Author: gr4c5

I write. I read. I cook. I run. That's me, in a nutshell.

Are You There? part two

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I ride the bus from time to time. I like to leave the driving to Greyhound every so often. It allows me to read uninterupted. Think without stopping. Be without moving… among other things.
The first part of my ride was a lesson in conversations with kids. Bouncing, loud, over-the-top kids. But, after they debarked I was able to open my book and read until Boston. Pure bliss…even it was one of those 1800’s romancy things.

Once in Boston we switched buses. I thought the longer your ride, the nicer the bus. Not so in this state. This particular bus had problems with the overhead lights, the AC, the foot rests and the driver. The lights and AC simply didn’t work. I moved three times and finally gave up. I had bruises from the foot rest snapping back into place and hitting my ankles on the way up. I kept forgetting they didn’t work either until finally I sat with my feet tucked underneath me. I had heart palpitations whenever the driver would blow red lights and drift into other lanes of traffic. He gave new meaning to the phrase Bat Out of Hell. Trying to ignore this, I turned to my mp3 player for distraction and listened to every song at least twice. I couldn’t figure out how to turn the repeat function off. To make matters worse the battery ran down until finally, I couldn’t get the off button to function so, ironically, I listened to These Are Days four times before the player finally quit for good and all I had left was silence.

I think Manda will appreciate where I am going with this story. I am pleased to announce that I love my phone. More specifically, I love the text function on my phone. Somewhere along my journey I found I had a text message from a very smart man. I think he knew that I wouldn’t actually call anyone while on the bus so he wrote, texted me, whatever. I texted him back – is that the right way to say I sent a text reply? A few moments later he wrote again and I discovered we were headed in the same direction. I have no clue how he was responding since he was driving at the same time. It’s hard enough just sitting there, leaving the driving to someone else to text! The conversation turned to updates: where are you now? What are YOU now? Sitting in the dark, clutching the phone I waited for it to vibrate so I could reply again. Are you there? At one point he announced he was only minutes behind me. I dared him to catch up. Despite the impossibility of it, I giggled at the thought and actually watched out the window, half expecting the silver streak of a kayak laden car to go speeding by.
My friend saved my sanity that night. There was a darker reason for taking the bus that day. For me, riding with strangers is the fastest way to feeling lonely. I force myself into crowded solitude to feel the sadness of being by myself. Like an addict cutting himself to feel pain, my invisible knife was 5.5 hours alone with my thoughts. Only, at the end of my journey I wasn’t alone. Someone got me to smile at the idea of being just behind me; at the mere thought of catching up to me.

Are You There? part one

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This is a half kid, half conversation story for Sarah.

Kid part:
I was waiting to leave on the 4:15pm bus. Ahead of me I had a 5.5 hour ride that would normally take only 3. True to form I forgot lunch (and breakfast) and was trying to inhale a bad bag of Cool Ranch. I don’t know about you, but I can’t stand people eating stinky food in cramped spaces – there’s no way to escape the smell. Anyway, I was trying to mind my own business while two little girls raced around me. Running, playing on the phones, jumping off the curb, screeching and screaming while their parents were nowhere in sight. Soon enough the older girl spied my bag and asked for a chip. I showed her the emptiness and lamented that the pig in me had emerged. I had nothing to share. That didn’t stop her from striking up a conversation, though. Suddenly deemed safe by some unknown intuition she proceded to question everything about me. Why are you wearing those shoes? Where’s your purse? Are you going home? Have you seen Casper? Did you hear that train? Did you know my mother lets me eat chocolate? I’m going to Worcester. Where are you going? 
Soon it was time to board the bus, “Michael’s Teddy” (I came this close to getting on “Princess Tiger Lily”). Out of nowhere mom and dad emerged and herded the two little girls onto “Michael’s Teddy” while carrying a newborn in a carrier. I was a little relieved when dad barked an order for the girls to head to the back of the bus, but equally surprised when one of the little girls burst into tears, crying “I want to stay with the lady!” I looked around for the “lady” only to realize she meant me. I’m the lady. Both girls wanted to sit up front…on my lap.
Five minutes out of the terminal and the younger girl turned out to be a boy. With long, dark, curly hair that hung down his back I could only stare. She had been a sweet girl and suddenly, with the reveal of Superman pull-ups he was a beautiful, dark eyed boy. All of four years old with a fixation on McDonalds. Every time we would pass a sign or restaurant he would scream out “McDonalds!” The older child, definitely still a girl, calling herself Princess, would perk up each and every time and shout “where?!” without fail. Princess taught me a game – something involving singing and clapping about a Miss Merry-Something-Er-Rather. She talked nonstop about school, her friends, her jeans, her homework, her little brother, her mother’s boyfriend, her brother’s dad, her dad (not all the same person), her lost umbrella and hated lunch meat. Every time she would get up to make her way back to see her mom her sneaky brother would bounce into her place beside me and with hungry eyes ask if he could hold my watch, try on my ring, wear my hair ties, look at the book I was reading. He asked me if I liked McDonalds, the Yankees, buses, him. How could I say no?

