reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: our old house


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just in case. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

(about this week: there is a peril, it seems, to writing ahead these days. we had decided that this week – the first full week of a new year – we wished to use images of light as our prompts, we wished to linger on the possibility of light, of hope, of goodness. though our blogposts might stray from that as we pen them, it was without constant nod to the constant updating of current events – a mass of indefensible, unconscionable acts. we pondered what to do about these blogposts we had written and decided to keep them. we hope that – even if any absence of the happenings of the day, even in the chance these written words seem somewhat inane at this moment – you might know that those events – of corruption, illegality, immorality – do not distill or distort our intention – to bring light and hope to this new year – the first days of which bring more insanity and unnerving instability. we are still holding space for light.)

and so…

we didn’t burn the chiminea this past summer or fall. but it sat outside in our backyard, waiting, just in case.

and when winter came and we were in the middle of the middle of rearranging and sorting and all that other stuff I’ve been writing about in the going-through of one’s trappings and baggage, we looked over at it waiting and decided to bring it inside.

we tucked its gorgeously sculptural clay form into the corner of the sunroom, eliminating a high stool we tended to pile upon, simplifying the space. we added a strand of happy lights and a timer and we placed a heart-leafed philodendron on top of the chiminea’s cap.

we stepped back to see it. to decide.

the chiminea has been there every day since and every day since we have exclaimed (yes – exclaimed!) how much we love the chiminea there – inside – in our sunroom – across from the backdoor – tucked in the corner – lit.

i suppose were you to step into our house you might wonder about it. we have these two chunks of concrete, a salvaged architectural column, a reclaimed repurposed piece of old desk, a weathered deck-glider, old suitcases, driftwood, an aspen log, old doors as tables or propped against the wall. in my studio there’s a metal slatted swivel patio chair topped by furry pillows, an old stool, the skeleton of a lampshade. there’s a vintage mailbox with our house number in the bathroom that holds magazines, glass doorknobs that hold towels, an old black shutter that holds space. old coffee pots hold teabags in the kitchen and an old trunk holds a metal sculpture in the hallway. there are two old window frames on the radiator in the sitting room across from a small rickety farm table. and we haven’t gone upstairs yet.

sometimes we take a little walkabout through our house and talk about these things. we kind of glory in the repurposing of these old objects, otherwise possibly put out to pasture. i’d like to think of them all as just waiting.

relevance is a funny thing. like most everyone else, we could certainly go to the local furniture stores and pick out contemporary (as in at least this decade) pieces with which to furnish our home. we could have things that are more – say – typical, more – say – normal, less – say – unusual. but those would also be less relevant to us.

because we are just like the chunks of concrete, the old desk, the weathered outdoor pieces, the old doorknobs and coffee pots, the chiminea.

we are artists. always waiting to be seen. always creating. just in case.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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less and less sand. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

about this week: there is a peril, it seems, to writing ahead these days. we had decided that this week – the first full week of a new year – we wished to use images of light as our prompts, we wished to linger on the possibility of light, of hope, of goodness. though our blogposts might stray from that as we pen them, it was without constant nod to the constant updating of current events – a mass of indefensible, unconscionable acts. we pondered what to do about these blogposts we had written and decided to keep them. we hope that – whether or not any absence of the happenings of the day, whether or not the chance these written words seem somewhat inane at this moment – you might know that those events – of corruption, illegality, immorality – do not distill or distort our intention – to bring light and hope to this new year – the first days of which bring more insanity and unnerving instability. we are still holding space for light.

and so…

on the coldest of days, in any weather, we have gone down to the beach to dig a big contractor-sized pail of sand. once you have waxed bags, sand is the first thing you need for luminaria.

we’d add a couple cups of grainy sand to each bag and then center a votive candle into it for a flame that would linger for several hours.

for a few years we’d line them up on the sidewalks along our street – on both sides – to bring light in the latest of christmas eve hours, to gather a whole bunch of people together, to celebrate around a couple bonfires in our driveway.

even on the coldest of nights, we loved our new tradition.

until the pandemic.

since then our luminaria have been set up in our backyard, small groups of dear ones or just us watching them glow into the night.

this year – a rainy eve – we lit them inside our house. and we simplified.

waxed bag, glass votive, tea light candle.

