Usually Mondays aren’t so hot, especially if you’re among the working class as I was for more years than I want to think about. But now, for us old retired guys, Mondays aren’t much different than most other days; except today.
I had spent most of the day working on the computer to prepare my so called novel, No Refuge, to prepare it for publication on Amazon’s Kindle books. The price was right. No fees, but Amazon gets a percentage of each sale. Fair enough. I started around ten this morning, ran into the usual computer glitches changing the text into an html format, resizing the cover photo, and coming up with enough search words and a description to make any potential reader leap at the chance to read this book.
By four o’clock, I’d finished. The book, according to the Kindle website, would be ready for the public in 36 hours. My eyes were burning, my brain was fried, and all I wanted to do at that point was to pour two fingers of bourbon, top it off with a splash of water, and sit on the back deck to contemplate the universe.
It was a wise choice. The thermometer read 78 degrees. The barometric pressure was dropping, suggesting rain in the near future. Clouds were thickening and moving in from the southwest while wind gusts rose and fell. As I settled in, sipping my spooker, leaves dropped and swirled, taking their rightful place among their fallen comrades. Here at the humble abode, I left the back half of the property, a mere half acre, in its natural state; no lawn to mow, no weeds to kill. Granted, a half acre isn’t much and I can easily see the fences of my north and south neighbors, but it’s enough. Directly to the east, that neighbor, bless his soul, also chose to let two of his acres grow as nature intended, in tall grass and natural beauty.
It occurred to me, during the second spooker, that this was the reason I had moved from the city with its traffic, crime, sirens in the middle of the night, and 747’s roaring overhead. Here, I had only the wind, the leaves, the clouds and their kaleidoscope of colors, a setting sun, and the occasional mourning dove settling in to sample whatever seeds had been kicked out of the bird feeders that day.
Mondays, sometimes, are the best days of the week.