A dinner of antipasti. Concept by M; food by J.

J, on the boat.

A lovely little unexpected thing...

See also Cracking Up One...

We're addicted. It starts with casual skipping, like anyone does with pebbles and a body of water. Maybe listen to the sounds of the splashes; little rock, then big one, then twenty. Then, who can hit that big rock over? Come on, five throws, the most wins...

Walk down the road every night to where it ends in a little tiny beach. Pass country mailboxes, grazing deer, bicycle-riding kids; cross the road when the path veers from one side to the other; just to get there. Wait, look, wait, look. Walk back down the road, towards home, in the nautical twilight.

"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep." ~Frost

This blue was nearly beckoning...

Off to the Island for a week of trying to relax. Usually salt water, sand, and rocks polished by the ocean is enough to do that. Throw in a fireplace, three books, and two rocking chairs on a porch...and well, anyone should be able to chill out. Right?

J, on the boat.

Happy Hour: blue sky, sunshine, Friday night, wood, glass, texture, tones, colors, beer, onion rings. Wish you had been there.

Off on a week of vacation, finally, much needed.

Went to one of J's favorite places on earth...

In 23 years, how many times must I have opened and closed this door?

The click in my hand, the weight, the feel of the swing as it opens.

The sound is one I have memorized, the creaking scraping of metal, and yet, it's one of those things I know I will not be able to recall and I will struggle to hear it in my mind as if it's right there.

Marengo
...

When I have to die, I would like to die
on a day of rain--
long rain, slow rain, the kind you think will never end.

And I would like to have whatever little ceremony there might be
take place while the rain is shoveled and shoveled out of the sky,

and anyone who comes must travel, slowly and with thought,
as around the edges of the great swamp.

~Mary Oliver

Picking Blueberries, Austerlitz, New York,1957

Once, in summe
rin the blueberries,
I fell asleep, and woke
when a deer stumbled against me.

I guess
she was so busy with her own happiness
she had grown careless
and was just wandering along

listening
to the wind as she leaned down
to lip up the sweetness.
So, there we were

with nothing between us
but a few leaves, and wind’s
glossy voice
shouting instructions.

The deer
backed away finally
and flung up her white tail
and went floating off toward the trees -

but the moment she did that
was so wide and so deep
it has lasted to this day;
I have only to think of her -

the flower of her amazement
and the stalled breath of her curiosity,
and even the damp touch of her solicitude
before she took flight -

to be absent again from this world
and alive, again, in another
for thirty years
sleepy and amazed,

rising out of the rough weeds
listening and looking.
Beautiful girl,
where are you?

~Mary Oliver