I drove a tractor in January while visiting dear friends in Palacios, dumping buckets full of sand/gravel/rock to spread in the low spots washed out by too much rain. This small tractor had a front loader on it. I have driven a Mack truck and a Pontiac GTO, but never a tractor. Chuck, my tractor instructor, told me there were standard hand signals for tractors and other construction equipment. Who knew? I did a little research and, sure enough, “[h]and signals have been used by the military, construction workers and factory laborers as a means of communication when voice communication is not possible. Consistent hand signals are essential when people must work together in noisy, hazardous work environments. Hand signals can also make work safer in the agriculture industry.”* The hand signals I am most familiar with are those used on Houston freeways. For example, the Yukon salute is a favorite along I-10. Perhaps you know it as the one finger wave.

“Sunday . . . . it’s hard to believe it can be so quiet after a noisy Saturday night . . . . Where did the night go? Already it’s Sunday.” ~~  Rod McKuen and Anita Kerr, 1967  The San Sebastian Strings “The Earth”

It was a noisy year. It’s quiet now. Now, I wait. I’ve not been “on fire” about writing these days. The “not on fire” troubles me sometimes. Been thrashing with a new project and adventure. New is the key word. I’m gonna keep at it. I invite you to wait with me.

Here are a few musings to close out the year.

Rosemary Clooney recorded “When October Goes” in her 1987 tribute “album” to Johnny Mercer. I discovered the song in the fall of 1991 while trying to hold tight to my sanity and navigate unfamiliar events. I like fall. Although fall in Houston is a bit different than the fall seasons of the Northeast or Midwest. The high for today is 85 degrees, a bit warm by my definition of “fall.” There is a sense of melancholy to fall. Fall is an in-between season. The summer fruits are long gone from the grocery store bins. I’m a little suspicious of strawberries and peaches innocently offered

I missed the “CONGRATULATIONS” part of the letter. I focused on the “thank you so much for your submission.” Well, at least, the theatre company wrote back I thought. Then I read “we are happy to tell you.” Okay. Start over. Slow down. My 10-minute play, Jornada del Muerto, will be produced at the Santa Cruz Actors’ Theatre Ten-Minute Festival in January 2019. My sweet sister, Kate, told me I was getting closer to Hollywood. I like her thinking. I will be submitting another “short” play this month to a regional competition. The winners will most likely be notified in December. Waiting is what playwrights do. While we wait, it is recommended that we write. So I am. I’ve started a new play. I have ten typed pages. I have a long way to go to reach “full length” category. The play takes place in Austin or, maybe, Marfa. Five older women constitute the cast. I’m still developing the characters and then there’s the whole plot and arc thing. The research is a little more involved than I initially thought. But, I do like to be as accurate as possible.

The expression “read between the lines” means to look closely at what the author implied or actually felt versus what was written. More simply, what is meant. I’ve been in a pondering mood of late. I finished up a year-long project on July 22 — fourteen months if you cross the days off a calendar. I kept most of my