Morning Rain, Afternoon Wind

This morning it was rainy - slow, steady rain soaking everything well and cleaning the air. It’s windy now, and the trees around my cottage are bowing their graceful heads as the leaves run races across my front yard. I’ve been here two weeks already – how the time flies.

I contacted my writing workshop leader, and she gave me the name of a woman who may be starting a writers' group on the island. I've left a message for the lady, so hopefully I'll hear back from her soon and be able to get involved from the ground up.

I keep photos of Grammy and Granddad Hogan up in my cottage window to help inspire me to write. Yesterday was particularly productive. I have so far to go in order to put together an actual story about Dad, but I was able to capture several memories that will help when I begin weaving the story. (**Rules of any comments on the writing in order to protect my 'artist child' - only good things, no suggestions or corrections.**)

Dad never wore a shirt. Okay, he wore a shirt to the dinner table and to town and to mass on Sunday, but in my memory of him, he is always shirtless - swinging a hammer, or laying mortar on brick, or using his hand saw (with the handle painted green). His back was the color of baked earth - terra cotta, the Italians say - and his weathered cowboy hat would cast a shadow on this shoulder or that as he moved around, steadily, purposefully, with very little wasted energy. Dad despised waste. Having been 9 or 10 at the time of The Great Depression, he considered waste a sin because everything was a precious gift from God. Even his health and strength and work ethic were gifts. He loved a good laugh, but when it was time to work, it was time to work...