Morning all. Couldn’t resist hitting that alarm just one more time. But I don’t think I over did it too much. Just a few minutes delay in the grand scheme of things isn’t going to hurt anyone and it made me feel better. An hour more would have made me feel even better. I spent the entire night in dreams of running. Not sure what i was running from but I was running and I woke up tired. Too bad you can’t burn calories from dream running. Anyway, the day starts with the prompt. And then coffee. Lots of coffee. So timers at the ready…off we go.
I like this. I like the slow and deliberate person having to adapt to the new changes around him in his own way. I rather like the character too actually. He is one of those characters that as you start to write about him the story sort of falls around him. I really like that. I think it is because the story shifts subtly and changes happen gradually until something lands with a thud in the story and decisions have to be made based on blending old and new ideas. Or maybe that is just me. it might be fn to see what sort of story I could work Johnathan into.
Tuesday, July 11th: Ice clinked in the glass.
Ice clinked in the glass. He used the larger inch square ice cubes and they fit in a pleasing looking zig zag line in the tall leaded glass. It looked like a commercially photographed glass of ice and the sight of it sent fissions of pleasure up his spine. He picked up the heavy matching leaded glass pitcher and poured the freshly made lemonade into the glass. The ice shifted as the liquid filled the glass and he smiled at the sound.
It was soft sounding. Pleasant and to his mind sophisticated. There was none of the running around here. He set the pitcher down on the trivet so that the moisture from the chilled pitcher wouldn’t stain the table cloth. He then settled himself into his high-backed wicker chair and picked up the icy glass.
Johnathan took a deep sip closing his eyes in pleasure. He made this lemonade himself. He used lemons from his own tree, the one growing in the hot house at the back of the yard. He made the simple syrup to blend into the juice so that there would be no graininess and he used filtered water so there would be no trace of those nasty micro plastics and other contaminants the news was so fond of talking about.
There was nothing to scare or terrorize him in this glass.
The lemonade was icy cold, sweet and tart with no trave of chemicals in the after taste. He placed his glass down on the side table and looked out over the yard. From here he looked into the back yard. There was a stretch of grass, partially green but turning brown now in the heat. When it rained it would perk up but he was not the sort to waste water on mere grass. He also didn’t believe in any of those artificial chemicals people used to make their grass greener than green. The grass was there as a pleasant open space between the house and the beginning of the woods at the back of the property, nothing more. Green with rain or brown with the summer’s heat meant nothing to him unless there was a fire warning.
Should a fire warning be called he would get the hose out and soak the grass after the sun went down so that it wouldn’t be a risk to the house. Otherwise, it would fend for itself.
Standing on the dividing line between the grass and the woods were a row of small buildings. There is where he lavished his attention and where his eye was drawn. Those were his green houses and hot houses. Fresh fruit and vegetables could be his year-round without having to transport them across the country and adding more oil to the food chain.
Looking at them, he could think that all was right with the world. The hot houses and green houses had been installed by his great grandfather and though he maintained and did necessary upgrades when required, they changed very little. As the world outside seemed the be changing very rapidly in ways he didn’t care much for, the timeless quality of them gave him a little peace. It was to them he liked to look when he took his time of quiet.
He took another sip of his lemonade.
He had to admit, the changes weren’t all bad. In all he didn’t mind the kids coming to stay with him. He liked them and he did like many of the new ideas they brought. It just felt that they also brought with them a world that moved at a much faster pace. He wasn’t sure he wanted to move that fast through the world. He was certain even when he was a child he never moved that fast. He had always been slow and methodical. His father used to refer to him as the snail.
Ten til Midnight 