Deborah Bogen

So this morning I'm being good - I'm taking a Pump class. That's one of those classes where a perfectly toned (much younger) woman takes you through a set of weight training exercises and says encouraging things like "I know you can do this..." and "come on, tighten your abs and lift that leg higher." Part of me is with the program - I'm old - I have to stay on top of the muscle thing. Left to it's own devices muscle tone simply fades away. But part of me is thinking about a work out pal named Marie who is also there for our little torture session. I owe Marie. When no one else was interested she read a draft of "Witch" and told me to keep on keeping on.

There we are, Marie and me, trying to keep our spirits and our triceps up and suddenly my mind leaves the room. I' m elsewhere and elsewhere is the second book, "The Hounds of God." Why am I there and - more to the point why is Marie there - Marie at age 17. In the book she's not (of course) from Pittsburgh. This Marie is French. She's like my friend Marie but young, Parisian, and falling for one of my characters - the one who I thought might become a priest. A whole plot point unfolds in about 6 minutes and I am doing none of the work (well, I am lifting the damn weights) but it's Edric and Marie who are telling me the story. They are suddenly alive and insistent and actually - they're right. She belongs in the book.

Where does this stuff come from? I thought I had all the characters worked out - and certainly most of the twists and turns the story needs. But Marie and the tale itself are hard to ignore - so once again it's going to be different that I had planned.

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Today it will not be that cold. I could even imagine we are on the cusp of Spring were it not for the clever predictors. They are the weather guys who seem to get it right more often than not these days. They say that when I see the first snowflakes tomorrow I can expect them to keep coming till there's almost 10 inches of that chilly white stuff I crave so much at Xmas time. But it's not Xmas any more. It's March. We should be marching into warm time. It's almost daylight savings time, for heaven's sake. I want warm.

I also want ease. I want shirts with no jackets. Or even jackets with no gloves or hats or scarves. I want to get out my sandals knowing it's still too early to wear them but not too early to anticipate. I want promise.

Also birds. Also smells. Also the annoying sound of grass cutters and the icey man manning his station up at the park. I'll never be able to get myself to swallow the blue dye on his "blueberry" iceys, but I like having him there anyway. He's one more "hello"as we pass the park gates and go through the fountain area on our way to walking the reservoir.

I want the reservoir crowded again so I can greet my neighbors - most of whom seem to be in some stage of health-recovery. They want to get thin, or fix their backs or lower their blood pressure. I'm right there with them - I want health too. I want to be able to run the reservoir for at least one more year with Steve Earle and Richard Thompson in my headphones pushing me along. I want to see Jane walking with Patrick, and Peter walking dutifully uphill even though Susan seems to have the dogs in Kansas. I want to see Matt the dog walker with his wild bouquet and my next door neighbor Camille heading out in her lime green running shorts. I want to see Ellen cruising along on Gerald buzzing the Tazza D'oro and Jim sitting with his cronies sipping their brew while Amy hoists a big box of something to her shoulder and brings it in - I mean I want to be out on the streets of Pittsburgh so I'm holding on. I am barely just holding on. How about you?
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