The morning of the first frost is always difficult to get out of bed. It doesn’t help that my alarm clock shows both indoor and outdoor temps on the display. I appreciate it but my eyes always go to the outside temps first. If it is already sweltering out I throw off my sheets in solidartiy. If it is frigid then I snuggle back under the blankets in protest. It was 31 degrees this morning and because we are still pre time change it is dark when I wake up. I do not like waking up in the dark. But enough complaining. Coffee will soon make it go away. i’m just going to be a little slow to the mark this week. Shall we begin?
I kind of like this one. I don’t know what sort of story it is going to go into but I like the one thing out of place as a start.
Tuesday, October 18th: The pitcher was blue.
The pitcher was blue. I don’t know why it struck me so forcibly. Perhaps it was because there was little else to occupy my attention. We gathered in the parlor and settled on the most uncomfortable set of couches I had ever sat upon. While the others gushed over the antiques, and discussed their heritage and value, I wondered why no one had bothered talking them to an upholsterer and had them resprung before being put back into use.
Surely that would be allowed if one wanted to continue to use an antique sofa rather than put it in a museum’s furniture display. While I was willing to concede that perhaps they wouldn’t want to put as much new filling in as was currently the fashion they could at least fix the spring that seemed intent on gouging into my backside. ‘It will rip the material of the couch if nothing else when it finally works its way to the surface,’ I thought.
The spring actually felt as though it was intent on doing just that. The longer I sat the more I felt that I could actually feel the spring uncoiling like a snake getting ready to strike my backside.
As the conversation had little to do with me, I had nothing to really contribute and instead cast my gaze around the r room surreptitiously in an attempt to distract myself from the thought of attacking sofas. It was as I took in the highly decorative room that I saw the pitcher. It stood out as all of the other china in the room was either black or white.
The enormous vases by the door holding long shoots of pampas grass were white with black and gold trim. The tea set was black with gold embossed leaves decorating it. Smaller ornaments were black and white, the occasional gold item winking like a prize in a crackerjack item.
Then there was the blue pitcher. As the conversation droned on I tried to decide if it had been added as an accent piece. Perhaps it was a whimsical splash of color designed to warm up the space. The effect of the black, white and gold was rather chilly.
Design wasn’t my thing, not really but I had heard snippets about it for years. While there was the possibility of a splash of color being added, I didn’t think it was intentional;. The pitcher wasn’t placed where it could be spotlighted. In fact it looked like an afterthought that someone placed on the shelf as they were passing through, meaning to pick it up on the way back.
In fact while all of the other items on the book case were placed in perfect symmetry, the blue pitcher had actually nudged one of the black ornaments aside, throwing off the balance of the room.
Ten til Midnight 