Remembering "Blue Laws"

Blue Laws have been on the books since Puritan Days in New England, probably starting out as a way of enforcing the commandment to keep the Sabbath holy. In the late 19th Century, as the Temperance Movement (headquartered in Westerville, Ohio) took hold, it became illegal to sell booze on Sunday. This lead to a whole list of things one could not do on Sunday:
... Shop
... Trade Horses
... Buy Tobacco
... Buy Cars (still on the books in several states including mine, Pennsylvania, where the Liquor stores are still mostly closed on Sundays)
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An interesting exception to these Blue Laws was the Drug Stores who remained open on Sunday to satisfy emergency needs for medication. This is also how Drugstores began to be book stores, grocery stores and stock sundry other items, since they could be open on the Sabbath.
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I grew up with Blue Laws. Nothing but gas stations and the Rexall Pharmacy were open on Sundays; it was truly a day of rest, except in our family, because we went to visit each other. Lunch after church with Mom and Pop Borders (fried chicken). Then off to visit my Dad's parents, Mom and Pop Giles who lived in Portsmouth in an apartment that was up against the floodwall (boiled chicken and dumplings).
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Sometimes, we went places on Sundays, driving to Chillicothe for a new treat, Dairy Queen. Of course, anytime we were in Chillicothe, Dad had to have a drink of sulfur water from the sulfur springs there. The water tasted exactly like it smelled. Uggghhhhh.
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There were no organized soccer games, no Little League, no school activities to attend on Sundays. It was a day to relax, to attend church and be with family, and it was all thanks to Blue Laws. I miss Blue Laws.

Great Heats -- the final review?

In the agony of re-reading my words for the umpteenth time, I kept questioning this word or that punctuation or that phrase. But finally after two weeks of inspection and introspection, I sent my comments and requests for changes back to the publisher. And, now, I await the proof copy. Hmmmm.

While writing and re-writing, I would go to one of five restaurants for breakfasts and then to the local Library in the afternoon. Trying to write at home was too distracting -- too many things to take my mind away from trying to cast myself as a Sentinel on lookout from a hilltop, imagining how he would feel in his isolation.

"Your toast, sir. More coffee?" Even the pleasant, young waitresses in this distant setting were not a distraction, a fact that perhaps would disappoint them.

Now, I am home... waiting for the proof copy to arrive... waiting. I want to start the next book. Actually, I have started it; am almost 30 pages in, but the need to move ahead with more words advancing the story has left me. Waiting...

Although I have used the word "ennui," I think now, I am stuck in it, like being inside the Bermuda Triangle. Hmmmmmmmm. Hmmmm. ZZZZZ.

From "The Writer's Almanac"

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind
by William Shakespeare

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude, as man's ingratitude.
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy teeth are not so sharp,
Although thy breath be rude, although thy breath be rude.

My faithful friends draw nigh
And look us in the eye
It is a wealthy man who has good friends like you.
Through darkness, cold, and snow,
Wherever you may go,
You bear my friendship true, you bear my friendship true.

Now warm these gentle folk
With maple, birch, and oak
And turn you front and back to feel the cheerful blaze
And be of cheerful mind
And bless the wintertime
Its calm and starry nights and bright and silent days

There are angels hovering round
To carry the tidings home
To the new Jerusalem
The shepherds came with joy
The sheep and cows stood near
The child lay asleep

"Blow, blow, thou winter wind"
~~ William Shakespeare, 1564 - 1616.

Smoke

Anticipating the mundane, Monday task of taking out the garbage, I went outside the garage on a lazy-late Sunday afternoon. The moisture-heavy air was clean, allowing the pungently sweet smell of wood smoke to penetrate deeply.

I have always responded to the smell of burning wood -- whether in my home environment or in locations around the world. Smoke stirs something in my DNA -- genetic memories of an icy night on the Kentucky frontier, or the warmth produced in the stone fireplace of a medieval cathedral residence, or the comfort of roasting a rabbit in Gaul, or the smoke made while drying fish caught in the Black Sea. The response to smelling smoke from a wood fire is immediate and friendly.

Watching the smoke curl out the top of my neighbor's chimney, seconds turned into minutes, as the sky darkens and then turns pink-orange in the west as the sun rests for the day. The pleasant odor continues to permeate, as the sky fades to black.

Tomorrow. I can do things tomorrow.