no sand.

there was no reason to believe that our luminaria might tip over or blow away. so, we simply didn’t need the sand. we didn’t need anything to weigh down the bags. they were still ever-so-captivating.

in these days now since the holiday we have continued to clean out, to sort, to ponder things to keep, things to no longer hold onto.

each and every thing we donate or sell or discard has made me feel lighter. even the tiniest bric-a-brac that finds its way into the “go” pile has given me reason to celebrate.

space.

more space.

less begets less. it’s invigorating, refreshing, addictive.

each new piece i am pondering ends up on our dining room table. it has become the staging ground for decision-making. it has become the weigh-station…the place to weigh if what is weighing us down holds weight for us.

this will go on for a while. there is much to sort. as you know, thirty-six years in one house – a house with a basement and an attic – means there is a lot tucked in all the nooks and crannies.

but there is time. and in this time during which i am touching all these pieces of the past, i have a chance to touch all the emotions of these times-gone-by as well.

and so, it becomes a time of letting go. letting go of stuff, letting go of unnecessary goopy angst, letting go of emotions that get in the way of greeting the new days of what’s next.

the three luminaria in front of our fireplace stayed lit for a couple hours. without the challenge of the wind, they burned brightly. we turned off the room lights and sat in a living room illuminated only by happy lights and tiny tea light candles.

sinking in under furry throw blankets, we reveled in this place we call home, grateful and cozy.

with less and less sand.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this MERELY-A-THOUGHT MONDAY

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front door fan. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

we are back door people. we haven’t always been back door people, but years ago the handle on the front door refused to unlock properly, so the only sensible thing to do was become back door people. and so, ever since then, i could count the number of times we have used the front door as our entry – even since the locksmith came and fixed the front door lock.

but lately – with the significant amount of ice on our driveway from the ice-damming of which you are weary of reading about – we have been parking in the driveway a bit further down and – drumroll – going in the front door.

this confuses the dog. he has gotten used to our entry through the backdoor – it’s been the norm for most of his life. when we come in the front door, he arrives in the living room looking a bit befuddled. but dogga comes around quickly – acknowledging our arrival home – and his aussie wigglebutt starts wagging.

i have to say – though it’s been quite a while now since the locksmith smithed the lock – having two options as doors feels rather decadent. and gives one a different perspective on one’s home.

i haven’t been an attached-garage person for three and a half decades – though that was fun while it lasted. the never-get-wet, never-get-cold, never-get-hot, never-get-misted on – all of that – is rather nice. but that ended in florida and I wouldn’t trade the non-attached-garage personhood identity for florida residency.

so. the front door.

because we used to exit LBS or big red and walk down the driveway toward the garage and through the ever-popular metal accordion-folding ghetto fence, up the deck steps and across the deck to the back door, we would see back yard things on our way in. we’d gaze and stop and comment – on breck-our-aspen, on the flowers, on the deck seating areas, on the birdfeeder or birdbath birds, on the squirrels – whatever caught our interest, struck our fancy.

now – at least in these last two weeks – we have been – really – noticing the front door stuff. it is impossible to not appreciate the grasses as you walk to the front door. and in these last snowfalls, these grasses are utterly gorgeous. bent under the weight of the heavy sticky snow, they gracefully give to the season, knowing that their return in the spring and summer will be mighty. each blade, each frond – yellowed with autumn – now covered with pristine white fluff.

when you allow things to take your breath away – even simple things – it is amazing how many things will do just that.

one of these days we will go back to primarily using the back door. there’s always lots to see, despite how well we know these bitty routes in daily life.

in the meanwhile, i’m gonna be a front door fan.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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icicle-laden. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

these icicles are not for the meek. we are, luckily, not meek. we are well-versed in icicles and in the removal of icicles. well, at this moment, make that the continual removal of icicles.

the gutter guy came the other day. it was in the 20s out, so it felt like a heatwave. but not enough of a heatwave to do any work on the gutters. though we are scheduled for the future, we are still gutter-challenged, which makes us icicle-laden.

