A Room of Our Own (and a Glass of Champagne)

It's another miserable day in paradise. Gorgeous, puffy clouds high in the sky, birds twittering and scolding, butterflies (really, there are butterflies) flitting from the daisies to the forget-me-nots in the yard.

We've just returned from a lovely brunch where we feasted (and I do mean feasted) on Eggs Benedict with salmon and spinach, potatoes and fresh fruit. This was after the green salad garnished with fresh citrus and poppyseed dressing, the complimentary glass of Champagne and orange juice. We toasted one full week of productive writing. Fifteen chapters drafted for me, two of four sections revised for Letterlady. We are the ants! We work while the grasshoppers fiddle away. We will be ready for winter.

Our delightful hosts have a little outbuilding (that they built themselves) for writers to use for study and composition. It has books and fresh flowers, dictionaries and maps. A little porch provides options for sitting, and inside, a table and chairs stand outfitted with pens and highlighters for hard labor. All with wireless internet access, if you can imagine. It sits in the daisies and faces the beautiful Alpine views (actually there are views in all directions.) We are headed there this afternoon if we can raise ourselves out of the various horizontal poses in which we now find ourselves.

We called our daughters this morning to make sure that appropriate Father's Day celebrations were underway. All was well in both houses, although in my self-centered myopia, I forgot to put anything in the mail to my own father, who is my steadfast and true source of all things important (and a regular contributor to the comments section on this blog.) I called and groveled and he readily forgave me, but I still feel guilty and am using this opportunity to publicly shame myself and pronounce to the world (or at least to the four people who actually read this) that I have the best Dad a girl could ever hope for.

Happy Father's Day, Pops.