Quiet Time

Sunday by design is a day for rest, quiet time. It's dark and gloomy and I hear distant thunder and light rain like lead shot pelt the roof. Makes me want to build a fire and sip coffee and wish for cold weather as an excuse to wrap myself in an old wool blanket. To settle in with a novel and pretend to read when really I'd rather nap.

Soon, autumn leaves will begin the journey down, bits and pieces of amber and brown and red closely followed by northern winds, the official signal for the best time of the year. My favorite. I believe it's written upon Hemingway's grave marker, 'Best of all he loved the Fall.' I understand.

This morning, after church and fried chicken, we drove home under black threating skies. Sweet Wife asked what I'd like to do today. My first thought was to finish in the garage. I'd worked and sorted odd clutter for several hours well into the night and wanted to reorganize my ammunition and reloading supplies. I voiced this to her. She frowned. Not a good sign.

A mile or so down the road she took note of the weather and suggested perhaps my idea held merit. Now, she sits to my left deep into her bible study.  Over the last few months she's sought solace in her religion and it seems to have worked miracles; she's at peace and for this I am grateful and attend church with her even if I am found on the pew with my Kindle lost within its digital pages.

Yes, I listen to the sermon. It is possible and I have proved one can chew gum and walk with coordination. Once upon a time a friend found it quite shocking that I attended church. He asked if the candles flickered when I entered the sanctuary. I said, for the record, they indeed dimmed on occasion. He asked what had changed me. I said, "A little girl came into my life."

As I type I hear the rain as it hits my old metal wash tub I have hung on the back fence. It reminds me of my days of youth on the farm. Whenever I'd see the weather turn towards wet I'd head straight to the barn. Our barn had a metal roof and if you were able to find a clean spot of hay it made for the best bed in town. The hard southern thunderstorms made for a wonderful late afternoon sleep. 

I suppose I've made a liar of myself. I haven't ventured near the garage and my chores. It's too peaceful to work. Instead I think I'll head to the kitchen and build a pot of coffee return and pretend to read a book. But you and I both know it'll be cover for a nap. After all, the rain won't last forever.

Or will it.

Stephen