PublicBookshelf Book Club
Weekly tips on great novels to read.
The world continues; my simple, pleasant little world of church on Sunday, five days a week with my exhausting little dynamos, my biweekly Wednesday gatherings of the hens, and Friday evenings with Mr. Anderson. I've taken to following my social evening by scribbling on these pages. I take my seaside walks, though shortened by the chilling weather and early dusk. In between, I look after my garden, talk to my sister Emily on the phone, putter about my renovations, and tuck in some reading. Who says living alone is a boring, lonesome existence? My mind-twin Amy insists it is.
Mrs. Forsythe continues to peer out from behind her shade at any goings or comings on our street, although I fear the poor lady couldn't tell a gentleman caller from the corner lamp post, her eye sight is so failing. She is one of many in our neighborhood who is experiencing the silver years. Our street is peopled with ancients; I'm far and away the youngest, though the others are rapidly falling by the way side.
There was an ambulance on Hawthorne Street when I returned from school on Monday; old Mr. Schulman who lived alone on the corner had taken his own life. I remembered him giving me candy as a child. His wife was living then. He was a jolly old soul, always smiling, but that was years ago. I can't recall laying eyes on him in ages, although I imagine he must have attended my mother's funeral. I don't remember him in all the confusion. I went to his viewing on Thursday, early to avoid any crowd, but I was the only one there.