The Life Ladies of Holy Trinity
want y'all to know they've
got the dashers primed, the ice salted
and they're ready to crank. So ease on in,
wander the park paths, please do not use the
statuary as tray tables, it's unseemly at best,
and have yourself a relaxin' taste of
New England summer.
Ruthy here, amazed that it's August, wondering where on earth May, June and July have gone. All too soon another summer will have come to a close, the summer folks headin' home to school calendars, soccer games, church meetings and the like.
But today, we're doing an old fashioned Ice Cream Social here in Seekerville. Because sometimes it's fun to just relax, stretch out, cop a squat at the faded gray picnic table underneath old Tom's oak and eat homemade ice cream out of a glass dish.
Now you might think it tastes the same off a Dixie Plate, but I'm here to tell you it does not, and y'all know better than to argue with the Ruthinator over such things, right? So just mosey on over, have yourself a seat and we'll serve you as you wish. Today I am the servant, you are the honored guests and if your questions or wants stray from writing, so be it.
I see Missy and Deb have a pot full of fresh peach ice cream, the likes of which you cannot duplicate outside of Georgia, but let me just say that peach ice cream with Ghirardelli hot fudge is reason enough to wake up every morning. And I'm not kidding or whistlin' Dixie.
I equate writing with recipes. We all know I make a mean RODEO STEW...
And in grammar school they teach kids that composition is like building a sandwich, the bun representing the beginning and the end, the filling or "meat" the story in between. Each condiment then becomes another layer of the story.
So we can make this post legal by pretending that it matters in the whole scheme of things, that we need a purpose to welcome the bright blue skies of August with ice cream, toppings, nuts and whipped cream. Analogize all you want. Knock yourselves out.
I'm eating ice cream. And sharing. And since I got Valerie's critique done in record time (ask Helen how long she waited, it's more embarrassing than I care to say out loud), I've got reason to settle back and paint cloud pictures in a deep blue sky.
Fact: There are 135 days left until Christmas.
It's almost half-past time to decorate. Since I've got breathing room, I'm taking it. Loving it. Cherishing it.
And while I'm building you the sundae/frappe/milkshake of your dreams, feel free to comment about anything at all and you'll be put in a drawing for a copy of Made to Order Family,
my newest Steeple Hill Love Inspired 4 1/2 STAR release or a lovely navy and rose dappled scarf,
bought from a lovely NYC street vendor who probably didn't have more than one gun.
Mosey in. Leave a comment with your e-mail, pretty please. Ask a question.
Chat it up over creamy sweetness.
Because it's summer.