Indian summer

The weather was so mild today that I actually walked to choir rehearsal!  We've started bringing up the sets from the basement, and Beatrice was amused when I told her I'd written a piece for my memoir group predicting that the end of the world would resemble the basement of the Bickford Centre, when we've produced so much junk that it'll overwhelm us.

Sunday was the latest ROLT.  This event was "Spine Tinglers," about scary writing.  Eight people had said they were coming so I made a reservation for five, and three people showed up.  But Jane was there, reading the last chapter of Patricia Highsmith's Ripley Under Water.

I read one of Hilaire Belloc's Cautionary Tales, "Matilda who Told Lies and Was Burned to Death." (The book was illustrated by Edward Gorey.) I read H.P. Lovecraft's "The Cats of Ulthar," from the magic issue of Lapham's Quarterly.  I read Poe's "The Masque of the Red Death," which inevitably reminded me of the Ebola epidemic.  

And I read Jack London's story "In a Far Country," about two guys stuck in a cabin in a Yukon winter descending into madness.  Jane said it needed editing down.  The night before I went online to trace the journey they'd been on, which took an almost circular course!  There's a mention of the Rat River, which later produced Albert Johnson the "Mad Trapper."

Donald came over for Thanksgiving dinner and fixed our modem so now we can watch Netflix on the big TV again.

In translating Fukurou Castle I came across one of those Japanese words that are very hard to translate into English:  "rinsetsu" means an expression so stern that people respond with awe.