Peter Mayle inspired me to write in this blog. I was researching books, memoirs, blogs about Provence and re-discovered Mr. Mayle. He is a Brit who moved to a small town in Provence 25 years ago. I read his book A Year in Provence and knew that someday it would be my destination. Now, approaching 60, Provence here I come. Here we come, because Erica, my traveling side-kick is going too.  We both prefer people watching, eating in cafes and walking rather then say,  shopping, museum-hopping and tourist traipsing. Peter Mayle  mentioned in an interview that he writes 600 words every day by the southern French light that shines through his windows.  He is 70 years old and still has things to say. I am writing by the southern Vermont light that filters through the pines and maple leaves that are my view from the French room. Also, The Artist’s Way at Work strongly encourages one to write three “morning pages” every day. It doesn’t matter what you write, just do it. Something will emerge. I am up to 166 words and nothing much is emerging except that I am writing about other people writing. Jealous. Where is my novel? Where is it?

The garden is a crazy mess. The tomatoes are late. The beans are late. The green peppers are late. Weeds everywhere. Craig and I spent most of Monday putting up posts and stringing wire for the electric fence.  A fresh fence now vibrates with electricity. Beware creatures of the forest. Skunks, bunnies, deer and whatever have been feasting.  Potatoes look glorious. Corn is catching up. Lettuce growing with abandon. It’s not so bad. We are eating salad nearly every day.

I spent some time on Railroad Street today and did not hear anyone cussing nor did I witness unexpected exposed flesh. There were a lot of babies in strollers. A nice couple gestured me to their parking place which still had two hours paid up on the meter.  A sign advertized live music at the Wine Gate this Friday evening. I am watching for the so-called crap and corruption reported in the Caledonian-Record.

Hank recovered from his fear of the chickens and now thinks it’s fun to run around their outdoor play area. The chickens react by jumping all over each other and yelling in their chicken way.  That only makes Hank run more laps and then pant very close to the cage. Sometimes, he stands there quietly which they seem to tolerate.