It was good to get out of myself and into the countryside today —after being so sad yesterday about Jody’s death. I’m holding a new old bear from the store, where I’d worked half a day.
I’d also unpacked a copy of Horse, a new (2022) novel by Geraldine Brooks that I want to read—it’s partly? about the little known history of Black horsemen in 19th century horse racing. When I was a kid I was into horses, so I know a tiny bit about horse racing—along the (outdated) lines of Man o’ War and (fictional) National Velvet—and am interested to know this.
Brooks has written a lot of bestsellers. I’ve read none of them since Year of Wonders (2001), set in England during the plague of the 1600s. I hadn’t liked it, can’t remember why. But Brooks is well regarded—her March won a Pulitzer Prize—copies of it are often donated. We’ve none at the moment, and I hope one comes in soon—I’m setting aside PP winners for a future display—I have a dozen now.
Also, this morning before work I started a new little apotropaic, adapting a wooden fish on rollers. It’s not coming together yet, but I did add pearly eyes with curly eyebrow-feelers, vaguely like catfish whiskers—made from hat pins. It’s good to tinker.
