O and J and B and I were canoeing a swamp in one long canoe. We all paddled and chatted. The temperature was perfectly warm. There were no bugs. The mood was light.
There was no wind and no ripples except what we made. The only sun winks on the flat surface were where something disrupted the edge of a lily pad. Edges of reeds and duck weeds and to the sides drowned grey cedars. The middle patch of the water was narrow but we explored around a large area thru it.
At some point we were near shore and I declared that I needed to get in to register for high school before it closed. O gently humoured me and remarked on how you are probably a graduate since you were done university, last I heard. But you could go again. A private school would be a different experience and all experience is good. But, how about we all have lunch first? I know a bookstore that makes a great soup. There was general murmering of assent from the others.
With a mental grimace at green and navy plaid mini skirt mandate of the other option, I decided to go to the bookstore to eat.
At the stone inn, there were little cafe tables. By a riverstone wall was a fireplace cinder-blacked and with the set up to cook.
We sat by there at a square table. I sat at the end. Beside me was a 7- or 8-year-old redhead. He was there to meet people and mingle. The boy made small talk in a clear high voice. His eyes were clear and alert without reservations.
When he turned to me he asked what I do. I said, I write. He said it would be really good for me to show other people. Maybe send some out? I assured him that I was, I had. His look was patronizing in a kind-indulgent way. Do more, he urged me.
Reflections on publicity
1 week ago