it helps to drive around our neighborhood of old houses and see other houses with hanging ice sculptures as well. usually, the only difference is that their sculptures are hanging off their extended soffit and fascia – something i wish we had on our steeply pitched cape cod roof. but alas, we don’t. so our icing is a tad more threatening to the inside of our home than theirs. suffice it to say, it does my heart good to see someone else with the same kind of gutter-roof setup as us. no, this is not schadenfreude. it is a shared sense of dread and a big outpouring of empathy.

so i try to take advantage of the unusual conditions and photograph the ice up close and personal, try to see the beauty of it, try to appreciate it. ahyup. it remains ice, nonetheless, and – for us – that is less than enthralling. were we to be viewing an icy waterfall or river we would be captivated. but the ice forming along our roof line holds little charm.

it is most definitely my hope that there is no ice on your roof, that your gutter flows freely, that no damn damming has come your way.

but if it has, know – in your heart – that we are in your camp, we stand – frozen – with you and it warms our heart to know we are not alone. we have wondered if there exist online support groups for ice-damming-survivors. we are ready to help with words of wisdom or tools of the trade should you need them.

because “some people are worth melting for.” (olaf – frozen movie)

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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backer rod, oh backer rod. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

we have become backer rod junkies. having never heard of it before this fall, it has been a quick conversion to fanhood, but we are there, nonetheless.

it’s been a week now since i woke up at midnight to the steady drip, drip, drip in the next room. yes. IN the next room. i threw off the covers, which woke d up immediately. and then i ran into the sitting room.

pulling up the miniblind disclosed what i expected: internal window sills of ice and a steady drip from above. it’s called ice damming.

the ridiculously frigid temperatures have caused the water in the gutter above these twin windows to freeze. we have a heating cable in that gutter, but – and here’s the big but – despite checking it before the snowfall, we didn’t know that the outdoor outlet the cable is plugged into had since failed.

so the water in the gutter froze and then the heat from the house started to thaw the snow on the steeply pitched cape cod roof which then melted toward the gutter – which had somehow misaligned itself – and, with the ice filling the gutter the water had nowhere to go but into the window structure behind the wall and voila! an interior (of the double hung windows) filled with ice. this – as you may guess – is not our favorite thing.

so, there we were, at midnight getting our equipment together. david with his 32 degrees base layers and boots and the infamous nike jacket, the ladder and plastic pitchers from which to pour hot water – and me, with my blow dryer, lots of old towels, a heater, a rubber spatula, mallet, and anything i could get my hands on that might waylay water from actually spilling INTO the room.

it was 2:30am before we went back to bed after d had climbed the ladder about 57 times in the frigid night air, melting the gutter and the downspout and replugging the heating element wire into an extension cord.

and then it all started again the next day. and the next. and the next. we are hoping for a 50 degree day, but it doesn’t look promising.

i’m writing this ahead so i am hoping that we have gotten it all under control by this time – hoping the backer rod and the towels and the cold-weather flex paste and the overburdened gutter guy have – in combo – solved this. but, for right now, as i write this, we are still in midstream, dealing with it. yep. midstream.

it is my hope (against hope) that the inordinate amount of backer rod we now proudly own will do the trick – being impermeable to water and such. we are counting on that impermeable thing. we shall see.

but in the meanwhile, we are nevertheless hope-filled-backer-rod-fans and will not hesitate to do the backer rod dance should backer rod help to solve this issue.

ice damming is a royal pain. we do our best to avoid it. every time it snows i hopehopehope it won’t be followed by a period of melting and then frigid sub-zero temperatures. not to mention a failing outlet or a gutter that has shifted out of alignment. eh.

we try to keep it in perspective, though, as we punt through our improvised fix. we feel fortunate, even as we damn the ice damming.

and mostly, i’m trying to decide if we should publicize my new backer rod theme song (to the tune of “edelweiss”) “backer rod, backer rod, every gap you are sealing. backer rod, backer rod, our love for you is revealing…joints and gaps will be waterproofed, that’s no spoof, we’re cheering…back rod, backer rod, you can’t know how much we’re feeling.”

