Is a burning Fall the payment for a drenched Spring?
When you're packing up to head out of Dodge, it is telling when you review which books to bring. I grabbed 3.
The Hero and the Crown, by Robin McKinley
The Book, by Anonymous
and a research guide on book collecting, which I have yet to read.
The fires here are nearly put out, the local fire fellows cutting lines in the earth as a dare, standing together with their hats askew and shovels ready.
I'm home again, but the books remain in my briefcase, snugged with writings and mock-ups. The lack of space for oxygen within the case lends an extra level of protection, its weight disguising it as a box of bricks- perhaps to fool the flames.
Next time, though (if there is a next time, and up here there tends to be), instead of heading out of Dodge, I'll stick around the store and keep checking updates, start a physical message board and place to let the fire people cool their heals. I'll keep the coffee brewing.
I ran off the hill with my critters and my spouse when we could see the flames from the front porch, but we were safe.
Some friends were not so lucky.
Monday, October 16, 2017
Sunday, September 17, 2017
Of Floors and Outside brooms
Sweeping the back patio, behind the shop under the madrone and cedar, I was reminded of my grandma's house, and of my great grandma's house (the grandmothers I have never really known or been known by).
When the idea for the new patio was surfacing, I thought of my grandma's kitchen floor. It was more than dirt. It was polished clay, worn solid through years of use and care. It was a floor that could be cleaned and wiped up.
The kitchen table was there, and I ate strange and wonderful things, my feet kicking the air in the darkness below, wondering what was being said between she and my mother, and loving her smiles and back rubs. She found "The Little Prince" in English on the television for my brother and I. It was a wonderful night.
Great-Grandma had a tile floor on a foundation of concrete. I'm pretty sure the home complex was owned by an uncle who looked over Great Grandma and Great Grandpa, because there were younger but still old people who lived in the adobe structure sitting by the building with the concrete floor.
The back yard was clean compacted dirt that the aunt-lady swept while Great Grandpa sat under the trees and laughed at the roving chickens. They seemed real nice. They all gave me hugs and kisses and smiles and sweets. I tended towards rotund after grandparent visits.
Their floors, their spaces, were used and kept and decorative and cool and calm. I want to capture some of that, weave it into the manzanita border of the patio and make it welcoming to readers and chatters and thinkers and singers and tutors and students and those stopping for a spot of tea.
Though the back patio looks like dirt now, I have plans. It will take time and constant care, but it will be burnished clay. It will be water repellent and solid. You will be able to walk barefoot, the outside floor feeling like leather under your feet, cool and forgiving. I will battle falling leaves and feral cats. It will be joyous.
When the idea for the new patio was surfacing, I thought of my grandma's kitchen floor. It was more than dirt. It was polished clay, worn solid through years of use and care. It was a floor that could be cleaned and wiped up.
The kitchen table was there, and I ate strange and wonderful things, my feet kicking the air in the darkness below, wondering what was being said between she and my mother, and loving her smiles and back rubs. She found "The Little Prince" in English on the television for my brother and I. It was a wonderful night.
Great-Grandma had a tile floor on a foundation of concrete. I'm pretty sure the home complex was owned by an uncle who looked over Great Grandma and Great Grandpa, because there were younger but still old people who lived in the adobe structure sitting by the building with the concrete floor.
The back yard was clean compacted dirt that the aunt-lady swept while Great Grandpa sat under the trees and laughed at the roving chickens. They seemed real nice. They all gave me hugs and kisses and smiles and sweets. I tended towards rotund after grandparent visits.
Their floors, their spaces, were used and kept and decorative and cool and calm. I want to capture some of that, weave it into the manzanita border of the patio and make it welcoming to readers and chatters and thinkers and singers and tutors and students and those stopping for a spot of tea.
Though the back patio looks like dirt now, I have plans. It will take time and constant care, but it will be burnished clay. It will be water repellent and solid. You will be able to walk barefoot, the outside floor feeling like leather under your feet, cool and forgiving. I will battle falling leaves and feral cats. It will be joyous.
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