Where are we?
Bea and Eliora stand in front of me, holding fistfuls of peacock feathers and arguing about what a broken wrist looks like. Eliora, my niece, whose father is a doctor, speaks like an expert: "There's a little tiny blood way inside your arm. It's [adopts little, tiny voice and closes eyes], so small you have to use a telescope to see it. Then it makes a scab."
Now they're prancing back and forth our little living room, waving peacock feathers in time to In the Jungle. . .and calling, "Jack Frost is here! Jack Frost is here! And the princess fell on the floor!" Eliora plunges to the ground. Beatrix stands above her, a superior look on her face, describing how magical she is. So far she feels superior anyway because Eliora apparently "broke" her necklace in the bike trailer on the way back from my sister's. I told Bea she needs to let this go. This is what friends do, let go of bitterness.
Speaking of bikes, though, I actually made up the steep hills on our commute back from school. . .without. . .stopping. . .ONCE. No fooling. The burning in my calves told me I was doing the right thing, pushing up, up, up, past the blackberry brambles and up into the looping, wide streets of my sister's neighborhood. Her husband, Luke, keeps an impeccable, fabulous garden, and while Martin strapped Eliora into the trailer, I slid off my bike seat and harvested a handful of strawberries and a bright yellow dahlia to take home.
Where is home these days? someone just asked me. Northwest of Seattle (a ferry ride over the Puget Sound) takes you to the Kitsap peninsula that for a while forms the western boundary of the Sound. To the western side of the peninsula, the Sound meets the Hood Canal and the Strait of Juan de Fuca. We live in a snug red house up on a hill in Poulsbo, a Norwegian town built on the Hood Canal, a popular destination for boaters and tourists. Blackberries scramble all over the hills and on clear days, the Olympics rise stark and beautiful over the water. We can see them out of our kitchen window.
For a day, we also could view the carcass of a recently-cleaned salmon that I'd buried ever so well by the kale but had been found by a raccoon. But the salmon is a whole new story, one that needs some time, and yes, photos. I'll get on track here soon.
One fun piece of news: Spider Magazine has accepted one of my stories, and to boot, one of my favorites, set in Kenya, where I grew up. The acceptance is a lovely lump of sugar that keeps me running toward my next goals. . .a home for Magnificent Maple and continuing work on a few other books.
Oh, what are we doing this year, someone asked? Martin is on a paid sort of sabbatical, so we're writing. And playing tennis, and walking, and bicycling up hills, among other things. And keeping our ears cocked for what's next after this year. We hope it will be something that keeps us here, minutes away from the girls' schools, a quick walk from my sister, a ferry ride away from Grandma and Grandaddy, and a brisk walk/ride from the beach, where Bea can turn over crab-infested rocks to her heart's content.
Time to go to take the two fancy little girls to the library.
Now they're prancing back and forth our little living room, waving peacock feathers in time to In the Jungle. . .and calling, "Jack Frost is here! Jack Frost is here! And the princess fell on the floor!" Eliora plunges to the ground. Beatrix stands above her, a superior look on her face, describing how magical she is. So far she feels superior anyway because Eliora apparently "broke" her necklace in the bike trailer on the way back from my sister's. I told Bea she needs to let this go. This is what friends do, let go of bitterness.
Speaking of bikes, though, I actually made up the steep hills on our commute back from school. . .without. . .stopping. . .ONCE. No fooling. The burning in my calves told me I was doing the right thing, pushing up, up, up, past the blackberry brambles and up into the looping, wide streets of my sister's neighborhood. Her husband, Luke, keeps an impeccable, fabulous garden, and while Martin strapped Eliora into the trailer, I slid off my bike seat and harvested a handful of strawberries and a bright yellow dahlia to take home.
Where is home these days? someone just asked me. Northwest of Seattle (a ferry ride over the Puget Sound) takes you to the Kitsap peninsula that for a while forms the western boundary of the Sound. To the western side of the peninsula, the Sound meets the Hood Canal and the Strait of Juan de Fuca. We live in a snug red house up on a hill in Poulsbo, a Norwegian town built on the Hood Canal, a popular destination for boaters and tourists. Blackberries scramble all over the hills and on clear days, the Olympics rise stark and beautiful over the water. We can see them out of our kitchen window.
For a day, we also could view the carcass of a recently-cleaned salmon that I'd buried ever so well by the kale but had been found by a raccoon. But the salmon is a whole new story, one that needs some time, and yes, photos. I'll get on track here soon.
One fun piece of news: Spider Magazine has accepted one of my stories, and to boot, one of my favorites, set in Kenya, where I grew up. The acceptance is a lovely lump of sugar that keeps me running toward my next goals. . .a home for Magnificent Maple and continuing work on a few other books.
Oh, what are we doing this year, someone asked? Martin is on a paid sort of sabbatical, so we're writing. And playing tennis, and walking, and bicycling up hills, among other things. And keeping our ears cocked for what's next after this year. We hope it will be something that keeps us here, minutes away from the girls' schools, a quick walk from my sister, a ferry ride away from Grandma and Grandaddy, and a brisk walk/ride from the beach, where Bea can turn over crab-infested rocks to her heart's content.
Time to go to take the two fancy little girls to the library.
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