Believe me, you do not want me to sing to you. No one does. Much as I love to sing, when I start in, cats howl and neighbors call the police to report a monster in the woods. But those words from The Sound of Music seemed to fit this last week of posting with the other ladies here at Writer's Plot. I just don't know what I'll do with myself without a Wednesday morning deadline. I might just sleep in instead of hurling myself out of bed at o dark thirty (whatever the heck that means) and slipping silently into my chair, sitting in the gloom and staring at the shiny silver screen, waiting for my brain to come on line and start tossing out words.
Today I went back through some of the old posts, copying them for posterity, or at least, until this computer dies. Reading through a year of them, I was struck by something that had never occurred to me before. For many years, my mother wrote weekly newspaper columns on gardening and country living. I was always awestruck by her erudition--she knew so much about so many things--and by her ability to have a fresh idea to write about every week, year after year. When I went back and looked at my own blogs, I realized that in some small way, I am following in my mother's footsteps. It is a pleasing thought indeed.
I don't know about the rest of you, but I've become enough of an old fogey that I really hate change. I don't like to have to learn to use new appliances--those stoves that require a Ph.D to operate, the microwaves that have control panels that look like they belong in the cockpits of jets, the fancy new flat screen TV that requires three different remotes to play a DVD, unless you have a child of twelve around to help out. I hate the new energy saving bulbs that make it feel like I live in a cave for the first few minutes that they're on and won't fit in many of my lamps. I don't want my cell phone to come with a hundred apps. I just want it to work in case of emergency.
So of course, I hate to think about the end of writer's plot, even though I've always considered myself as a temporary sub for Doranna. Without Lorraine to drag me out of my cave, I'm bound to retreat to my former luddite status. Thanks to her, I've got a presence on Facebook and My Space and lots of nice friends. I've enjoyed the kindness of all my sister bloggers. It's bound to feel different next week when Wednesday rolls around.
But change happens. This Christmas, amidst the usual chaos of relatives arriving, boxes piling up at the door, and the mandatory dozen extra trips to the grocery store, I went out with my son and his lovely fiancee, Robyn, to scout wedding venues. It means that sometime in the next year, my son will take that next, rather final feeling step away from this family as he forms a new family of his own. It also means that after thirty years of sons, I'm going to be getting a daughter. It was exciting to walk through several prospective wedding venues and imagine Robyn in a lovely dress and Jake in a tux. To imagine our family and friends and neighbors gathered to watch the handsome man they've watched grow up marry his beloved Robyn. The young couple were even kind to me when the sentimental old mom played them Kenny Chesney's "You Had Me From Hello."
So I guess this IS goodbye. I'm off to Egypt in a few weeks, and I'll be thinking about you as I see camels and pyramids, temples and gods. As I cruise on the Nile, feeling slightly guilty because I'm not at my desk working. And maybe, when I get back, I'll start blogging on my website, www.kateflora.com, as I set out to do several years ago.
Perhaps you'll drop by? I promise not to sing.