Paper Snow

The closest thing to snow here in STX-Seaglass snow pines. 

Ok.  I'll get this pun out of the way right up front so you can have a good groan & then we'll be able to move on. Don't think by this title that I am 'pining ' for snow.  Done groaning yet?  Good.  

Frankly, 23 years without is almost long enough.  Almost.  Instead, I'm referring to flurries of scraps of paper, covered in my wretched handwriting, & stuck in every imaginable space in my house.  I'll probably never commit to a book.  Short stories or a blog, OK.  A book is much scarier.  But I like to write.  Granted, a lot would fall into the category of post-breakup angst-driven prose, but there's a lot of bliss in there too.

My poor bloated (Siri, you can stop bitching about being overloaded with pics anytime now.  I'm working on it.) iPhone even holds a couple of scribbles I didn't want to disappear from my sieve-like brain.  I stumbled on one cyber-scrap yesterday when I was looking for my window dimensions (roman shades can't be that hard to make; right?).  From September, 2014, post-Post Office encounter:

"On Continuity & Mr F

I ran into a great old friend today, someone I hadn't seen in years but that I've known for all 22 that I've lived here. He spoke, as always in his slightly Irie lilt and as always said something that confused and pleased me simultaneously.  "You have always been such a humble lady," he said.  While I was puzzling on that and smiling as I do, with my eyes closed, I somehow realized he was thrusting a hand forward to be clasped as he bestowed blessings on me.  And so I told him the truth--that I considered the blessings had already come in the form of running into him again. The best part:  his hand was covered in pen markings--Numbers, fractions, scratches--all from recording information needed for precision cabinetmaking, his line of work. He's just fine. And after seeing him, so am I."

Re-reading, i'm reminded it isn't just the beaches I'm here for. Happy weekend!