Home home beloved home. The flight was painless, the city not that cold and even sunny. My tenant Carol left me homemade tomato soup in the fridge and had been to the library to get a book I’d ordered that came in: Steven Pinker’s “The Sense of Style: the thinking person’s guide to writing in the 21st century.” That should keep me busy. Friends John and Sylvie left a big box of the most divine Christmas baking on the deck, some of which is in my stomach right now. There were Christmas cards in the mail, and just now, I got to listen to the podcast of friend and student Mary-Jane McPhee, who wrote a magnificent story for our Thursday writing group and this morning read it on CBC’s the Sunday Edition. Here’s the website, below; her essay The Night is off to the right. It’s a beauty, and beautifully read too. Proud of you, MJ.
Florida – palm trees, beach, pool, birds, colour, soft moist air – seems already like a dream. Wait – my hands are an unusual pale caramel colour. And soon I’ll read what I wrote down there and see if it’s any good. That’s the real test.
And now – Christmas! Ye Gods. I have to get a tree.