The Astons

Tom and I were watching Good Morning America earlier today and were horrified by the destruction created by Sandy, a hurricane that hit the east coast yesterday affecting over sixty million people.  The widespread damage from water, wind, and fire is incomprehensible, but it's still early and the devastating effects of this natural disaster will grow exponentially in the following hours, days and weeks to come.  We're sad for those who lost their lives as well as those who are left behind to clean up the mess and pick up the pieces from their broken lives, yet with all the terrible stories there is one family that was interviewed this morning by ABC News that I can't get out of my mind.

The Astons (a family of four) were staying in a "posh" section of Manhattan when the police evacuated several blocks around their hotel because a crane one hundred stories up was dangling precariously, thus putting everyone in its vicinity in danger.  Once they were settled in their new "posh" accommodations, ABC came calling and the father (sitting with his wife and two middle school-aged children) told his terrible story. He had to walk in the rain ten blocks with two children---at this point his wife interjected with "AND LUGGAGE"--to a new location. 

Oh, those poor Astons.

Doubt

I'm not back.  I'm just taking shelter from the cold snap we're having here in western North Carolina, and since I'm inside I figure I might as well do a little blogging.

To tell you the truth (I lie most of the time so this is a rare moment) I've lost my passion to write.  I don't know about other writers, but I have a problem with "doubt."  I don't have any illusions about being the next Bombeck or Steinbeck.  I don't need to be great or on the best sellers' list.  I'd be happy with good.  But bad is not an option, and sometimes my doubt convinces me that I'm delusional for thinking I might have a talent for writing.  The one thing I love to do is being held hostage by my lack of confidence.

So here I sit with eager fingers and a blank screen waiting for words, but nothing is there.

Is it time yet?

Is it time yet?  Time to switch clothes in my closet from hot to cold?  Time to have the furnace serviced?  Time to comply with daylight savings and fall back to "why does it get so damn dark so damn early?" Time for me to put away my gardening paraphernalia as well as my chop saw and Dewalt drill used to build my garden cottage?  Time to make mo clocks for instance? Or start blogging again?

Nah!  It's not time yet. Hand me that hammer, would ya please.