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this MERELY-A-THOUGHT MONDAY

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patina. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

i just can’t keep everything. and right now, i’ve been more valiant about going-through-giving-away-selling-getting-rid-of.

and so, despite the really beautiful wood handle on this vintage cast iron meat grinder – passed down to me by my mom and dad – a manual kitchen gadget – a peck, stow & wilcox – from the late 1800s or early 1900s – i have decided to move it on.

we aren’t big meat eaters and we are definitely not meat grinders. as a matter of fact, i am hard-pressed to remember my mom grinding meat. and, as antiques go, our old kitchen isn’t big enough to add the meat grinder as a displayed collectible, even with its patina of worn-smooth wood, the curve of its handle, the working vice clamp – really, the whole curiosity factor. no, it is time to let it go.

in our economic blackout protest, we won’t be shopping today – or the next few days – and we didn’t the last few days – anywhere but smaller retail. over this weekend we may go to our favorite antique shoppe or we may stay in, continuing the big-clearing-out, maybe hiking as a respite from the going-through.

every now and then, as i touch something that’s been packed away, i pause for a few minutes. in the flash of memories that flies through my heart in those minutes, i do my best to detach from the item and simply attach to the feeling. some things are easy – the meat grinder is sort of one of those, despite its collectible value. some things are a bit more difficult or downright hard – an old felt hat of my dad’s, a mid-century modern black and blue ceramic ashtray i remember from forever, a cypress clock, my momma’s wedding dress, hobnail milk glass pieces – these all run wide that spectrum. my tinier-than-i-remembered horse collection, multiple plastic seagulls on wire stuck into driftwood, the metal yellow and white smile face wastebasket, an old bread box – these are also mixed and the ruthless-matter-of-fact-er in me takes a backseat to the flood of memories. but boxed is boxed and i am wondering what the point is if something that could be used by someone is simply boxed or binned away in the storage room in the basement, never to be appreciated, never to be purposed.

the hands that held this grinder handle, that cranked this, that churned out sausage or whatever it is the grinder is capable of, were hands related to mine. holding this handle is holding time-passed-by. it is holding people passed. and so i do a photo shoot of this cast iron piece, clamping it onto our kitchen table, appreciating its age, its handprints, its history – though i don’t specifically know it.

and someone will eventually purchase this – or we will give it away – and they will also wonder about where it came from, whose it was, how it was used and when. they won’t know, but they will have honored it nonetheless, just by taking it home.

and the meat grinder will start its next phase – maybe displayed – maybe put into use. and the story will continue – about a hundred years of story.

and we will stand firm in our blackout of the kind of purchasing that enables the most privileged wealthy, the oligarchs. we will stand firm in our pushback of the economic inequality, the DEI rollbacks, the administration’s corruption and bow to special interests, to bigotry. we’ll do the best we can.

as always we will scale back, be frugal, lighten the load we have, repurpose, minimalize our needs, support others who have less, hold onto what is truly valuable – memories, feelings, connections….the heart of it all.

because a hundred years from now – from the time of this very story – i would hope the patina of that future time would show the well-worn bruises and scars and hard work of the people who pushed back, the people who – successfully – held onto democracy.

*****

LEGACY © 1995 kerri sherwood

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read DAVID’s thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

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this old door. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

i’m not sure which old door it is, which doorway it graced. it was white when we carried it up from the basement storage room and placed it outside in the garden, over by the ferns, under the big pine, leaning against the old garage by the window. that this door began to peel back, revealing its rich green history, seems a meditation.

this very day – july 29 – has been a day of days through the years. the history peels back in my heart as i remember, back and back. i stand on the deck this morning, gazing at the old door that frames the beginnings of a rock garden, and nod to myself – in deference to the opening and closing of chapters.

the book of my story with this old house began on this day thirty-six years ago as we moved in, a hot midwest summer day filled with a u-haul and boxes and many hands of people helping. it has – as all stories – taken many turns, followed a windy – and sometimes broken – road, running parallel with the rest of life in all its iterations, all its paths and branches. but as i stand on the deck, admiring the door that is vulnerable to the weather and the sun, i know how far i, too, have come, how exposed my heart – to life.

it is no wonder i feel a certain attachment to old doors and windows. it is no wonder i am fond of peeling paint and the not-quite-perfect. it is no wonder i feel an affinity to this door in the garden over by the ferns, under the big pine, leaning against the old garage by the window.

there is so much more to yet reveal. layers back, layers forward. i can only hope be as beautiful as this old door.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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saved from away. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

almost every time we mosey around an antique shoppe – likely every time – i find myself musing about how no one should buy anything new. at all. ever. we should all just go peruse antique shoppes, flea markets, thrift stores, for – in those places just brimming over with possibility – it is probable that we would find all we need. and more.

