It has been so slippery that for several days I haven’t been able to take a long, brisk walk. I go out with my new winter boots on — they’ve got grips that look like they’ll keep me upright — and pick my path carefully, taking my time. I walk where there are loose pebbles on top of the gravel, yet even they are no guarantee and my foot still slides. Our driveway remains a skating rink, and Scott reports icy patches on the roads. Our steps are also a danger zone, with their layer of glare.
I’m rereading Margaret Atwood’s The Blind Assassin. It must be a hell of a long time since I first read it, because I remember next to nothing of the plot or characters. Usually I don’t read a novel twice, but the local library sells used books for 25 cents and I picked up several for the trip to Calgary and Kelowna. This way if they disappeared en route it would be no big deal (I wouldn’t be losing a library book or one borrowed from a friend).
Atwood never fails to impress; she has a way with descriptive phrases.
“Wild geese fly south, squeaking like anguished hinges.”
There was a stack of books waiting for me at the library yesterday so I am stocked up on reading material. Emil was coming out for the weekend and had asked to be picked up after having his supper at the group home. We needed groceries here so a shopping expedition was required, and mail had come for Everett so I delivered it to him.
There is a Christmas craft show in Margo and I meant to stay with two of my great-nieces in the afternoon so their mother could ply her wares. But Emil came with a cough and runny nose, which means we stay home. Two teaspoons of cough syrup before bed knocked him out for the night — at least I didn’t hear any coughing — but he sounds rough this morning. He’s 28 years old and I still get anxious when he isn’t feeling well. Once your baby, always your baby.
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I love your teacup in the left hand corner. Have a good weekend.
The teacup is one of a set my paternal grandmother won in a bonspiel. I don’t know what happened to the rest of the dishes but I have a couple teacups and saucers and a couple dessert bowls. Grandma Johnson died suddenly, age 47, when I was six years old. She couldn’t sleep, thought it was indigestion, and got up to do some crocheting in her chair in the living room. She was found there in the morning, dead of a heart attack. I was relieved when I passed that age, because I am so like her in appearance and movement.
Maggie Turner says:
NOVEMBER 25, 2016 AT 4:32 PM EDIT
I like WordPress, but commenting is something I find a little daunting. I don’t use a facebook login because I don’t like them tracking everything I read, kinda creepy. I don’t twitter, or google whatever. I created a wordpress account just so that I could comment on the blogs I love to read, and might want to comment on. Having said all that, I like your new digs!!
I hope people don’t have too much trouble figuring out the comment form here. It can be a pain in the ass and there are times when, at other people’s blogs, I give up out of frustration. Why should any reader have to create a WordPress account or sign up through FB, Twitter, etc? It should be as easy as putting in your name and email address, but no … WordPress has to take advantage, doesn’t it, and make you jump through hoops.