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September 13, 2020

Familiar crow sounds and street sounds. Began the day with some pretty strenuous gardening, which included the uprooting of innumerable vines and the planting of the purple crepe myrtle I bought while at the beach, which was delivered with lightning speed. Did not water, yet, because all day has impended rain.

Arrived from the beach just as Tony was doing the lawn. At that second, to me, that seemed tragically bad timing. Sometime during the week a bear upended the trash. There must have been slim pickings, and it would never happen if I hadn’t missed a collection day. I felt betrayed, as though a trusted friend had waited until I was out of town to behave badly. Something has felt “wrong” since my return. Something is missing. Something unexpected impends. Maud hollered at me for a solid hour, then cried out in the night until I got up and rubbed her head. That I understand. Fear of abandonment is real. Doesn’t seem that I’ve been anywhere, though of course I have, and re-acquaintance with the sea may be a milestone in my coming life. Maybe life there was too much like life here for it to seem a break. Folly Beach is a lovely destination, though, the rickety town more interesting than the beach hotels. I did get a chance to wander a little, and the farther I wandered the more it was like another world, with strange flowers in the sandy gardens. Began to read the novel Folly Beach, and so far, except for details about the bottle tree, am not much interested. Amy reads one giant supermarket book after another (she claims to have read my books, but has nothing to say about them), and I picked a few up to discover what the attraction is. I would say it is ease. The books offer no resistance, and not THAT much or a reward (or no reward that one hasn’t had before from a dozen more of its kind), though enough for an hour under an umbrella on a sunny beach. They’re not ineptly written, but you can see each author’s little array of machinery working from paragraph to paragraph. On the other hand, when a “literary” author’s machinery shows, the noise is louder and the effect more irritating. If someone asked me for a recommendation for a “good read,” I would suggest Amy’s beach novels before the books I was sent this summer by my publishers. I have to analyze my reasons before I give them. Perhaps the fault of the literary works is that they are “about” something other than telling the story. In each case, now that I think of it, the “story” was negligible or absurd. 

Scalp, nose, cheekbones sunburned. 

Took an evening to adjust to the lack of air-conditioning.

Was addressed in a letter from the Chancellor as one of the “New Faculty Emeriti,” so I guess that snuck through.

Learned that my phone will keep track of my steps, and so it becomes an implement of physical fitness. I typed in my vitals and it prescribed 8430 steps in a day. On three days (out of five) I have met that goal, though there was a beach to walk upon.