A week at Hemingway's Arkansas headquarters

I originally used Eden in the title, but erased it. There were some un-Eden, pre-apple eating Eden carryings-on that I resented, yea, disdained. But I digress.

Seventeen people attended the week-long retreat. Some were local teachers qualifying for inservice hours. Others were returning writers hoping to find intensive time to work on their writing projects in a(n) historical setting. In a QUIET place. Wasn't Eden a quiet place?

A self-described over-achiever, I could not appreciate those few among us who didn't seem to have anything to do but visit. Especially when they chose a place close to where I was obviously working. Maybe they were taking a break before lunch, but it was waaaay before lunch and they stood and talked. And talked. I finally took up my work and looked for another place. I moved around the building thinking to go sit under a tree on the Hemingway-Pfeiffer "big house" lawn.

But on the front steps of the adjacent educational center sat the late-comer (another story) talking on her cell phone. Drat! And disdain! I wheeled and walked back to the concrete block wall separating the handicapped parking area from the woods. I sat in the thin shade of a persimmon sprout; day-lilies and young sumac grew as tall as the wall.

I raged on the page. Soon, here came the two talkers around the building and up the walk. At lunch, one of them asked if they had bothered me. I said, "A little." She apologized profusely. "The next time that happens, tell us to please..." I thought, there should never be a next time, darlin'.

More later.