Two months ago, our house nearly burned.
In the spirit of fiction writing, I exaggerate a bit, but it was a close call. I was in Arkansas and therefore not responsible nor a suspect. John returned from work to a smoke-filled downstairs. Dallas fire fighters paid us a visit with sirens blaring—it was that bad.
|basket o’ cloth napkins|
|bottom of cabinet. nice.|
The underside of our cabinet is extra crispy. Inside the cabinet smells of a rump roast grilling on a Weber. For hours I washed glasses, doors and shelves.
I ignored it. I packed my car, locked the back door and drove to Dairy Hollow for a writer’s retreat. I became a witch for Eureka Springs’ Halloween, the streets filled with zombies and ghosts. Real or imagined?
In Fayetteville, purple and orange pansies grow where weeds once lived. I painted the last louver door! Thanksgiving at my sister-in-law’s—I only baked a pecan pie and potato casserole, a major departure for me.
Fearlessly, I wrote in the Ozarks, making new friends, thinking fresh thoughts.
Never once did I think about my Dallas kitchen, 350 miles southwest, smelling of forest fire mixed with Pine Sol. Yet,
I suppose I shall be forced to paint. Ideas, anyone? anyone?