November

Last week was hot, so hot that I forgot what month it was. And then the weather abruptly changed. A clear blue sky was replaced by a morning so foggy that it looked like the redwood trees were wrapped in gossamer. This morning there was even drizzly rain.

Suddenly cropped pants and short sleeve tee shirts were replaced with something more snuggly. And the lethargy I felt left and there was a spring in my step. And now another Halloween has passed – we had fewer kids this year, probably around 300, no doubt due to the fact that the neighbor who turned his front yard into a creepy horror show in years passed didn’t this year.

This week we did our last seminars for the year.

In case you didn’t notice, the moment Halloween ended, Christmas stuff came out in full force. But my thoughts are not turning to dancing sugar plums, but to murder instead. The next Crochet Mystery is due January 1. And I’m still writing the next Yarn Retreat book which is already past due.

Next week I’ll be in Chicago and finally have the space of time to get lost in writing. The days are shorter there than here since it is farther north. And the weather is supposed to be moody and cool. It sounds like the perfect time to hunker down with my laptop and let the story unfold.

I want to make a small version of the pattern I want to include in the next crochet book and I’ll be taking along the knitting project that will be featured in the next Yarn Retreat book. I like to sit in the living room, knit or crochet and look out the window. I know the leaves outside the window will have turned to a bright yellow as if they’ve swallowed the sun.

It won’t be all solitary endeavors, though. I have friends to see and news to catch up on. Becke and I meet for a late breakfast and don’t leave the restaurant until long after the lunch rush.

There will also be lots of walking. Such a change from here where it is all about getting in and out of a car. I walk to the grocery store and take a train to get downtown. My street hasn’t changed since I lived there and sometimes when I walking past the familiar houses, I have this momentary feeling that maybe all those years were a dream and I’m really just seventeen. That is until I get home and catch a view of myself in a mirror.