It’s raining birthdays. E’s and J’s and H’s and C’s and L’s and L’s and L’s. Happy birthday everybody. It’s mine too, just about. My birthday month, at least. Surely you noticed.
I’m so over giving and getting presents. Unless the presents are a bottle of wine, a bar of soap, or a Maserati. Not another book. My recliner is awash in books half begun and half finished. And, I took 11 boxes of books to Green Apple recently. I blame it on the recliner. Exception is: you wrote it and I get a mention. How about a dedication? But not like in Phyllis’ book, On Kelsey Creek, please. She thanked me for help in proofreading and my name was misspelled.
Any one else I might have been supremely miffed. On Kelsey Creek was a work I adored, still do, and helped coax along. I came up with Beth’s surname, I suggested the title. But it was Phyllis, and I had to laugh. Who could get miffed at Phyllis?
Phyllis’ birthday was around this time, too. September, actually. The 13th, I think. Like me, a Virgo. Tidy, like me. It was no surprise to see raccoon tracks across the floor of her kitchen. The only surprise was how she could produce perfect lunches in the maw of chaos.
One of the books not in the 11 boxes was On Kelsey Creek. I am sure of that. But what I am not sure of is where it is. I’d like to see what she wrote when she signed it. Probably something like, “Best regards.”
She’d be nearing 100 this year. Maybe 99. She would have lived forever, if she could have. Everyone who knew her wanted that.