Monsoon of Simmer
Jul. 5th, 2024 09:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ismoThis was the first day since we got home that we didn't have something time-consuming to do. Or rather, I didn't--the plumber was coming to assess various seemingly minor problems that I suspected would turn out to have major fixes. He was to come at 2. He called before 9 and said he could come any minute now. So we zoomed around doing the last-minute tidying of bathroom areas that we had intended to put off until after coffee. Then I fled with the car before he could come and park me in, because the Sparrowhawk is tolerant and lets me dump repair people on him most of the time. I got coffee. The baristas looked behind me to see if Madame was coming, but she wasn't. I explained today was not my day to visit with her, but I was fleeing the plumber instead. The barista laughed and said she does that too. I sat and wrote about my brother, which I haven't had any time to do so far. I had only gotten as far as reflections on the day we found out, when my hand suddenly felt so tired, I could not lift my heavy pen. Yes, it was my heart that was too heavy, I'm afraid. I quit for fear of weeping in the coffee shop, and read a copy of Andrew Morton's very staid biography of the Queen off the used book shelf until the Sparrowhawk texted me that it was safe to return. He said it was too bad I missed out on "Zack," who according to him was tall and handsome and very skilled at plumbing. Unfortunately, this paragon of plumbers also left us an extensive list of what needs to be done, and how much various options would cost. Unfortunately we live in an old house, and the ultimate cause of our troubles is ancient, corroded pipes that need to be replaced. We have to contemplate this for a bit.
After threatening a thunderstorm, it turned out to be a beautiful day. I was hopeless at thinking of what to cook or eat, so the Sparrowhawk said he'd take me out to the restaurant by the lake. I was longing to go to the real, big Lake, but a small lake was at least water. I had walleye and he had seafood ravioli. Both were delicious, and we were on the deck by the water. Towering cumulus clouds ringed the lake. We watched old men fishing, and saw the notorious Floating Picnic Table being towed out to sea by a JetSki. It cheered me up quite a lot. Unfortunately, it also knocked us both out, because the sun was blasting down, and after we ate, we had to go home, where the Sparrowhawk took a nap and I wrote what I hope was a nice note to Ms. Science. It made me shed some more tears because I was thinking of my brother. When I asked Ms. Science if there was anything I could do, she said she wanted copies of Grandmother's poems. As if I had any idea where they all were! I found one in a sketchbook, and transcribed it for her. It was written in pencil and so fragile that I couldn't copy it, so I retyped it. Later, I found a folder in the attic files that seems to have a bunch more poems. I'll type and send them. It's something to do . . . although I find my parents' poems depressing as all get out. They were both excellent writers, but had too many melancholy secrets, so their poetry is too full of hinting around at darkness. I like a nice, exuberant poem that doesn't make you feel as if it might stalk you and mug you later that night.
After threatening a thunderstorm, it turned out to be a beautiful day. I was hopeless at thinking of what to cook or eat, so the Sparrowhawk said he'd take me out to the restaurant by the lake. I was longing to go to the real, big Lake, but a small lake was at least water. I had walleye and he had seafood ravioli. Both were delicious, and we were on the deck by the water. Towering cumulus clouds ringed the lake. We watched old men fishing, and saw the notorious Floating Picnic Table being towed out to sea by a JetSki. It cheered me up quite a lot. Unfortunately, it also knocked us both out, because the sun was blasting down, and after we ate, we had to go home, where the Sparrowhawk took a nap and I wrote what I hope was a nice note to Ms. Science. It made me shed some more tears because I was thinking of my brother. When I asked Ms. Science if there was anything I could do, she said she wanted copies of Grandmother's poems. As if I had any idea where they all were! I found one in a sketchbook, and transcribed it for her. It was written in pencil and so fragile that I couldn't copy it, so I retyped it. Later, I found a folder in the attic files that seems to have a bunch more poems. I'll type and send them. It's something to do . . . although I find my parents' poems depressing as all get out. They were both excellent writers, but had too many melancholy secrets, so their poetry is too full of hinting around at darkness. I like a nice, exuberant poem that doesn't make you feel as if it might stalk you and mug you later that night.
