It has been a difficult year. Anyone on the planet would have to agree. The list of creatives alone who have passed away seems longer than usual, and I’m not surprised they gave up the ghost, as they say. Which brings me to this word, spirit . . . I’m in my seventies. Growing up, we said Holy Ghost when speaking of the third person of the Trinity, and then Ghost was changed to “Spirit.” My Benedictine friends pray to the Father, Son, and to the Holy Spirit of Father-Son, to distinguish it from an actual entity.

Finishing the Job, 1/3

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Alt: a cartoon rhino is standing in front of a check pinned post sign

To an exile from the Southern states—lo, these fifty-four years—the sweet sound of a soft Georgian accent attracted me. When coming into town for this or that, I would notice Catherine, newly arrived to our little western town as she walked her dog, Sammy, a Golden Retriever/Basset hound mix (in my estimation). The woman wore black most of the time. I suspect the fashion choice was meant for simplicity: a black knit top and black leggings, white blonde hair falling to her shoulders, an exquisite complexion, and sporting large, gold hoop earrings.

Daylight. I wake most mornings around 5:20—to a scheduled alarm on my cell phone, except for Sundays. The exception to prove the rule, as it were. This is the thing about rules, isn’t it? Remember Picasso saying we must know the rules before we can break them? Tricky, but it makes one think. Breaking rules on occasion (on occasion!

Living rurally in Wyoming has its charms, forsooth. It is possible, even sadly convenient, to ignore the rest of the world by doing what’s in front of our faces to do. The croft requires mine and my husband’s attention, especially this time of year as we hunker down and carry on with autumn chores. Apples are stored in the garage, except for maybe two bushels of…

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