90 minutes later the children reached their destination and left me without so much as an over-the-shoulder goodbye. I waited for the mother to thank me for entertaining her kids. As she came up the bus aisle I looked up expectantly, prepared to say, “you’re welcome. You have great kids.” Not only did she continue by without a word, she didn’t even look me in the eye. Thanks for nothing. PS~ I hate the Yankees.

To be continued…..

Abandoned Bride

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Abandoned BrideLayton, Edith. The Disdainful Marquis and The Abandoned Bride. New York: Signet, 2002.

One of the great things about this BookLust challenge is the fact that I get to read so many different and interesting books in order to complete the challenge. The only bad thing is romance novels are included in the list and they certainly are “different”…in other words, not my cup of tea or coffee. I simply don’t read the “bodice rippers” as I call them. They scare me. I can’t get into all that…heaving.
Luckily, out of this double feature paperback I only had to read the Abandoned Bride story, and I did it on another quick trip to Maine this past weekend. Here’s the kicker – this one wasn’t that bad. Okay, so the heroine of the story is stunningly, absolutely, beautiful (I can’t even tell you how many times her beauty was referred to – especially her “moonlight-spun gold hair.”) and the villain (who, of course, turns out to be Mr. Romance) is dashing and “trim.” But, the story really wasn’t that bad. Here’s the premise: Julia (Miss Moonspun Hair, virginal-too-good-to-be-true-at-17-years-old) is set to elope with Robin, a boyishly handsome rich guy. They run away to some lodge where he abruptly leaves her for unknown reasons. Three years later Robin’s uncle, Nick (the dashing, trim, bad guy) “kidnaps” Julia in an effort to get her and Robin together to right past wrongs. Robin is also supposed to take over his father’s inheritance and he can’t do that while he’s running away from the memory of Julia (so he claims). The immediate problem is Robin doesn’t want to be found so Nick must drag Julia, against her will, of course, across the continent looking for Robin.
As you can probably guess, the falling in love of Nick and Julia is predictable and a little silly, but the reason for Robin’s abandonment was an interesting twist. I only figured it out when Robin is finally confronted by Julia.

Here are a few favorite lines: “…the entire stack of books fell open neatly to the middle to reveal that the book covers were false and what lay within them was not pages, but a cleverly designed box containing two decanters and a set of blown crystal glasses. “Ha!” Sir Sidney said with satisfaction. “now this, I think, is what a library is really for.”” (p 102) and “I am leagues in love with you” (p 217).

My only moment of “huh?” was when Julia used a phrase similar to being buttered up and I’d like to know if someone could be flattered in the sense of being “buttered up” in 1815.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter called, “Romance Novels: Our Love is Here to Stay” (p 203).

Accidental Connoisseur

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Accidental ConnoisseurOsborne, Lawrence. The Accidental Connoisseur: An Irreverent Journey Through the Wine World. New York: Fair Point Press, 2004.

Even though I don’t know much about wine and I probably wouldn’t have picked up this book if it weren’t for the challenge, I had to admit this: ILMAO. Lawrence Osborne has a great deal of fun with the punny, the witty, and the downright funny. Right off the bat, on page four, he had me giggling with “all drinks came under the Arabic word alcohol, essentially reducing them to a level of chemical sin, and none of them could be bought on Sunday.” Especially since we had downed a wine called Evil on vacation, thanks to Stacey. See below for the proof.

