From Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale

People disappear when they die. Their voices, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living mempry of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continut to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humour, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.

--Diane Setterfield



Sunday, November 29, 2009

Thanksgiving

We had a fun Thanksgiving this year. It was very different. No Football. No Turkey Bowl. No parades. It was surreal and weird.
We did sleep in. Even Jaedyn slept in. It was beautiful!
We did put up with nasty wet weather.
We did go to my cousin's house for dinner. Derek cooked up a delicious meal and Lori made some very yummy pie.
I think I'd rather go somewhere normal for Thanksgiving next year. Somewhere with a Turkey Bowl. I never thought I'd miss that. Hmm.
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1 comment:

Janika said...

I remember the first year I had Thanksgiving with only my husband, one young child and a tiny butterball turkey breast roast. I realized I decided what Thanksgiving was, and if it was to be it was up to me.

November 29, 2009 at 7:42 PM

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