Eleanor Tatum

My father and several hundred other American gentlemen were assigned a few days leave; to be spent in London. Yes, it was WWII, but it was (and still is) a great place to visit. His hotel, one of the few opened, was The Russell Square.

Forty years ago I was assigned chaperone duty for my two young nephews who thought the elevator was a toy, the room keys were disposable, and their pajamas were the required dress for the formal dining room. Our London hotel was The Russell Square.

In two weeks I’ll hopefully be in London admiring the foyer, the grand staircase, and comfortable rooms. The Russell Square has my reservation, but I’ll not wear my pajamas into the dinning room.

In two weeks I’ll hopefully walk from The Russell Square to The Tate Museum to research paintings created by JMW Turner. Mr. Turner, one of his paintings-not the artist, is a character in both August Snow (hopefully, released for Christmas) and Golden Leaf (possibly 2017).  Maybe when I finish both novels I’ll play in the elevator in The Russell Square.

Enough!

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Rudy and I live on Lake Shore Drive on my lake-swamp; my Lake Wheatley. The shore of my oval shaped marvel has a swamp side, a state park forest-swamp side, and a limestone bluff. Now do you understand my bluff?

When walking my constitutional,  I usually turn left to continue on the bluff, other times to the right, toward my swamps and her alligators. The bluff road, again forgetful readers, LSD, has a rhythm or non-rhyming rhyme. First, I pass six cottages then three churches. Even these religious homes have an ABA beat: church camp, Methodist Church, church camp.  I pass six more cottages before my hopefully famous Gray Lace Cottage; a three story magnificent vessel seemingly ready for Nathaniel Horn Blower, except  for the relaxing wrap around porch.

After that there’s six more lake-worthy estate agent-dream homes before one of my favorite cottages appears. This one is a narrow Cape Cod style with homesickness-causing gray shingles and a delightful tin roof.

Walking constitutionally onward, I pass a really large, humungous-what-were-you-thinking-Mr.-Builder-cottage followed by six (seeing a pattern here?) more delightful , lake homes; lovingly called, you guessed it, cottages.

All of the above mentioned are on my left.

The North Carolina Department of Transportation wisely turned LSD away from the my lake and posted a six (again?) foot arrow pointing left, because Lake Wheatley is…. well dear reader, on the right.

So, as part of my constitutional I soundly tap the sign, smile in my accomplishment (a Fit Bit 4000 steps), turn myself around and shake it all about back to Rudy to wish him a Happy Father’s Day.

Enough!

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In my Swamp Town (the fictional Lake Wheatley), there is a white wooden sign: Local Author Book for Sale. Yes, that’s me.

I wanted to hold a copy of Gray Lace (that’s mine) and have my picture taken beside that sign.  However, at that moment I could not find a copy to hold. There are a few copies for sale in the town’s only restaurant. Yes, those are mine, sitting next to the Methodist cookbooks.

There are some copies inside the town’s museum. They own the white sign. I’ll need to wait until Wednesday or the alarm will go off. Yes, I’ve done that. I donated four copies of Gray Lace for their gift shop.

Potential promotional business is interesting , but not my cup of tea. I don’t like tea. Besides, I could never sell Girl Scout cookies either. That’s me.

Enough!

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