Even if you aren’t a wine drinker or even a wine liker, Osborne’s writing will amuse you. He has phrases that are somewhat identifiable as my own, “when the happiness of drinking overwhelms you, you cannot resist it” (p 21) and “Wine is 99% psychological, a creation of where you are and with whom” (p 22). This makes me sound wildly alcoholic, but bear with me a second. Think of any great seduction scene. Who is usually front and center (along with soft music and sexy candlelight)? Partners in  crime – a wine bottle and two wine glasses. I found that a glass of wine is definitely more pleasurable when enjoyed in the presence of good friends and equally good scenery.
Seriously, I learned a lot from this short book. For example, how you space the vines in each row determines the complexity of a wine (according to one grower). The theory is plants with less crowding don’t have to compete for sunlight and growth space. They are more relaxed and get this, less stressed out. You see, the more stressed out a plant is, the more psychotic it is. It’s this aggrivated state that develops the complexity of flavor. Got it? I learned a new wine word, too: terroir. Makes me think of ‘terror’ but whatever.

Other favorite parts: “”what do you taste?” “Grapes,” I said. “Good. That’s what’s in it!”” (p 97)

“If wine is sex, ” I said, “this is like yoga.”
“Yoga? You’re saying it’s like yoga?”… I’m not sure I get you there. You mean athletic?”
“Virtuous. Unsexy.”
“Ah, you mean American!” (p 101)

But, probably my favorite line is an obvious one, “Wine summons ghosts out of the cupboard” (p 228).

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter “A Holiday Shopping List” (p 115). It’s true that I would buy this for the wine lover that I know, only I don’t think he drinks and reads. Is that a problem?
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RobinElla Rolled with It

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RobinellaCDWhile kisa was rocking out at Fenway to the sounds of Sting & Co., I was at the Iron Horse, enjoying a Wicked Wally and listening to RobinElla with a good friend. I think I had the better deal, if you ask me!
I didn’t write down a setlist. For starters, I didn’t have a pen. I also didn’t know as many of the songs as I thought I would. RobinElla has come out with four albums and I only have the latest, Solace for the Lonely. I decided halfway through her set that I would buy whichever album had “Dress Me Up” because I liked it that last time she was here and I loved it this time. “Man Over” also won me over. Unfortunately, the IH doesn’t take credit cards and I didn’t think ahead to get cash. Getting mugged makes you consider what’s worth carrying. RobinellaSo, I promised myself I’d go to RobinElla’s website and get whatever I wanted directly from her. But, back to the music.
RobinElla opened with “Down the Mountain” and sang it so differently I almost didn’t recognize it. She entertained us with covers (Alison Kraus) and stories. As S & I sat there, savoring mounds of deep chocolate brownie, creamy vanilla icecream, gooey hot fudge sauce and whipped cream (of course) I couldn’t help thinking about how perfect everything was. I had run earlier (met S with a red face) so I wasn’t feeling guilty about the decadent dessert; We had great seats (in other words not right under Robinella’s nose). I love her voice voice, her humor (who in the world is Hans? Her joke about eye candy was spent on Cruz the last time we saw her), her country grace. When we got her to come back up for an encore I asked for “I Fall in Love (as Much as I Can)” just because it’s my favorite. Robinella added some humorous adlibs and I knew I had yelled out the right request.

ps~ this pic is not from our night out. I was too chicken to take pics!

Monhegan House Lights

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This is our last night home. A big dinner with friends and a rainy walk home in the dark. We’re not tourists so we shrug off offers of raincoats and laugh off offers of flashlights. Don’t be ridiculous. We don’t need no stinkin’ flashlights! Laughter all around. Passing darkened houses I can remember feeling nostalgic, romantic on that walk home. The last night home is always like that. Every stone in the road is a well known marker for where we are, where we are going. I relish the soft rain and heavy salt air. Standing before the Monhegan House I remember this is where we got married, where we celebrated well into the night. I can hear the music pounding, the clinking of wine glasses, champagne toasts, tuaca shots, the laughter floating out into the night, the love swirling up to the heavens. I imagine my father, ethereal in the clouds, reaching down to catch my prayers wrapped in bittersweet smiles. I imagine the tourists in their guestrooms. Are they reading dogeared fiction, writing in journals about the day’s hike, examining bird books, touching up paintings created on the backside, or sleeping with the lights on? I try to imagine being a real tourist, here for the first time. What would I think of this place on my first night here? I’m always curious about what brings people here in the first place. Only, it’s not my first night here. It’s my last. Hand in hand we walk back to the cottage. Kisa senses my heavy heart and puts his arm around my shoulder. Glancing back at the MH it’s lit up like a pumpkin. My thoughts turn to fall. I’ll be back.

