I’m ready to get away. Planned, or not at all, I’m ready to grab my get-away kit (picnic kit, almost-but-not-quite-camping-kit, whatever you’d like to call it), throw my weekender in the car, and hit the road.
A stack of Picardie tumblers. A Bormioli Rocco carafe. Pewter salt & pepper shakers. Clamp-lid jars. A cribbage set. A cot. A wooden bangle bracelet. A shell necklace. Bright yellow Hunter boots. There’s something about finding treasure in the heap.
There’s a certain hope, a longing. A gossamer sketch of a dream just beyond where you can reach. A one-day place or space somewhere, sometime where life just isn’t so hard.
For all my minimalist tendencies, I do get carried away when it comes to fresh flowers in the house in summer.
We’d hiked up the foothill slope, between the gap in the rock rim, and down the back sway into the grassy bottom of the small valley that hugged the mountainside. It was evening. It was summer.
An unexpected, hundreds-of-miles-long road trip just might mean that, in your scattered packing, you’ll forget something.
I woke up on the sofa, the morning light slowly gathering through the windows, the sound of the creek, of birdsong, of another day spilling in.
It was last December that I received an email from a longtime reader with a single word written in the subject line: Substack??
Loves! I’m waving from here as I gather my bags to depart for more multi-day, multi-stop travel across Montana
The truth is, we forgot her birthday. Oh my.