…. is not my favorite. Too wet, too scant, and the hydrangea suffers.
With enthusiasm, though, the children have dug into paper crafts and apple pie baking. My contribution to the household is vacuuming the ratty living room rug, spreading out my papers, and working in front of the wood stove. My brother sends a request for a knitted winter hat.
Our house, tall and narrow, reminds me of a clipper ship sailing through uncharted waters, resilient through gusty wind, its largely inaccessible cupola a crow’s nest. Overnight, while we were sleeping, the seasons turned. We are now gliding into the outer edges of the snowy season, and the children seek mittens. I’ll search for sage beneath that white for sausage and potato pie.
It is not down on any map; true places never are.
– Herman Melville, Moby-Dick; or The Whale