Bella of the Far North - I would write the story but if Bella is going to be the heroine I would have to write quite a bit about eating things of questionable provenance and then being sick in the front hall.
After the Equinox - The days are getting longer and the sun is getting stronger. In the meantime we are getting in our last bit of winter fun. It looks like she is waving: ‘Bye winter, see you next year!
"This story starts out a little sad, Mom, but it has a happy ending," she told when me they got home. It started with the face paint. At her request her sister did a wonderful job turning her into a Dalmation. The crowning touch were the dog ears from an earlier Halloween costume. Then they went out for a walk. It was in the middle of the bridge that disaster struck . While peering over the railing the ears came off and fell right into the river. Her quick thinking grandfather ran back up to the house, came back with the fishing rod, and caught the floating ears on his second cast. Our hero!
Such a great visit with Mom and Dad. Lots of skiing and clear, bright days. I loved sharing my home and my girls and my life.
Playing in the camper cupboards. It is like a some kind of demented magician’s box - clown car mash-up.
I haven’t seen a mate around for this swan. No fear, this gaggle of gregarious mergansers is probably quite good company. (photo RML)
"I don’t like this saylight davings thing," said my older girl, groggy and rubbing her eyes, when I woke her for school an hour earlier than usual.
She dresses herself these days. And now I realize that I was stifling this awesomeness by dressing her in humdrum matchy-matchy ensembles that did nothing to reflect her true sartorially splendid personality. (Picture from last week.)
Such an assortment of things waiting on my kitchen table. In no particular order. A box of jams and jellies waiting to be sent to my aunt (cherry-blackcurrant, rhubarb-ginger, blueberry-lime, oh my!) A jar of homemade kirsch that my neighbor brought over, made with cherries from his trees, waiting for the right recipe, the right drink, but already reduced by sips. A piece of a ducks wing found under an eagle’s perch, just the metacarpus and the primary feathers, the radius and ulna already picked clean and snapped off. That is waiting to be examined under the stereoscope by the girls or stolen off the table by the dogs, whoever gets there first. Waiting to be read: the New York Times Book Review, the New Yorker, The Economist. Paperwhites, planted in a blue glazed pot and stretching towards the sun. (I am waiting for those to bloom.)