Even in Paradise . . .

Even here, one gets tired and I've spent a couple of days mostly sleeping. Except for the usual walks with Jenny Lind - who today got a compliment for her "fit condition." And for writing group today, where I am learning to be terse, with pleasure. 

Of course Hurricane Sandy is whirling around in my mind, and I am concerned about my sister. Last I talked to her, her power had gone out, and she was ready for a battery lit early bedtime. I hope her phone is working in the morning. She's not exactly on the coast, and is not in probably danger from flooding, but this storm is so huge that results are unpredictable. I worry about her being alone and cold. She's on the Town of Essex's call list, and I trust in them right now. 

We all know people in New York, and the most recent pictures of Manhattan are other-worldly. And how is my friend in Newton Corners? And my friend in South Portland? I hope I hear from them soon. 

I have been reading. Of course. Finished the World War II London Blitz, by Ruby Alice Side. Perhaps I already mentioned that. Very good diary/memoir. Then started reading The Persecution of Mildred, Paulette Mahurin, but was interrupted by a Google loan of The Secret Piano, by Zhu Xiao-Mei. I read it in two sittings, and was almost entranced. Perhaps it was the Chinese emotional stoicism that kept it from being a real gripping tale rather than a good page-turner. The Persecution of Mildred is a very dark story of two lesbians in the early days of settling the west. I think it's going to get darker, and maybe I won't read much more.