My Hero

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I have to blog about this. It might offend someone. No, it probably will offend someone. The truth is in-your-face dirty.
Years ago when I started the whole blog thing I had decided I would write about the first thing that came to my head – the first and only thing. That has been modified to include what’s important to me and what I simply cannot get off the brain. Writing is an effort to nudge some thoughts out of the head, get out what I can’t stop pondering. Here’s what is sticking right now: I have one prescription and I can bet you know what it’s for. Before Walgreens I would, once a month, TRY to remember to call ahead to get it refilled. Calling ahead meant I could run in, state my name, pay, and run back out. BingBangBoom. Sometimes, I would forget and would have to wait while some pimply teenage receptionist boy scrutinized my medical records and got the pharmacist to fill the prescription. This sit-and-wait episode would cause anxiety because of my overactive imagination. It wasn’t like I could pick up the prescription and go. Sitting and waiting meant they, the behind the counter pharmacy men, could put a face to a name, put a pill to person. Me. I am always painfully aware that this pill is a sex pill. Yes, it’s so I can have sex without having to agonize once a month over Am I? or Am I Not? Yeah. Yeah, it has other benefits like an easier time of the month, clearer skin and all that, but more importantly the pill spares me from peeing on a plastic stick and perspiring while expecting the blue line (or happy face or whatever it is these days). But, having to wait while the prescription is being filled is like wearing a sign. I have sex. I told you – overactive imagination at work here. I guess it’s like this for people with more embarrassing ailments, predicaments that a particular pill gives away. When the guy with an STD comes in I imagine the pharmacist shaking his head, thinking “you poor bastard” as he hands him his topical ointment.
So it comes down to this. Walgreens. I love Walgreens. I can’t believe how simple they have made my life. Instead of me calling them to fill the prescription, they call me. Automatically. No more calling ahead. No more forgetting to call ahead. It’s a beautiful thing.

1968: The Year That Rocked the World

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1968Kurlansky, Mark. 1968: The Year That Rocked the World. New York: Ballentine Books, 2004.

The year before I came into being. What an amazingly troubled yet vibrant time. There is very little that Kurlansky doesn’t cover. Everything you want to know about what changed world views is here. My favorite chapters were about the civil rights movement and the protesting that went on. From sit-ins and the feminist movement to Freedom Rides and every raised sign in between. Talk about voicing your opinion! Here are my favorite quote on the subject: “The protesters can be nonviolent, but they must evoke a violent reaction. If both sides are nonviolent, there is no story” (p. 38). For this very reason women had a hard time getting their January protest march on Washington documented. They weren’t violent enough.
The harder chapters to read were about politics and the Vietnam war, two very unavoidable subjects for 1968. Both carried the weight of violence and unbridled hatred. The Chicago convention in August…”miraculously, the clubbings in Chicago killed no one…At the same time, Vietnam had its worst week of the summer, with 308 Americans killed, 1,134 wounded, and an estimated 4,755 enemy soldiers killed” (p286).

BookLust Twist: In the chapter “The 1960s in Fact & Fiction” (p 179) from More Book Lust.

Black Blame Game

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This. This picture is what I thought about when trying to meditate at Now & Zen Yoga studio last night. It looks like a whole lot nothing, a clear mind…but look carefully. Something is there. Something lurks. Just like in my head, something was on the fringe of calm; just on the edge of quiet. Blame. Ruth called it Wanting vs. Not Wanting. Like a psychobabble tennis match, I bounced between the two. I want to be as confident HERE as when I am THERE. I do not want to worry about this zit mutating on my chin. Why can’t I not worry about it HERE like I didn’t worry about it THERE? As this volleying went on I felt panic set in. I was slipping away from the calm and quiet I had so proudly achieved just moments before. Where was that peaceful easy feeling? Why was I thinking about how awful I am all of a sudden? The blame game was in full swing. Was I completely losing it? Was I stepping off the train and utterly missing the boat?
Fortunately, I was able to grab the bouncing ball and stop the guilt game for the rest of the session. But. but, but here it is again. In my court. Thanks to Ms. Klein. We write parallel blogs. Maybe not on the same days, but sooner or later we talk about similar things. Since I have missed a week of her writings I’m a few blogs behind. Today I read about fault. It took me by surprise because that was the very game that I was playing last night in the middle of a meditation class. Try as she might, Ms. Klein was not able to convince herself it was someone else’s fault. It always came back to her and the question of what she did wrong. Just like how I keep coming back to my split personality problem. I’m like a boater who doesn’t know how to skull, so I keep going around in circles with my one oar. Someone can tell me it’s a question of confidence. I’ve figured that one out on my own. Someone can tell me it’s an issue with comfort. I got that, too. I have all the answers. What I still don’t know is WHY.
Maybe some things aren’t meant to be figured out. Maybe being in the dark with only a hint of the answers is how it has to be. Maybe, in this one case, I need to let the mystery be. Oddly enough, this comforts me. It also brings out the creative thoughts in me. Who says I can’t be there permanently some day?

