The gusts of the afternoon

The sound of laughter came wafting into my living room as the sun descended into its slumber.

I awoke with a start, knocking the book I am reading and my eyeglasses off my lap and into the floor. I squinted in order for my two bad eyes to see the clock on my cell phone. Six forty-seven p.m. Time for dinner.

The headache, this awful migraine, has finally begun to ease. Worst one I've ever had. Now, I just feel sore, as if I'm recovering from a bad blow to the head. Which I am, if you think about it.

Here, let me share with you a descriptive passage from this book I'm reading, "The Millionaires" by Inman Majors. Lean back and listen to this:

"The cicadas scattered, electric, competing music then distracted or resting or satisfied and quiet for a time. Wind chimes whistling and changing in the air and the women making jokes about havoc wreaked on hair. The smell of chlorine, faint and clean, honeysuckle on the breeze, the hint, just the faintest trace, of musky mold in the table umbrella above."

Is that good or what?

I think so-called Southern writers have a more tangible sense of place, a keener appreciation of land and home, than do other American writers. Maybe that's true. Maybe it's also a bunch of BS. Typical Southern arrogance. I don't know.

Reading this book has given me an idea for a novel. I will share it with you later. Had I nothing but time, I could probably have it banged out in a few months. As it is, we'll see.

A baseball game is playing softly on television, providing peaceful background white noise, as I continue to ease my nuclear-bombed head and figure out these 23 flavors that make up a Dr. Pepper.

The night is quiet, comfortable, rendered still after the gusts of the afternoon.