we really do love a good antique boutique filled with vintage treasures just waiting to be re-homed.

because i agree with annie leonard (greenpeace), “there is no such thing as ‘away’. when we throw anything away it must go somewhere,” we have not yet disposed of our (decades and decades) old range. we have, instead, cherished it and putzed with it when it was struggling. but it is not in a landfill somewhere and, for that and for its long, long lifeline, i am grateful.

we were on the quest for a single ladder – to add to our deck with a purple sweet potato vine. we wanted a bit of interest over in the corner and found a stack of single ladders outside our favorite antique shoppe. but in the steps between where we parked big red and the ladder stack, there was this little garden table. d instantly stopped and drew it to my attention.

because our backyard is – indeed – our sanctuary, a small peeling paint white garden table could be the perfect addition – over there, on the deck, next to the railing that defines the potting stand garden.

$20.

but there is a sale. 20-40% off.

we buy our chosen ladder (who knew there were so many different widths?) and bring it out to the truck, ready to leave.

but that garden table.

it called us as we walked by. the second time.

so we went back to look at it, to wonder at its story, at where it had been, at its character as evidenced by its patina.

we snapped a photo and went inside – just to ask.

because we have been there many, many times, the gal at the checkout knows us. she asked me what I wanted to pay (though we weren’t yet sure we wanted to purchase it.) i replied $10 and her quick answer was, “sold!” i couldn’t help but wonder what a small garden table with as much joie de vivre would cost in a retail shop, a garden store, a catalog.

we happily loaded up this small sweet table and readily re-homed it on that spot on the deck, placing a soft green petite licorice plant on top.

every day – several times a day – we step outside and are deeply sated by this place of sanctuary. we wander to each plant, each herb, each grass, our aspen tree, and marvel at the growth in this hot-humid-greenhouse-type summer. we express, once again, gratitude for this space and its stuff.

and we plan our next trip – just to stroll about, to tell stories as we see items with which we had grown up, to goof about purchasing items completely out of our taste or – sometimes – completely out of taste at all. it is always an adventure.

to borrow from home goods advertising, we go finding. only our finds are the things people no longer want and wish to sell, the items that may have ended up disposed of, tossed out. our finds are filled with the magic of repurpose. they have stories we don’t know and can only imagine. they have new stories we have created for them. in turn, they create a place of tranquility and easy serenity.

and in some small way, we have saved the earth – even just a little – by saving one more thing from ‘away’.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this MERELY-A-THOUGHT MONDAY

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mindfully. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

when we moved here – 36 years ago – there was no deck in the backyard. there were concrete steps leading up to the back door, a cement sidewalk from the driveway around the back of the house to that set of steps.

the people who lived in this house before us had some – interesting – decor ideas. granted, it was the 80s so that offers its own bit of explanation. they generously offered to teach us how to remove and apply new wood grained contact paper to the kitchen countertops and backsplash – which, i guess, they thought coordinated nicely with the peach colored cabinets. (we declined, removing all semblance of contact paper from the counters and peach from the cupboards.) curtains and valances and priscillas and cafes covered all the windows – and there are a lot of windows in this house. there was brown carpet everywhere but for the orange and green shag in the sunroom. it all felt a bit dark and closed-in, suffocated even more by the rows of hedges literally everywhere outside.

but when i walked in – despite the overabundance of brown – the plethora of double-hungs draped in fabric – doors hanging in door frames serving no purpose but for taking up space – butter yellow shingles with brown (yes, more brown) trim we soon replaced with narrow white vinyl lap siding – a house with few personal touches, a house that desperately needed to breathe – it felt like home.

it still does.

and, despite all the changes this house has gone through, there are still multiple projects that linger on the list – deferred or just dreamy. but it breathes – in and out – and we can feel its heart beat.

it wasn’t long after we moved in that we decided to build a deck out back and my children’s father and grandfather set to that project, designing a smartly shaped L with a deck railing that would protect our small-children-yet-to-be from falling off.

