A Red Letter Day

I’m up early.

Bugsy started talking, as usual, around 7 a.m. He wakes with the day, then naps between my knees until first light. He knows I'll let him out now. Any earlier would mean the basement.

As I lay in half-slumber, the wind gusted rain against my screen and its song stirred an ancient longing.

I love storms.

Instead of going back to bed, I opened the slider Bugsy-wide and we both stuck our noses in the hole. Lightning flashed, with an answering shudder from thunder.

The wind splashed water in my face as Bugsy slipped out. Then he lickity split about-faced and slipped back in. Puss isn't crazy about storms since getting caught up in one.

"Uh-oh," I thought. "Betty."

She wasn’t tucked in to her hidey hole. I had left her last night in the lonely driveway, now the rains lashed at her aged ragtop.

Her silent plea pierced the morning fog, “Bring me in. Give me shelter.”

I bundled up and wiped the sleep from my eyes. And prayed that the old girl would start. But she was happy to see me and fired right up. I could swear she purred, “thank you,” as I left her safe and dry.

Now I sit and let the symphony of the rain bathe my soul.

Oh that this light would linger, to envelope my world in its softness. Bugsy braves the storm and runs out, leaving my side.

I am surrounded by fall color, each leaf a wet jewel shimmering light.

Thunder crashes and Bugs darts back in. He makes for under the chair but leaps instead on to the ottoman at my feet.

Swiping his back a few times with pink tongue, he settles Buddha style, ears splitting the difference between door and window.

Gardenia fills the air, courtesy of a candle from Gold Rush Days. The patter outside grows stronger.

It is a red letter day.

A writing day.

A day full of portent and wonder.

A day full of water, living and alive with splashes of autumn color.

I told cousin Kek the new storyline yesterday, as we swayed back and forth on the swing on Grandmother's (and now her) porch. It seemed fitting. At first I stumbled, but then as I warmed up, out it tumbled.

She loved it. And promptly said, "I bet you sell a million copies and become rich and famous. When you do, I'll be your assistant."

Then we both giggled with delight.

It is heady stuff sharing my stories. I hadn't before, preferring to save them for the keyboard. Until now. First a trusted writer friend, and now my blood.

Guess what. The tale is growing and expanding. It's gaining a life of its own. It belongs to William, a main character, and his heirs. It belongs to the world they give their life to.

Do you know what I mean? Does this happen to you?

I am blessed. And oh so grateful. I love this story. I love this time of year. I love how the rain intensifies the brilliance of ambers and yellows and golds and reds that are still liberally laced with green.

These are my colors. My palate. That of the hunter moon.

The rain falls harder, resounding in the trees. I am humbled.

And. I am back.

Thank you, angels, for sticking around while I was off in the wild gray yonder. Thank you for listening and for all of your thoughts and your love.

And thank you for holding a piece of my story in your heart.

It is a banner day.

A red letter day.

A very good day for writing.

~That Rebel, Olivia J. Herrell