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Shades of the old country I have only known through literature: my living room filled with family, the encampment of the Olympians (a.k.a Sequimmers) lasted for three days. Shades drawn or opened, we rested and rallied in pl
easant self-directed cycles reminding me of the “nap room” in the old house in Batavia where as tired grandchildren we slithered under light blankets, the slats of double-tiered wooden shutters unfolded and drawn closed in a startling clackity-clack to block the light of mid-afternoon.
My brother’s wife dead-headed our roses and planted petunias with her quiet attention to green; gifted me with berries
and tools so that we could make jam together; and voiced her appreciation of the good food generously and often, her smile full of light. My little brother walked in and breathed a sigh, three times expressing his pleasure in the calm and comfort of my home; ventured out with my spouse for maple bars and fresh donuts which he ate with gusto; and shared recipes as together we concocted a fresh apricot and olive chicken. Their lovely daughter entranced the dog (a mutual admiration), prepped veggies with me, and watched her dad closely as he and I walked back in time through the haunts of our earlier lives.
We sent them off this morning with a sheaf of poems, a flat of tomato plants, my husband’s landscape photograph from Egegik, and a disc of dog clips which threaten to inspire a launch of The Red Dog Blog.Their gift of peace rose blossoms in the jelly jar at the table mark an opening for continued conversations.
