It’s not easy to write about life at the same time you are living it. What did Wordsworth say? Poetry is strong emotion as recollected in tranquility? Yeah. Tranquility. A poet who was obviously not a mother.
Because I process what is inside outside of my head, I find myself trying to write out what has happened in the last few weeks. But all of the accouterments of processing would pretty much bore the pants of anybody but me. So I’ll just say this: lots of visits and happiness. A kind of happiness I had to look at twice before I could begin to understand it. Throw in a little bit of horse riding, work coming to the studio and having nearly all the family together, and there you are. Add Rachel’s sudden brilliance with a knitting needle (actually, you need two – at least). And then factor in the Cox family moving away, and you get this oddly intense, hyper awareness of things.
Pictures:
In our family, we have always treated each other with the greatest of respect.
Great grand and grands. You can tell that Scoots’ character tends a little to the suspicious.
And me. Somewhere in between. Except I’m on the side there. The left. Your left.
Scooter: finally a smile. Maybe – just maybe – we’re okay.
Okay, now we’re cookin’!
Worse’n a bag fulla wild hogs, ain’t they? Slippery as wet puppies.
When in France . . . or is it “When in Paris?” Wait! It’s Rome. I got it. Rome, which was – ahem – which was invented by Paris. No. It was. Look it up.
La Belle Gin avec the Grand Papa.
How all this made me feel.
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