We're having a heat wave! Not a tropical heat wave, but a sandals and no jacket, with the fan in the window at night kind of heat. It feels so great. I have no idea what to do today to celebrate, but I'll think of something. My thoughts usually turn to baseball, but my team is in such a deep, deep slump that it would be hard to go if someone gave me a ticket. No, baseball will not be an option at this point. Maybe I'll make fried chicken, an indulgence I seldom allow myself. Then there is watermelon, if I could pick a ripe one, and iced tea. I don't have a beach book handy, but than can be easily remedied. I live seven houses from the best, most terrific mystery bookstore. It is a warren of mysteries, sci-fi, fantasy and horror books stacked to the ceiling, piled on the floor. It looks small when you go through the door, but it goes back and back, with many nooks and crannies, and has an upstairs cluttered with children's books, stuffed animals, strange plastic toys and god knows what else. The whole store is so chaotic that one feels triumphant accomplishment to find the book one was searching for, or even another book, that from the back cover sounds like a goodie.
This bookstore is my security blanket. If I'm down, bored, sick of having lunch alone with the dogs (their conversational abilities are severely limited), I walk down the street, pick up a book, and feel better just having it in my hand. My current treasure of a mystery writer is Benjamin Black (really John Banville, Booker Prize winner), who writes about a doctor in Dublin in the 1950s. His name is Quirke, and he was raised in an orphanage, a cruel Catholic workhouse, and now is in charge of the autopsies at a hospital. His character is, well, quirky, to say the least, and his curiosity boundless. It gives me a glimpse of an era in which I was a young child, and a country I love, and where I have relatives.
Well, we'll see what the day brings.
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