In answer to the question "Will I really burn in Hell forever if I don’t pick the peaches?" Lisa of Eudaemonia, noticing that I’m still alive and well, comments: "Oh thank God you didn’t burn in hell!!! I’m guessing you’re still posting from New England :)"
Yes, Lisa, I’m still safe and secure on my little patch of earth here in Connecticut. Not having yet finished The Master and Margarita to discover the wages of sin and leery of riding naked on a broomstick in my present 10-pounds over the norm, I’ve not sold my soul to the Devil. Instead, I’ve taken advantage of a passive-aggressive nature honed to a skill as fine as diamond dust and of which I’ve been well aware since I was a nasty little girl, the youngest of three, finding it to be my only weapon.
Somehow I manage to miss the evening weather reports on the telly and Channel 3 Weather Alerts have mysteriously been deleted automatically from my Inbox. Therefore, how will I have known prior to some silvery sunbright morning that Jack Frost might pay a visit in the night?
Meanwhile, I pick and pick and pick and do the job most Americans will not do because I cannot let it go, I cannot waste what God has given. Odd, that this strong bond with nature exists in me with writing as well. The guilt-drive–the strongest, especially when founded in a deep respect–comes from what little Bible-teaching I have had: God-given talents and how they are used by man. If there are pearly gates and a face-off, I want to be able to say I used them well.
And this is what tosses me around in bed at night.