I watched The Wizard of Oz twice this weekend—it was the high school drama club’s spring production. Skyler, the oldest of my grandsons, was the Scarecrow. He is a senior and this was his last performance, so even though he made me laugh, the laughter was being pushed out by tears. How did he get to be eighteen and over six feet tall and smart and funny and talented?
This morning, I started the last couple of pages of my WIP, Summer in Stringtown Proper. I was interrupted for church, interrupted again to go to the play, interrupted again because we were spending fun time with yet more grandchildren and their parents. By the time I came to the office to write, I’d lost my way through the story’s ending. I’ll have to search it out tomorrow morning.
Even though I don’t cry anymore when I finish a book (more like a resounding Yay! and a fist pump), there is still bittersweetness to it, tears on the edges of the pleasure. I will miss Molly and Joe and the other people from the Ridge. I will miss Rahilly’s Saloon with its stained glass transom over the door and its cloth napkins and table coverings. If you’ve read A Soft Place to Fall, you may remember the Ridge—it’s a little community in central Kentucky. Stringtown Proper is a town there. When I was asked to contribute a novella to Small Town Summer, a boxed set of nine contemporary romances, I couldn’t wait to go back for a visit.
So now it is Monday, a brand new week. Skyler will be back in class today, his costume stored in the wardrobe room behind the stage, pieces of straw still littering in places it escaped the broom. I’ll finish Summer this morning—I think—and move onto the next project. If it feels a little melancholy around here, that’s okay. To almost quote some of the lyrics from Oz:
I can wile away the hours
Conferrin' with the flowers
Consultin' with the rain
And my head I'll be scratchin'
While my thoughts are busy hatchin'
Have a great week!