Leaving what's happened

Tons of fun. A few frustrations. That's been my experience with this blog.

But in keeping with a summer of changes - rearranged office, children graduated, new hairstyle - I've decided it's time to move on. Or at least to move.

I've been working on a future website. My authorish place to hang out, when I have more publication credits to display and, well, maybe wisdom to impart. My full site isn't yet a reality, but an intermediary place to hang is. I'll direct you now to a blog with a template that should fit the coming website. For me it's a whisper of fresh air, a release from bloggy gadgets. Those do-hickeys are fun, but I've fooled with most of them all I wish to. Now on to simplicity, while not forgetting, of course, that I'd like you to know about my writing and life journey. I also wish to keep sharing in yours.

You can check out my new blog in this spot. From now on I plan only to blog there, and to leave this site intact, seeing as I've grown fond of her. She's taught me much, through many bleary-eyed visitations. The past will remain here for nostalgia's glimmering sake.

Loon Lake day two

The buck came back the next morning to visit Tim and our son.

This time he brought his family.

Camp visitor

After arising the first morning in a campsite near Loon Lake, Tim had company at breakfast.

Inquisitive fella.

Humble sunrise

Up earlier than usual, I’ve opened wide the house to a deep morning with velvet light showing above the eastward neighbor’s roof. I need to cool the kitchen before starting an apple pie for my guys who are returning today.

Tim and our son left Monday afternoon for two nights’ camping and stargazing. I remained in these quiet rooms to write and read. Ah, life without TV has been good.

Yet I’m ready to greet my family again. Brindy’s random patterings through the hall and Westley’s requests for more food only satisfy a need for companionship for so long.

I did work though, yesterday and this morning. I took a picture to prove it.
I’ve changed my hair for the first time in a decade. My face has sure changed since my last different do. Guess I need to remember beauty can only rise from within at any age. Guess this look’ll suit me for a while.

More Russian along

You no doubt heard this past week about Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's passing. I have on my desk his very thick and more inviting than ever book, The Gulag Archipelago. I won't begin it yet, but it's on my list for after I've explored a few less lengthy volumes. Tim and I watched a special the other night about Stalin's restructuring of Moscow. The dictator literally moved land and water trying to build the city of the future. He also maintained an insane, iron grip on the Russian people. Solzhenitsyn's crime that originally sent him to prison was mentioning Stalin's mustache in a letter.

Recently I've experienced shades of near-Russian culture, visiting a Serbian Orthodox church that Victoria has been attending. My daughter's new interest has drawn me to learn more about these beautiful, highly ritualized services. Here's her church, with its set of clear-ringing bells.


Of course, I'm not the ritual go-getter, but I did wear a scarf as I stood to chant with the quiet, beguiling voices of conviction at St. John's. As incense wafted from the priest's censer, I felt transported to a time when peasant families trudged the Eastern snows and entered hushed sanctuaries, one by one crossing themselves, bowing close to the floor, and rising to kiss the icon of a saintly father perhaps known to writers whose books would sit on my desk one day.

Crazy, warm Russians

At last, over the weekend, I finished with those dear Karamozovs. A heart-y story, if you know what I mean.

I found it interesting, as I did when reading Crime and Punishment, that despite flittings hither and yon and conversations that blocked the margins of page after page, Dostoevsky's prose energized and carried me through (well, after I'd begun the book over, having started it two years ago and stalled in the first section).

Must be a Russian thing.

Anna Karenina gave me Levin, a character I've long been grateful to've known. Now the Brothers has lent me Alyosha and Mitya, and I won't soon forget them. Ivan, either, though I can only hope he changed his mind about the permissibility of everything.

Warm day crazy

You know how it is when you think you hear voices from the other room, and you walk out there to find the air conditioner blowing and remember that you're home alone, and you feel just a tiny bit creepy?

You don't? Oh. Just me, then.

My cuz's 50th; my first limo

I've been a bit bleary-eyed all weekend. This is what happens, though, after you take an evening ride with the gals on the town in one of these.
They stocked it well. (But really, I was looking up through the sun roof at the Portland buildings. Cool.)

My cousin (left) enjoyed the surprise from her hubby and sis-in-law (right).

A piano player serenaded us at a happenin' establishment on the 30th floor.

We all wore black in consolation, but none of us was upset to be older and, uh, wiser.