Saturday, February 20, 2010

The Muse

The muse came to visit me this week. I wasn't ready for her, but she cares not. She came to me in the early morning hours and whispered an idea in my ear. Truthfully, she's a bit late, but it matters not.

Each year for Christmas I write my grandchildren a story. The book is always illustrated by me as well. Sometimes the pictures are drawn, sometimes scrap-booked or photographed. For the holiday season 2009 the muse had deserted me. But here we are in 2010 and she's found her way to my side.

In fairness, perhaps my muse always visits me in February. Perhaps she thinks she's cupid. I don't know. All I know is that I've the kernel of an idea. It is formed and it grows day by day and keeps me awake each night. Blasted muse does not keep normal hours. But Muse - thank you for coming.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

The Bible and the Renaissance Fair

Four young men sat at a booth in the coffee shop, their heads all bowed and their noses in books. "I'm going to the Renaissance Fair this weekend," one of them announced.

"It's a cult," said his neighbor.

"How can the Renaissance Fair be a cult? It's a time period." The man looked up from his bible.

"They always have fortune tellers, palm readers and magicians there. It's a cult."

"They have fortune tellers, palm readers and magicians because that's what was accepted during that time period. It's not a cult. It's an era."

At the table beside the men sat two women. The younger one dressed in black with dark auburn hair spiked out in a halo. I saw her cross her legs and wrap her arms around herself as if needing protection from the older woman that sat across the table.

The older woman leaned forward. Her hand touched the scarf she wore, straightening it over her bald head. I could not hear her whispered words, but when she finished, I noticed the young woman in black wore tears.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

Adam and Eve on a raft

I haven't heard this phrase for years. My father, a printer in downtown Minneapolis, would fix this on Sunday mornings when I was a young child. It was his favorite breakfast. Two poached eggs on toast. Hmmm. It's Sunday.