This seems to be the message my friend Tomasina is trying to get across to me.
Last night, my writing group celebrated my birthday. What an amazing evening. It pays to have friends who can so eloquently express their affection in the form of wonderfully worded cards and thoughtful gifts. Clothing, jewelry, lotions, CD, book, etc. etc. Amazing, good stuff!
We ordered in Indian food and Braveheart whipped up a terrific coconut cake with vanilla and chocolate sauces to alternate between. I love not having to choose. I'll have it all!
So back to Tomasina's message via the lunchbox and the toy. We frequently do freewriting exercises during our meetings. Apparently cowboys often show up when I tap into my unedited psyche. They might be in a country bar, or helping a newbie with her recently purchased old farmhouse, or what have you.
Where and when I grew up, you might have cows, but dairy cows, not cattle. The boys often wore flannel and hats without claiming to actually ride a horse. It was okay. It was the way of our world.
But it is quite possible that I have been left with something of a flannel fetish, truth be told.
When I figure out how big a container I need I will, indeed, grow my own cowboy.
3 comments:
Be careful growing your cowboy. From what I understand, they're never at home and they're always alone, even with someone they love.
I sure hope you got that reference, so I don't look like a weirdo.
I think what you're trying to say is that his mama shouldn't have let him pick a guitar and drive an old truck?
Exactly. While growing him, see if you can make him be a doctor or lawyer or such.
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