The last ember of the year, fizzling and dying. Pauline writes so beautifully of twigs and birds. E writes of creating new memories.
I am inspired by such writings for many reasons. There's nothing wrong with a lonely old month. I do have choices. I force myself out the door to a large gathering of turkey eaters yesterday. I bring my camera to such events which gives me purpose and avoidance of small talk. I am so hopeless at small talk. I must have missed those lessons early on in life.
Small talk lessons:
# 1: The weather
# 2: Clothes, hair styles, makeup, nails, OMG shoes!
# 3: Vacations in the sun. Cruises.
# 4: Neighbours.
# 5: Christmas, shopping for, cooking for, baking for, preparing for.
I get tongue-tied or glazed over or both. I also have the challenge of being the only genuine Irish person on the whole peninsula who chose to live in Newfoundland so I am the resident expert on all things Irish and everyone here has visited Ireland at least once and wants to talk about the enchanted land forever and ever amen. (Um, I emigrated for many reasons, left fairyland behind me, I'm awful, I know, I should go back, yeah.)
Those particular convos can take hours as every tour, every castle, every city and town is stroked and fondled in memory. To me it's massive small talk. So I skedaddle early with my photos and put them up on FB for the town to savour when they get home after the dancing. And we're all happy.
Did I mention the dancing after the feed? (i.e. the scuff after the scoff - I love Newfoundland English). Lots of it. And the Irish music. The sentimental yankee kind, ah, Mother Macree, toorah, loorahs.
I know. I should shut up now.
With the assurance: I do play nicely. I do smileys and happies quite well. And. The big and: the huge, big hearts of Newfoundland people never fail to warm me and revive me and nurture me. They are a breed apart. I've never met the like.
In this lonely old month.