Wednesday, May 31, 2017
Splash, no telling what that was here on the dark, darker, darkest creek; beyond, human sounds, vehicles on the bridge that I shook holy water on to bless and open twenty-something or thirty years ago, pickup trucks as folks arrive to start their day in town.
Below, voices, someone loading red cooler and fishing gear into a boat docked here overnight. They came to fish, we because this is as far as we’re interested or willing to drive anymore, but really because we have this place in common: fourteen years to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, and now and then to return.
Premarital counseling session here later this morning, then come back for real late in October. But oh yes, God willing. When you pass 82, as I'll have by then, God has to be willing. Cross fingers, knock wood, wishing you long years, and God willing.
At 7H we have BigSky to the south. Here it’s east, creek, marsh, river eastward to the edge of the world where the sky starts. Other side of the porch screen.
We have dinner late, between two and three, Tuesday dinner so many oysters that, rising, I felt, and all the rest of the day, like an overstuffed chair. Supper, glass of Oregon pinot noir, saltine cracker with salmon spread, half a stuffed egg brought from home.
Earlier: contented soul who knows life's worth, eeking out a living by stopping at his traps.
Posted by Tom Weller at 6:41 AM