August is Coming and I've Got Places to Go!

I need a name for the community I’m moving to. I’m thinking of calling it The Lake Apartments. Its actual name is _____ on _____ Lake which obviously I'm not sharing with the blog community because that’s just the way I roll here in cyber space. I share a LOT but not my name, rank and serial number so to speak. Nothing that would help the trolls track me down. Anyway, the Lake Apartments people have get-togethers for those of us who signed up early. They call us---the first 45---the Admirals Club but that sounds so pretentious, I don’t like using it. It makes us sound like we’re a bunch clueless yachting types like Thurston and 'Lovey' Howell on Gillgan’s Island. 

Yesterday I got my second Admirals Club invitation in the mail…. a cocktail party in August before a classic car show that is taking place on the grounds around the lake. Then later in August they’re having a fashion show. I haven’t been to a fashion show since the ‘70s but I’ll play the game---can’t wait to see if it will be age appropriate clothing. No cut-to-the-crotch play suits for me! I’d be over the moon if it turned out to be a trunk show of muumuus and bathrobes, and sweatsuits for more formal attire. They’re also putting an email list together for those of us who want to stay in contact in between these planned events. I’m guessing they’re doing all these things to keep us in the basket labeled “Still Enthusiastic.” With so long to wait for them to break ground on building the place it would be easy to get impatient and start asking for our sizeable deposits back to go elsewhere. So far, my enthusiasm isn’t waning. But I wish I could fast-forward and get past the downsizing, get past selling my house, get past the physical move and just be free to start anew. 

Speaking of downsizing---yes, I know, that’s all talk about lately---I found three manuscripts in a box of creative writing box and I made the mistake of reading the first chapter of one of them, however I stayed strong after that and I ripped the rest of my book up. But bless my self-indulgent heart, I’ve decided to copy the first page into my blog to preserve the story-line somewhere other than inside my flaky head. It started like this:

“Katherine Abbott sat in the back row of the packed auditorium fidgeting with the braided trim on her wool traveling suit. Lord, there would be hell to pay if her father finds out she’s in a town fifty miles short of where she was supposed to get off the train, let alone at a Woman Suffrage meeting, of all places! He’d be so angry he’d pop the buttons off his waist coat ranting and raving about how a woman's brain is too small to be burdened with the task of entering the political arena. He's just like the anti-suffrage people handing out tracts outside the auditorium, she thought, and the longer she sat there the more she regretted the split-second decision that brought her to the meeting.

“With a round of applause from the few gentlemen in the crowd, a sea of white handkerchiefs waved in the air as the black-clad speaker crossed the platform to take her place behind the podium. It was a silent tribute to the illustrious Susan B. Anthony from progressive women who all across the across the country have come to believe that hankie waving is a far more lady-like greeting than loud hand clapping. (Inserting a 2019 edit here to cut out a bunch of bull crap about Katherine’s frazzled nerves and naiveté, both of which were annoying me.)

“Leaning against the side wall of the auditorium, Thomas Whitmere’s face split into a wide, devilish grin. His hands were tucked in the pockets of his finely tailored frock coat and his long, sinewy legs were crossed at the ankles. He’d been watching the prim little morsel sitting in the back row for the better part of an hour. When he’d first noticed her she was shut up tighter than a jar of jam sitting on a cellar shelf. Now she was perched on the edge of her seat completely captivated by the words coming from the platform. ‘Miss Anthony,’ he shouted in a tone his friends would recognize as teasing. ‘I’ve heard it said that if a woman had a ballot she’d sell it for a bonnet. Is that true?’

“’Perhaps,’ the speaker shot back. ‘As my good friend, Anna Shaw, so aptly once put it, a new bonnet is a fine thing, and most women hanker after new bonnets. But a good bonnet costs more than a glass of whiskey and that, sir, is the market price of male votes nowadays.’”

Well, that’s enough of that. Fast forward to the end of my manuscript and be assured that the guy gets the girl and they lived happily ever after, but all the details in between are headed to the paper recycling center. Mostly what I got out of reading that first chapter were good memories of how fascinated I was by researching the Suffrage Movement and that explains why my library is still filled with women’s history books some forty years later. My heroine was not atypical of historical romances back then but I doubt I could write a silly, afraid-of-her-own-shadow type woman today. Not that I’d want to try my hand at writing fiction again. I’m perfectly happy being a blogger who blogs slice-of-life Seinfeld style who is also looking forward to August. But be forwarded, I did set aside some of the poetry I wrote back before menopause and a few of them might make it into my blog if my 'slices of life' get too thin.  ©