A Tinge of Sadness

 

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Back in May, we went to a restaurant to celebrate a special occasion, a restaurant we had not been to in years. Our entrees were delicious, but the waitress was sour. In her bad mood, or what could have been her usual grumpy disposition, she put a damper on the experience. She ignored us, did not ask if we needed anything, and barely opened her mouth, let alone, smiled. We chose not to tell her about the special occasion; I doubt it would have made any difference in her demeanor. On the way out, we skipped on complaining to the management or scrimping on the tip. 

    This unsavory incident was most unusual, as generally, when we eat out, we meet a friendly, efficient staff. I have never been a waitress (although I've served plenty of people), and I am sure that waitressing is challenging work, and that some customers can be curmudgeons, but a server taking out a bad day, or a bad life, on her diners is not a good thing. I left the restaurant feeling sad for her and for us as well. 

A Star is Born

 

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In 2019 I came up with the hairbrained idea of making another quilt. This time, I would size it to fit our bed, which I had not done before. All of my other quilts are hanging over bannisters, resting in folds at the foot of beds, or lounging on the backs of chairs and racks. This one would be different; we would sleep under it. It would fit our queen size mattress and come down to the dust ruffle. That was the criteria, and my needle and thread would be coaxed toward that goal.

    As usual, when I sprint down the quilt trail, I jump in on all fours and start cutting and stitching, not stopping to eat a sandwich, not thinking about the future, and certainly not planning how I will accomplish certain maneuvers along my quilt making way. This failure to appropriately plan creates the potential for a disaster, but as the instructor of my first quilt course once said, "There is no mistake that cannot be fixed."

One thing, or one word, at a time

 

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I turned the page of a used paperback to find a miniature brochure stuck between the pages. It was not much bigger than a Post-it note and boasted of a Speed Cleaning Guide, Compliments of Real Simple. In eagerness to improve all areas of my life, I read it quickly and learned that I could swoosh, wipe, squeegee, spray, and straighten my whole house in nineteen minutes.

    By the time I finished speed-reading the brochure, persuasive words had almost convinced me that I could accomplish such a feat, but before jumping on the house cleaning bandwagon, only to risk tumbling off and hitting the ground, I conceded that I could no more clean my house in nineteen minutes than I could write a chapter in nineteen minues.

    I pictured Martha Stewart, the queen of domesticity, running circles around me, and Danielle Steel, the bestselling author, spewing pages of a manuscript out of a typewriter, like a geyser spews water and steam. Then I looked around me. Dust on the windowsill made me sigh, and words not yet written piled up in my head higher than the sheets and towels in my laundry basket. What to do?

    "Be not dismayed," I told myself.

    In both instances, I will keep trying, because every house is cleaned one sweep at a time, and every book is written one word at a time.

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