I am dwelling in the Hall of Unfinished Projects, dragging yellow legal pads, old half-finished Wakimbo notebooks, steno pads and dark-ages photos I want to scan from pillar to post, dribbling chocolate thought crumbs all along the way.
Why did I go upstairs? Why did I come back down? Is there a reason I am sitting on the floor looking at all those old Garden and Gun magazines? One thing I do know. My wash-softened electric blue sweat pants sure are comfortable. (Maybe because the cinch string fell out and now they rest lightly hanging by an agnostic prayer just over my high, wide hip bones. ) And the old flannel shirt I rediscover every time we have the inevitable few days of cold weather in January feels like chamois against my skin.
Oh, yes. I went upstairs to look for the photos from our 1985 soiree along the coasts of California, the one we took a year after eloping to Alabama, when we could squeeze a generous 21 days away from work for a honeymoon.
We fell in love with Monterrey Bay, California and Gold Beach, Oregon. I burned the soles of my feet on the hot, dark beach sand, and ate oatmeal at The Inn at Otter Crest from a bowl made by a local potter. Strangely, I still remember the artist's name. It was Jacob D'Acurso. Thinking of that long ago breakfast, I smell cinnamon.
This harbor scene looks like a Impressionist water color to me. It reeks with mystery and romance. All those little boats. Endless reflections.
Do you suppose this California "designer squirrel" has stored up enough nuts for the winter? We spotted him on the rocks on the 17-mile drive alongside Monterrey Bay.
"You talkin' to me?"
Speechless. For once.
