I have been absolutely flattened by a cluster of migraines over the past two or three weeks, so all I can do is mumble a plea for understanding.
I did have a little window of feeling human over the weekend, which I took full advantage of by going up to my favorite little bookstore in Roanoke, the Book Carriage. Their book club had been reading The Flower Reader for their most recent selection, and let me tell you, the book club members had great questions and really insightful comments. It was a wonderful afternoon.
They even had a sign on the sidewalk outside the store! I had to ask the Broadcasting Legend™ to take a picture, because I’ve never had my name written on a sign like this before. I love the dappled sunlight, and it was a great relief to my poor dazzled migraine-y eyes.
Here I am with, from left to right, Pat, the stellar book club coordinator; Brenda, a brilliant book club reader, and Angie Granados, the co-owner of The Book Carriage. Note the little bit of folded paper on the table—we drew names for one of the last of my pressed-flower bookmarks, and that was the winner (Pat! Congratulations!).
…and blinking in the bright light of real life…
Well, The Flower Reader is done. I’ve been unconscious for the past week. We’ve had storm after storm—thunderhail, lightningwind, windyrain, every combination you can imagine. Power on and off.
And I have the best idea for my next book…
What I saw on my walk today:
I would love to have some of this in our back yard. Trouble is, it has beautiful, shiny bright red seeds which are hallucinogenic (not surprisingly it’s also called the mescal bean tree) and very toxic. Not a good combination with two curious beagles who will eat anything!
But it’s so lovely. I’ll just have to appreciate it in other people’s yards.
Elizabeth’s mother passed away yesterday after an extended illness. Elizabeth will be offline for a while.
Lo, how a Rose e’er blooming
From tender stem hath sprung!
Of Jesse’s lineage coming
As seers of old have sung.
It came, a blossom bright,
Amid the cold of winter,
When half-spent was the night.
(Photograph of a tiny brave rose bush just outside our front door, blossoming despite our out-of-the-ordinary Christmas morning snow.)