*click*

I've been thinking about connections quite a lot, these past few days. An old friend found my livejournal a few days ago, and sent me e-mail. She recognized my writing through the pseudonym, and wondered what I'd been up to for the last 12 years. *click* Reconnect. It's wonderful. I find myself looking at my bookshelves, thinking of all the authors I discovered by way of discussing them with her. Or by way of her pushing something at me, saying, "You HAVE to read this!" She was the one who told me _The Wolves of Willoughby Chase_ was an alternate history. She once gave me an old paperback (that's still on my shelf.) "Weird stone of what?" "Just read it. You'll see."

Then there was the night I read _The Bearkeeper's Daughter_. (This was back in the days I when I was conducting relationships with far more secrecy and psychodrama than I do now. Far more than I believe to be a good idea.) I had just gotten my heart broken, in a moment of high drama I couldn't talk about. *click* Disconnect. (Well, mostly. Some connections are remarkably springy.) So there I was, in her apartment, in the middle of the night. I don't remember what we talked about. She was exhausted. I was hopelessly frazzled. She eventually went to bed, leaving me on a featherbed on the floor, with _The Bearkeeper's Daughter_.

It wasn't a proper book. Not a bound book with pages printed on both sides. Maybe it was old galley proofs? Or a secondhand review copy? She and I were recently discussing the awful state of being too depressed to read, and agreeing that text could seem somewhat less daunting when it wasn't in book form. I don't know if that contributed, or if it was just exactly the right book for me. It was the first Bradshaw I'd read. I stayed up all night to finish it. I was travelling, and I knew it wasn't the sort of thing I could ask to borrow and toss in my backpack. It seemed so fragile.

In the morning, I had a new favorite author. I walked to my favorite used book store, and asked if they had anything at all by Gillian Bradshaw. "Bradshaw? She writes historical romances. *sneer* You don't want to waste your time. Have you read _Urth of the New Sun_ yet?" "Not yet. I was up all night reading historical romances." I left the store with another little *click* of disconnection. And with _Kingdom of Summer_ in my backpack.

Historical romance authors you might not know yet, because I owe you for that:
Kate Ross
Diana Gabaldon
Joan Aiken's YA or adult books (try _Go Saddle The Sea_)

(The person described may wish to identify herself, or not. If she prefers to remain anonymous, I won't name her. *smile* Just sit here and throw book recommendations.)

Chester St, a little after 7

I usually take the T to Davis Square. I usually take the T everywhere. I hate to drive. It hurts my hands. It hurts my head. It's bad for my peace of mind. But I own a car, partly so I can get to those places where the T doesn't go. (Mostly because I grew up too close to Detroit to quite trust that one can be a respectable adult, a functionally independent member of society, without one's own car.) I brought my car to work today, because I had a late afternoon meeting, and I was afraid the meeting and aftermath would keep me too late to get from work to Davis Square in time for my doctor's appointment. So there I was, driving around and around as the sun went down, searching for a place to park. The public lot near the doctor's office was full, so I searched the one-way streets in widening circles. I hoped the doctor wouldn't measure my blood pressure right away. Every time something startled me, every time the car hit a nasty pothole, I'd clutch at the steering wheel in a painfully futile attempt to regain control of the situation.

I saw an empty parking place on Chester Street. It looked kind of small, but I was getting pretty desperate by that point. I couldn't cope with driving around much longer. I lined my car up, and started to pull in. Wow. This was really a terribly small parking place. I wondered if my desperation would make my hands steadier or less steady. I paused about halfway in, considering the size of the car, the size of the space, my ability to cope with driving, the doctor waiting for me, the twilight approaching full dark.

A young man in a white t-shirt stood on the sidewalk, between my car and the car parked behind me. He beckoned me closer, and stopped me after about 6 inches. I turned to smile and wave at him. Then I wrenched the wheel around and moved the car forwards, nudging it closer to the parking place. He stopped me right before my bumper touched the car ahead. Parking there was exceptionally difficult because a pothole near one wheel made it impossible to move small increments in certain directions. I could not have done it at all without the man on the sidewalk, who spontaneously came to help me when I needed it. When I got out of the car, I saw my rear bumper was almost touching the car behind. The front bumper had about 8" clearance. The man who helped me had disappeared. I'm grateful to him.

(Part of this is being posted to the Davis Square community group. One of the reasons I love the area is that things like this seem to happen around here. Thanks.)