The fine art of escapism….
I was feeling unusually out of sorts yesterday. It could have been any one of a half a dozen things but none of them consciously seem to warrant my funk. There seemed to be only one possibly good solution. I went to Books On Mayne, masked up, and told the wonderful bookstore owner, Gail Noonan, I was looking for historical fiction. She came from around the desk and pointed out the section on the newly organized shelves. After a moment, I could see her frowning slightly behind her mask.
Gail thinks visibly. It is one of her many endearing qualities.
“I am not sure what era you are interested in but I have this sequel by Penny Vincenzi.”
I looked a the set of three thick books and paused. She hands me one.
“Have a look and see what you think.”
The reviews included things like ‘marvellously engrossing… perfect for curling up with on a rainy day. Or any day for that matter.’
“The perfect medicine for my ailment” I thought.
“Good!” I said out loud, like an avid reader who has just committed the rest of her summer to a reading chair. “I will take all three.”
Before leaving the book store, I inquired about a stunning painting on the back wall that Gail informed me was one of her own. I knew she was an animated filmmaker and that she had of course painted. However, for whatever reason, I had not seen her fluid work before. So if you go in, you can’t miss the large expressionist influenced landscape and it is indeed worth a long pause between browsing the aisles.
Earlier yesterday morning, I had met visitors to the gallery and then stuck around for the market crowd to filter casually through exploring the rooms in the old Root Seller building. Later, I went to the Farmers Market and I had picked up a few delicious small cupcakes from Fernhollow Farm.
Now home, I shared my cupcake bounty with David. Then I made a large cup of peppermint tea, snuggled into the reading chair and disappeared into the life of a young woman just married and pregnant in 1904 England. The chimes chimed. The sun moved past the chair. I read.
A couple of hours later, the phone rang and I discuss a painting inquiry with an art collector. Then it was leftovers for supper and rearranging from the deck to the bed before slipping back to my characters, who were deciding on biographies for their publishing house, going to socialist meetings, discussing the women’s vote and other early 1900’s European kinds of things.