Insulting a Sweet Potato

I spoke to a sweet potato yesterday. Insulted him, really. I looked him in the eyes and said, “Oh my, you’re an ugly little fellow.” He didn’t reply, as far as I know. After insulting him, I immediately stuck him in the microwave so he really didn’t have time for a comeback. If he had a second or two to think about it, he might have said, “Beauty is ephemeral; my sweetness is eternal.” That would have put me in my place, of course, but then I would also have had to deal with the reality that not only had I insulted a sweet potato, but had been humbled by one as well.

As it was, I had only to come to grips with the fact that on the third day of being housebound by a very deep snow drift across my driveway, I had finally succumbed to cabin fever, the “talking-to-vegetable” type of cabin fever which is considerably more tolerable than becoming a vegetable-while-talking.

There has been an odd variation of snow depth in my front yard. There are areas where I can see tufts of grass, still green, poking through the snow. In other places, there are snowdrifts over a foot deep. One of those snowdrifts stopped just before coming up against the door of my Ford van. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to get in the van each of the three snowbound days to know that the battery was still charged (a moot point, since I couldn’t go anywhere.) There was over a foot of snow in front of my van.

Occasionally, I entertained thoughts of bundling up and attacking the problem with my snow shovel (assuming the storage shed was free of a snowdrift.) Then I found it more entertaining to cook and bake (and eat) as well as to read and quilt. I enjoyed what I was doing and got a lot done.

However, I didn’t think about writing more than a nanosecond or two (does the second nanosecond really need to be mentioned?) I know that some writers find inclement weather useful to their craft. For example, Tom Robbins (Even Cowgirls Get the Blues) wrote in his book of essays (the title was something about geese, maybe ducks, flying backward?) that his hometown, Seattle, is a perfect setting for a writer because of the dismal weather. That works for him but apparently not for me.

To write, I need to be un-bound. Lacking the discipline to write because I should write, I need to be free to choose to write. I need to know that while I could breeze off into the day with a bundle of impulses and no objective at hand that I, instead, freely chose to set up my laptop on my table. (They should be called tabletops because it’s ridiculous trying to keyboard on wobbly, flabby thighs.) I write because I choose to write. (This is of no help in actually finishing my novel, but such is the price one pays for freedom.)

Therefore, I didn’t write this entry for my blog (even though every day in my planner since the first of the year includes the message to myself to blog) until the evening after my grandson and I dug out the driveway, scattered salt over the icy patches, and rewarded ourselves with oatmeal cookies. No sweet potato pie. I’m giving the ugly little fellows a break until the next blizzard.