I’m still here. Margaret is still away. Searching for the Lost City of Gold in the jungles of the Amazon, I believe she said. Or maybe she’s just driving an El Dorado. I rarely listen to what I’m being told unless I’m being complimented.
Like two steamships passing in the night, I returned to the Island as Margaret was leaving (fleeing?) So I will be the new resident at the columnist’s commune for the next two weeks. The food is fantastic!
Kim and I slipped in, under the cover of night, this past Tuesday. I do not wear travel well, and am vain enough that I prefer not to be spotted until I’ve slept away the road miles’ psychic and physical grime. Hence our hermitage till we reflower. Almost there.
Kim and I buried a beautiful bird on our beach this past Tuesday. No sign of trauma, he (or she) just seemed to have had enough of bird life. Not a seagull, but gull-like, with a downy belly and blue eyes. We buried bird high on the beach with a couple of local shells and some seaweed. Any life passed can be an odd reckoning for the living.
Irene is due to arrive Sunday or Monday. Don’t think I’ll make the beds for her — hopefully she’ll just blow in and out.
Bob Enos, our trusty, trusted (not yet rusted) boat man is, I am certain, fielding plenty of calls. Historically, the number of boats pulled is inversely proportionate to the severity of a storm. So my apologies, Bob, but I hope that you’re busy.
“Summer People, Some are Not.” I think this may have been the title of a book, but I recall it from the enameled surface of the ashtray that sat atop Grammy’s bedside table. Grammy liked to smoke, and she liked her summer people. She was gracious to most everyone, but as her ashtray alluded, there were tipping points to the delicate balance of friendships. Maybe particularly the summer ones.
