One of Louise Penny's Inspector Gamache stories has the characters following a lead into the basement of a centuries old library. Instead of the coffin they were hoping to find, they dug up boxes filled with turnips and potatoes. They had discovered a root cellar.
My mother would often send me to the basement, to the little room we called the fruit cellar. I was to get a jar of canned tomatoes or pickles or to pick out a couple of apples from the bushel on the floor so she could finish making dinner or packing my dad's and my lunches. The shelves also served as an overflow pantry where things purchased on sale could be stored. I think that my mother, a young housewife during the Depression, found comfort and some pride in storing up supplies and having a place to do so.
As I was editing the initial draft of the above paragraphs, the importance of the word 'root' really struck me. In previous musings I've shared how my roots include Sir Francis Bacon and Susanna North, a brave widow in the early colonies accused by Cotton Mather and ultimately hung as a witch. I only know about those people because a friend graciously rooted out the information. Throughout the years I have written about beliefs and things that root me, helping form my foundation. I've mused about societal issues and what I might consider their root cause. I've shared images and talked about events that rooted me to the spot and mused on some good things I would hope to take root in me. Currently neighbors are transplanting impatiens and geraniums, gently handling the roots so the flowers can absorb nutrients while other folks are calling Rooter Router to destroy what might block sewers.
Turns out root is one of those mighty words that we don't pay much attention to until a thought takes root and we follow it where it wants to go. Inspector Gamache ultimately found the murderer and thanks to a clue he left, I got my idea for this week's musing. Now it's your turn to root around for an idea to share.
Marilyn
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