Our county is nothing like Northwest Ohio, where country roads form perfect square miles laid on a giant table top (except for jogs where surveyors reportedly goofed, such as near the homes of my mother and sister). Here, it could take a half hour to drive to dine with a neighbor on the other side of a mountain, or an hour and a half on a slippery winter's night for fools who should know better.
So when I headed home from orchestra practice last night, I kept an eye on the car's thermometer and prayed it was accurate. Thirty-four degrees made me queasy. I admit it; I'm a wimp, terrified by 32 degrees and rain in the dark, no longer invincible like a teenager. "Wanted: Struggling writer to chauffeur a scaredy-cat. Part-time gardening responsibilities. Salary negotiable."
Virginia volunteered. That would be almost like hiring a ghost. She has better things to do.
The Bowman Women; A Work In Progress
1 week ago