Anyway, I'm off tomorrow. Time to get back on the bike. I've eaten way too much, as always over a holiday. Too many wieners, and burgers, and brownies... deep, dark, and calorie rich brownies. I won't step on the scale until Sunday. To do otherwise would probably bring me to tears.
I didn't watch any fireworks yesterday, but I could hear them. I'm am surrounded by communities which shoot them off. Luckily, the dogs pretty much ignore them. Mostly, I talked to my friend Betsy on the phone. And I spent some time on The Body in the Well. Here's the little bit where Eli and Max climb the stairs at Greely's Smithy and Tack Shop.
The door to the Tack Shop was in the stall on the right side. Next to the door was a small, black metal sign noting the store’s hours. If I had been expecting dark and dingy, I was pleasantly mistaken. Inside, a wide wooden stairway led up to where the lofts had been used for storing bales of hay. We passed old photo after old photo as we climbed upwards, pictures of the Rattler’s Den silver mine, of miners standing in front of carts, and hitching posts, and store fronts, bright smiles shining through dirty faces as they had stood patiently waiting for a photographer with a black cloth draped over his head to tell them it was once again safe to move. There were framed newspaper articles talking about the mine, the town, and the townspeople of Rattler’s Den, tiny history lessons of what life had been like so many decades ago, a vibrant age when miners, and shopkeepers, and saloon girls, rubbed shoulders with gunslingers. And I suddenly felt the sense pride these people still must have, pride in themselves, and pride in their history, and pride that they had survived while those ghost towns surrounding them had faded into forgotten memories.
Max touched my elbow. “They were hard working men.”
This is just a rough draft, so there will probably be a change or two before the book gets published.