The furnace is repaired. I now have heat that turns off when not required and I don’t have to use the breaker panel to keep from being cooked alive. So good news!
Yesterday was a bit of a bust. A sleepless night as insomnia raises its ugly head. I blamed the heat, but I fear the responsibility lies with my busy brain. This morning while I sip my less than perfect coffee I am watching the sunshine creep up the hill to me. I am in the shadow of the “mountain” on which stands Moosehide Slide. It’s a bit like watching the tide come in on Fundy. I look away and when I look back, the sunshine has crept even closer. Remember playing “What time is it Mr. Wolf?” and trying to creep as close to the “wolf” before he shouts “time to eat you” and you run back to the starting line before he can grab you? I think the sunshine is engaging in the same kind of play with me. I love the sunshine. I must express my affection for it because before too long it will be very hard to find.
So yesterday was a stay in day for the most part. I took photos of the inside of the house to remind me that someone had a sense of humour.
First off, is Pierre Berton’s typewriter. Very cool. Inspiring.
The typewriter sits on a table beneath the side window in the living room right next to a plant that I must try to remember to water. Plants in my house are usually gasping for a drink and I only notice them when a remaining thread hangs over the side of the pot like a limp sleeve from a pair of pyjamas. I can’t be trusted when it comes to potted plants. I gave up long ago. We can’t be all things.
I’m not exactly sure how long the Irish Whiskey has been here on the Berton desk, but safe to say I won’t be sampling it. As I sit and write and it catches my eye I do giggle. And is there really such a thing as a tortured metaphor? Aren’t all metaphors tortured?
Two pillows adorn the comfy chairs in the living room, an absolute sign that someone stayed here with a healthy sense of humour. And Truman Capote was quite right. There are days when I am merely exercising my wrist as what appears on the page has no resemblance to writing.
I think Hemingway was quite familiar with the bottle and so perhaps I should heed his advice, though it may be late in the game to change my personal practices.
This is just one shelf from the library of books written by Pierre Berton. He wrote fifty. I’d have to live another thousand years to match that record, so I won’t bother to try. I most certainly will read some though and then I can take a piece of Pierre Berton home with me and consider him a friend.