Blah, the aches. Blah, the tiredness. Blah, blah, blah. Still, I feel better than I did yesterday.
I never read novels. Maybe a novel or two a year. Saturday I read Barbara Kingsolver’s “Prodigal Summer” in its entirety. This was due to the aforementioned aches, for which I am grateful, in the sense that they allowed me to do nothing but read all day. Every time I read a novel I tell myself I will read more, and this time I think I’m telling myself the truth.
The landscape of “Prodigal Summer” is very much like the landscape of my own life–Southern Appalachia. I enjoyed reading about the inhabitants of an ecosystem with which I am deeply familiar. Luna moths, coyotes, and the ghosts of chestnuts still whispering through the forest. The way the mountain breathes, the sweet exhale of evening running through my window, carrying the story of skunk and bear, and, if I were my dog, a cacophony of other stories, weaving in and out amongst the trees. In my imagination Bitter Creek Cove took on a deep resemblance to a cove where I lived some ten years ago. Bad Creek. That was the name of the little creek that made the cove. It ran off of Devil’s Nest mountain. That place still pulses in my imagination, because it lived up to its name in some strange ways.
Yesterday I thought I’d tackle “thirteen moons” by Charles Frazier, of “Cold Mountain” fame, but it took on a certain cowboy flair that I found unappealing. So then I thought I’d try and find another unread novel lying around on my bookshelves. But it was no use, even with a stack of a few good possibilities, the virus lodged in my sinuses, and I Benadryled myself out of my misery.
As soon as I’m clear of this virus I’m heading for the hometown to visit my sister and her new baby. Considering that I’ve been also nursing McKinley and Renee for about five days, it will be sweet to escape for awhile.