soon after – seemingly a minute or two – there was a swing set with a slide and a glider, a fort and a turtle sandbox. five minutes later we added a basketball hoop. eventually, we took down most of the railing. i had all the hedges taken out and planted ornamental grasses, for this house is a graceful-on-the-breeze ornamental grasses kind of house. i added a pond, a focal point – while ever changing the plantings around the perimeter of the yard, dependent mostly on friends who had extra bushes or plants. we laid a stone patio – a place for slow dancing and dinners al fresco. we thoughtfully designed the garden along the new fence in the back. we gently added peonies and built a barnwood potting stand, laying slabs of rock in that corner garden and around the pond to protect our aussie’s circular run around it. we brought breck home from breckenridge and tenderly tended this aspen tree – the only tree either of us have ever purchased – finally finding its preferred home in a small garden in the middle of the backyard. and the sedum cuttings we placed there took, surrounding breck with green serated leaves and yellow flowers.

just the other day we noticed that this very sedum groundcover had somehow planted itself under the deck – in an obviously dark space inhospitably filled with rocks; its tiny volunteering stems were peeking out from underneath. it is growing out – reaching east – and we will not eliminate it from this new place it inhabits. we will do all we can to encourage it, foster its growth, help it soak up sunlight and continue to proliferate along the edges of the deck.

gardens are a constant source of surprises. we find volunteer switchgrasses in places we didn’t expect. there are day lilies in the most challenging of spots. and ferns have tenaciously found their way to places where there is clearly a bit too much sunlight for them. we tend all of these and transplant the fern volunteers into the shadier fern garden out back.

but the surprises are just that – surprises. joyful. they are a tiny nod that we – even in our seemingly infinite non-knowledge of gardening – are doing something right.

i honestly don’t think it has anything to do with providing the right soil or the right nutrients or the right fertilizer or the right amount of sun or the right amount of watering. we are guessing on all of this – with the aid of research we desperately try to apply appropriately.

what it think it has to do with – more – is how much we mindfully love it all – our house, our front yard, our backyard, our deck, our gardens, our patio. surely it all can feel that.

people respond to love and nurture the same way – coming alive, seeking light, growing and changing, thriving, nurturing back.

and i wonder how it is anyone would treat people – members of a community – respectful participants in the weave of the concentric circles of humanity in our towns, our states, our country – any differently than a garden.

why would anyone not wish to foster a nurturing and supportive environment – any community of people – any town, state, country – where all may grow and thrive?

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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break out peace. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

“peace has not broken out,” said marcus noland, executive vp of the peterson institute for international economics.

now there’s an understatement. no. peace has not broken out here in these un-united united states.

now, had they been priced a tad bit lower – ok, quite a bit lower – we might have liked to have added a metalwork alien to our backyard. but our purse strings did not allow for it and our backyard has enough stuff. besides, it’s not really our style. so we kept walking.

but the addition of the peace-loving greenguy would have been a hoot. it was rather tall and a place on our deck would guarantee visual impact for houses – and people – around us. maybe the antique flea market find would have made a positive impact on everyone around. ahh, wishful thinking. maybe not.

peace.

over the weekend we chose one day during which we did nothing. literally, just about nothing. we tended our gardens, adirondack-chair-sat and watched dogga and our birds. it was absolutely necessary. we did not scroll. we did not browse social-media. we did not read articles or newsletters. we did not watch videos or news footage. we deliberately tuned out. instead, we just simply sat.

it was a very quiet day – none of the neighbors were out – it easily became one of my favorite days lately. lots of sun, a very gentle breeze, a good throw pillow behind us, a few snacks.

because peace has not broken out, it is kind of imperative to take some – even manufactured – time of peace. we are all so immersed in the crazy, the chaotic, the mean-spirited – to separate ourselves out for a bit of time is necessary. we simply won”t endure if we walk 24/7 in the maniacal sickness of this administration.

so, with the memory of our greenfriend-of-the-market, we sat. and imagined the rest of the weekend and what all we would do with it. we drank in the stillness, reveled in our hummingbirds. we marveled at our dogga and dreamed dreams about vw minibus campers and backcountry excursions on foot.

peace was in our backyard for a bit. it had broken out with the sun and we were grateful. for just a little bit, all seemed ok.

“we come in peace,” the greenguys insist.

if only that were what they would find here on earth.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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