Zwerglipatch July 6, 2011 6:07 a.m. EDT
Before going into the house last night, René and I watched the parent Cardinals enticing and encouraging their young to leave their nest and roost in the Spruce. One tailless young refused. It did hop out of the nest. It was satisfied roosting beside the nest which was built in the rose bush outside of our bedroom window. It is still there — asleep. Its parents are again hopping and flying by their baby hoping to get it interested in starting its life as a young adult. It wants to sleep. I don’t see its siblings. They, too, may be sleeping.
My dreams last night were of cell phones and contact lenses. Nothing in particular. I did awake expecting a phone call. I had none.
Hercule Poirot solved another mystery last night. No surprise in that. I mention this for it seems to me a few authors in the mid-Twentieth Century included Lesbians. Agatha Christie had a woman who was so distraught about her sexuality, she drowned herself. Her love did not know “until it was too late”. Her would-be lover found a note that she hid so there would be no shame brought to her woman’s memory.
Beverley Nichols is another writer who included a woman who was willing to take the blame for a murder she thought her lover had committed. Fortunately, her lover did not. She was innocent. The two women could live happily-ever-after. This type of eccentric character, both male and female, is sprinkled throughout literature — both high and pulpy. Many characters are couched among a great deal of oddities to defer an interest in the specific. Henry James was a master in this. His creations were real people we pass on the street. He knew each of us was, and is, a story. As I said, I enjoy listening to these true stories told by the Elders in my life. They, too, couch their characters within innuendoes.