anything to say, so here we go. The Window's version of This 'n' That. Thank you for your patience. 

Our class party was last night. It was wonderful. The food was fabulous. In 1993, I wrote "...although not all classmates love each other, either in school or 25 years later, there is still a sense of togetherness developed by memories shared that makes us see each other in a kind light. We delight in each other's glories and mourn each other's losses."

We still do. It was wonderful to see you.

Photo by Becky Shambarger

Thinking of the party and of watching Two-Thirds-of-Three-Old-Guys play music at the Black Dog later last night made me think of the word gathering. It's a favorite, one of those that gives joy and promotes memory. In the field west of the house, round bales clustered for a picture this week. If I were a good enough photographer to name my snapshots, I'd call it "The Gathering." What do you think?

The Gathering

I remember when bales were all the little rectangular ones that came apart in sweet-smelling flakes for cows to munch on. (I call them "little," but those suckers were heavy.) Bales of straw rowed on wagon beds for hayrides. What goes on the wagons now?

I love woodpeckers. 

Can you believe kids are going back to school already? I know vacations are different and that there are longer ones during the school year, but I'd rather have August be part of summer. Of course, no one asked me...

At the party last night, I ate a piece of Merry Gaerte's butterscotch pie. I now know what heaven is like. I weighed a pound more this morning, but I'm not blaming her. Nope, not me. 

I sold a book to The Wild Rose Press this week. Its (working) title is Life's Too Short for White Walls. I really love the title. Because, you know, like Gran says in the book, "The only good place for white walls is on a '57 Chevy."

Have a great week. Be nice to somebody.