Bastard out of Carolina

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Bastard out of CarolinaAllison, Dorothy. Bastard out of Carolina. New York: Penguin, 1993.

The only way I can describe how I felt after finishing Bastard is raw. Raw and used up. Maybe it’s because this is my second time reading it. Maybe it’s because I reread this in two days. I don’t know. There are a thousand different ways to describe the book itself: coming of age, looking for acceptance, southern, white trash poverty, motherhood gone by the wayside. It’s a nightmare of a mother loving a cruel stepfather (Pearl calls him “violent and predatory”) more than her own daughter. I could go on and on but that would only ruin the depression. Oddly enough, I loved it. I loved Bone’s defiant voice as she tried to make her way through life as the oldest daughter of young mother Anney. I loved her keen observance of her surroundings, “It was dangerous, that heat. It wanted to pour out and burn everything up, everything they had that we couldn’t have, everything that made them think they were better than us” (p 103).
The social commentary on men and women, men against women was poignant, too. “A man belongs to the woman who feeds him…the woman belongs to the ones she feeds” (p 157).

BookLust Twist: Bastard out of Carolina is mentioned twice in Nancy Pearl’s Book Lust. First, in the chapter called “Grit Lit” (p 106), and then in the chapter simply called “Southern Fiction” (p 222).

pps~ I was wondering if this was ever made into a movie and it has…back in 1996. Where have I been?

raindrops revive

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Third day home. We had the morning to hike our asses off; to get to the places we didn’t cover the day before. Cathedral to destroy fairy houses built in bad places (& rebuild for good), Gull Pond to ponder the gulls, Blackhead if only to get lost on deer trails, the lighthouse. Giant sandwiches for lunch. Giant appetites to match. I still can’t believe I could eat so much! When the storm crept across the sky we were already lounging across couches, groaning with bellies full and books cracked open. This picture was taken from my vantage point on the couch. We didn’t couldn’t move for hours.

The rain never bothers me at home. Things get a little muddy, but somehow the air tastes different after a good, good storm. The salt has been replaced by something sweeter. The stuff myths are made of. I can’t explain it anymore than that. The rain helped my equilibrium as well. The scales were being tipped in favor of here and, for once, there finally started to slip away.

Gift from the Sea

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GiftsLindbergh, Anne Morrow. Gift From the Sea. New York: Vintage Books, 1991.

I have to say this is something every woman should read annually. The words and their meaning will change every single time and they will be different for every reader. In the simpliest of terms Gift From the Sea uses seashells, (whelk, moon shell, oyster) all gifts from the sea, as metaphors for life, vehicles for deeper thoughts. On vacation (ironically on an island, like me) Anne picks seashells and ponders religion, relationships, growing old, being young, nature, love and marriage…She picks at nagging thoughts like scabs, letting them bleed, revealing raw emotion and a tender heart. Here are a few of my favorite quotes:

“…I think best with a pencil in my hand” (p 9). I agree!
“…I have shed the shell of my life for these few weeks of vacation” (p 22). Since I was on vacation when I read that I had to smile because it happens to me, too.
“…social life is exhausting; one is wearing a mask” (p 32). Very true! Couldn’t have said it better myself.
“And since our communication seems more important to us than our chores, the chores are done without thinking” (p 100).

I read this in an afternoon. Gulls cried overhead, sea air salted my skin, waves crashed in the distance. It was the perfect setting for Gift from the Sea.

BookLust Twist: From the chapter called “Journals and Letters: We Are All Voyeurs at Heart” (p 130). I swear on everything holy I did NOT have More Book Lust with me when I wrote this review. I was still home without any of my Pearl books. So, I was incredibly surprised to read these words from Pearl, “Some of us still reread them yearly to remind ourselves of what’s important in this frantic world” (p 131). Pearl is referring to everything written by Lindbergh, but I had the exact same thought specifically about Gift from the Sea. Gift from the Sea is also in Book Lust in the chapter, “100 Good Reads, Decade by Decade” (p 175).

