summer is...

checking the tides before going blackberry picking on a secret island with wild cows, herons, a million frogs, even more blackberries, and the smell of the sea.




waking up at 3:00 in the morning to drive to the mountains, then hike to the top of tabletop to catch a pacific northwest sunrise that turns mt. baker a most flattering shade of pink.

at the market

In Gap, I lived on rue du mazel. It was an old, narrow street where musicians liked to play. There was a girl with curly hair that played the flute and a boy with tattered jeans and dreadlocks who played the accordian. I would sit at my window sill with a cup of coffee, listening, taking in the sounds of market day. I would watch too as the girl playing the flute swayed back and forth and as the boy's fingers pressed white buttons, each one playing a note to the tune of a french folk melody.



A morning such as that was prelude to the splendors of a Saturday in small town France where the church bells rang in a distant harmony to the loud chatter of vendors and buyers crowding centre-ville. I would walk through the square, stopping at my favorite booths to buy a jar of creamed honey, a wedge of mountain cheese, a loaf of olive bread, the most delicious tomatoes you've ever had...



The cheese was delicious and the honey was most sweet, but even better were the people. The old men in funny hats, the old women toting baskets brimming with vegetables, baguettes, and who knows what other fresh finds. I would say hello to the kids I knew, in English because that made them smile immeasurably with pride.

Little captains of their little boats