I’m going old school this morning. Unplugged. It’s just me and my notebook. I turn my phone off. I keep my laptop in my bag.
I’m sitting in the local coffee shop, which looks and sounds exactly like a coffee shop should. Exposed stone walls, hardwood floor, mismatched tables and chairs and china cups. There is local honey for sale and handmade soaps and art by local artists. Photos, sketches, paintings, all with optimistic price tags. $295.00 for a pastel drawing of a deer with flat, black-button eyes. The artist has added a 50% off sticker, and then, in larger letters, “OR MAKE OFFER.”
There is light jazz playing. I wish it were Jack Johnson. Nothing says indie coffee shop to me quite like Jack Johnson.
The coffee isn’t special, but it is good. Hot, extra foamy just the way I like it.
I eavesdrop, like I always do in a coffee shop. There is a woman wearing a baseball cap and cowboy boots and she’s talking ranchy stuff–hitching trailers to pick-up trucks and birthing calves.
Everyone who comes in has to talk about the weather. It’s spitting snow, and the wind is picking up. Wyoming weather, I call it, because as far as I can tell, the wind is always at gale force in Wyoming. The forecast is for winds at a steady 30 mph with gusts up to 65 mph. The front door blows open at one point and blasts us with cold air. An old man who’s never taken off his coat and hunting cap shuffles to close it, muttering under his breath about ghosts in these old buildings.
My notebook captures it all.
the dirigible plum 
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