Juggling Here and There

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Home on day two is always tricky. I am are waiting for street lights to change when the roads aren’t even paved. Traffic is on foot, a gang of overwhelmed artists not sure what to paint next. I step around them and move on. I am listening for a 7am wakeup call when the entire house doesn’t have a clock, alarm, wall, or otherwise (we recommend something). I am thinking the tapwater smells a little funny while the outdoor air smells wonderful. I can’t stop leaning out the kitchen window and inhaling. I am thinking I am missing something and then it dawns on me- I haven’t plugged into the internet, a cell phone or a television set in over 24 hours. Suddenly, there is small panic. I’ll miss The Closer! Who am I missing on myspace? How many emails are piling up on gmail? Yahoo!? Outlook? First Class? What about the blog(s)? Librarything? PostSecret?
Being home is a balance, a juggling act between here and there. I want to be here, but the residue of there is still sticky to the touch, nagging at the brain. It’s not easy to let the Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cup go. The commute to work is still the autopilot I think of.
It’s day two and I start to compromise. Half shave the legs, half comb the hair. Wear half clean clothes. Half think about that life over there and half concentrate on settling in. Crack open the book.
Day two and we hike the backside cliffs, finding mysteries along the way. Who built this thing and why? How long did it take? I can’t let the mystery be for there is a whole army of them, all juggling rocks and drift wood. All juggling here and there. Just like me.

Under the Tuscan Sun

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Mayes, Frances. Under the Tuscan Sun: At Home in Italy. New York: Broadway Books, 1997.Under the Tuscan Sun

Under the Tuscan Sun was made into a movie I have never seen, nor do I think I ever want to. I don’t see how the richness of Mayes’s Italy comes to life on the silver screen. I can’t picture the blood, sweat and tears of rebuilding a house; the glorious smells of garden fresh cooking; the love and laughter of enjoying one’s surroundings in moving pictures. I don’t see how Mayes’s  lush language is communicated. Really. Tuscan Sun is the journey of a woman (with the help of her second husband) to rebuild a Tuscan farmhouse. While she struggles with culture, language barriers and politics she falls in love with her Italian life. Try as I might I can’t see it as a movie. Okay, so now maybe I’ve convinced myself to see it out of curiosity!
I think I’m having trouble picturing a movie because I read Under the Tuscan Sun in my own personal paradise – by the dying light of fiery sunsets with the cadance of the surf as my only distractions. To say that I devoured Under the Tuscan Sun is an understatement. During the day I read it between hiking, eating, and breathing in my own love affair with a place. Every single time Mayes gushed about her Italian home I wanted to challenge her. I wanted to boast that it was I, not she, who was living the perfect life. On page 86 she says, “Where you are is who you are. The further inside you the place moves, the more your identity is intertwined with it. Never casual the choice of place is the choice of something you crave.” I found that quote so profound to my place I had to choke back tears. It is hard to explain arriving on Monhegan and reading those words on the very first night home. I had arrived to the only place my soul knows intimately. The only place where my whole being breathes a sigh of relief. Home is who I am, for sure. Later, I bought a guestbook for our rental cottage and wrote Mayes’s same words on the inside cover.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter called “Ciao, Italia” (p 46). I like that Pearl describes Mayes adventure as a “love affair” (p 47). We’re both on the same page with this book.

My love affair:
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Sigh of this Soul

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This is my first night home. I remember being exhausted from not sleeping well the night before (I never can in a strange place); tired from traveling all day; tired from being on the water (boats always make me drowsy), and tired from that other life’s load. It was a relief to finally set it down.
We ordered pizza right off the boat. The Humble, large with mom. Sue set aside goat cheese and a decadent dessert for me. Chocolate and cream. We crowded around the dining room table and laughingly devoured it with wine. Welcome home. I felt like a six year old, like Queen Eloise. Skipping and giggling, giddy to be back where I belonged.
Later, Kisa and I slipped away to view the dying light of day, just the two of us, hand in hand. A simple hike to what I call Heather’s point. With arms around each other we talked the “what ifs” of living here, working here, loving here, being here for good. Wild fantasy and speculation gave way to silence as we pondered the possibilities. Lost in our own thoughts of what could be. On that first day nothing seemed impossible.