|Oak Glen, 11/13/13|
For a long time, I’ve been noticing how impersonal this blog has become over the months and years. There is something in me reluctant to post personal news, photos, birthdays observed, holiday greetings, and so on. The closest I’ve come lately to articulating an opinion about anything but western fiction and movies was a carefully worded “rant” on misuse of the term “political correctness.”
Reading and enjoying blogger Chris LaTray’s weekly one-sentence journal got me thinking I should do something to break out of the self-imposed silence a bit. So after more than a one-week trial, I’m posting a one-sentence journal installment of my own. Now that I’ve started, we’ll see how it goes.
11/5, Tuesday. A sliver of moon hangs over San Jacinto in the evening sky, the air so clear you can also see the dark side of the moon, while the Valley below becomes a carpet of lights.
11/6, Wednesday. The day starts at 5:20, dawn light silhouetting the ridge of hills against the northeastern sky as I step outside the garage door, the cool air stirring the branches of the palo verdes.
11/7, Thursday. Making final changes to draft 5 of the book with an old tape of Pat Metheny and Spyro Gyra on the stereo.
11/8, Friday. Awake at 4:45 a.m. with the dogs next door yapping and my dog wanting out to scold them until they run back indoors, and I’m standing there in the patio—Orion sailing serenely overhead.
11/9, Saturday. These days have been that brief perfect season in the desert when neither air conditioning nor the furnace is needed to keep the indoor temperature just right, and you can leave the doors and windows open all day.
11/10, Sunday. More than three years ago it began to dawn on me that blogging was turning into a book, and this morning, as the sun was coming up, a draft of the MS for that book finally went to an editor who wants to read it.
11/11, Monday. Veterans Day: after the usual search, I find our big flag neatly folded in the top drawer of the buffet—where it’s supposed to be—and hang it on the side of the house facing the street.
11/12, Tuesday. As usual, I awake with a song running through my head, this morning’s selection “You’re Nobody Till Somebody Loves You,” and I’m wondering, “Now what’s that about?”
11/13, Wednesday. A golden autumn day at the vintage apple orchards in Oak Glen, walking the footpaths in the fallen leaves and dodging around excited groups of well-behaved school children.
11/14, Thursday. Enough of political chicanery, school shootings, and typhoons; I’m giving myself a vacation from the nightly news shows.
11/15, Friday. Each evening as the sun sets, Venus is a super-bright spot of light, high over San Jacinto in the southwestern sky.
11/16, Saturday. Time (disturbingly) flies—all these posts seem like yesterday.
Photo credit: (c) Ron Scheer
Coming up: Race in early frontier fiction