I started writing an essay yesterday, which may or may not go anywhere, but at least I was writing, at least I was writing. And reading, and going to the library to hunt down more books, and singing to myself along the way. Finally, I can say that I am healthy again . . . and also cheerful, as my husband pointed out, with palpable relief. The poor man has been living with a dishrag for too long.
Tomorrow morning I'll drive north for an afternoon show at the Squaw Mountain ski lodge in Greenville, and I'm pretty confident that my voice will hold out--or at least not get any worse than a mild smoker's rasp. Today I'll edit, and maybe spend some more time with that essay, and go grocery shopping, and work on memorizing some songs, and read Vietnam war poetry, and read War and Peace.
Outside my window I see the Adjunct English Teacher walking slowly up the sidewalk. I only know that's his job because, soon after we moved here, I overheard him introduce himself that way to another walker. But I don't think he does much adjunct English teaching because he spends an awful lot of time plodding around the neighborhood in an orange down jacket and various kinds of inappropriate footwear (e.g., socks and sandals in a slush storm). I feel there is a sad story, which unfortunately for him may also be comic, behind the mask of the Adjunct English Teacher.