© Ruth Lopez
Rose, we've gone to the country. I will fall asleep to the sounds of crickets and tree frogs & awaken to bird songs. The farmer up the road where I buy eggs still hasn't oiled the old windmill water pump. When the wind picks up, an unearthly shreik reverberates across the fields. Add the crying goats and, for a city person hearing it for the first time, it's a horror movie soundtrack. I sit on the porch and read Anita Loo's autobiography that I picked up for four bucks at a lovely bookshop ( Casperson). It's night out. On the porch, I turn on a small reading lamp. A wasp buzzes inches behind my head. It's safely on the other side of the screen but each time it makes a run for the light and crashes into the screen it makes an alarming thwapping sound. I flinch every time. Loos is disappointingly apolitical and reveals little about her writing process but is a champion gossip. I drink iced tea brewed at home and transported in an empty apple juice bottle. Reuse, repurpose, recycle.