I have been reading an interesting book this week. I am THRILLED to exclaim that it held my interest - for the most part. How often have I read a book and gotten to perhaps the last 5th or so of it, at least towards its ending, and it seems to me that the author is fizzling out? Tired of working on this old book, so let's leapfrog through the last few chapters and be done with it!
Maybe it's just me. But, no, I don't think so. Had I been the editor of this book, I would have asked for more writing towards the end. S-T-R-E-T-C-H it out a bit.
The book I read was about a nun. Appropriately, the title of the book is Nun. It's all about a nun. In 1961. How the young 15-year old decided to become a nun, where she went to become a nun, how she became a nun, OK - you get the gist of it. It was a good read! Except it was too abbreviated towards the end.
I just had a neighbor stop by to borrow 72 soup spoons. (Because I have 'em!) Then she mentioned that she was hoping to acquire some gourds, which she had no name for, but only a physical description. "Birdhouse gourds? I have them. Lots of them." I walked her through the yard over to the Darwinian garden and then to my cutting garden. I showed her the tangle of gourds vs tomatoes, and the second season of roses blooming in the cutting garden, as well as the very healthy perennials that I planted early last spring, by seed, and now have forgotten what I planted - I have no idea what the name is. But I have lots of them, and they are bloomin' idiots just now. So pretty. Pity I can't recall what I planted. As we circled back, past the insipid racket of dogs barking (why can't they be nice dogs?), my friend stopped to look at the healthy rows of salvia and lavender on Mt. Paul. And her gaze followed the noise of the baker's dozen Indian Runner ducks who were, yes, running through the yard catching bugs and quacking for each victorious catch.
And my friend deadpanned, "You live in an amusement park."
Indeed, I do.
Huh; did she mean mentally?