Tradition

 Jake and Missy were fabulous hosts for their first Thanksgiving in their new home. Twenty? Twenty-five friends and family,  not counting kids? I lost track. 

 Do you remember this when a gathering got too large? As the eldest of four with a handful of younger cousins, I was always irked with being the head of the kid's table. All I could hope for was that they would eat quickly, not spill their milk, and leave the table. 

With our parents gone ten years now, my sibs, each in their own way, are still working on establishing new traditions and bemoaning the loss of others. My mother's handwritten stuffing recipe got flashed around the internet while I instructed Jake on it firsthand. It was delicious. 

I distinctly remember that my first Thanksgiving at the grownup table was the year of Kennedy's assassination. I think I earned my seat when I  was watching live TV with my dad, uncle, and grandfather and witnessed Lee Harvey Oswald get removed from the equation. 

 I wouldn't call the Thanksgiving table discussion politics exactly. The adult men had somber opinions and hypotheses, but all the women did was try to steer the conversation away from world affairs to local gossip and pop culture. I watched and listened.

This was the first year that I really felt like an Elder. I remember how my grandmother would disappear at midday for a nap at holiday gatherings. I wanted to, but I didn't. I don't want to miss a thing.

I left Danielsville just after sunset and drove home alone arriving well after dark. I fed and coddled the cat crew and conked out early. This devil moon woke me up around two am. 

The clouds parted just long enough for me to grab a few quick and dirty shots and to recognize that I really needed to clean the glass, inside and out.

And speaking of devils, I watched this little heartbreaker flirting shamelessly with a young cousin who, at 20, giggled that he thought she was a teenager. He smoothly performed the "Coin From Your Ear" magic trick for her. Look out world.

Flow

 This is how the river keeps rolling.

 I found this working CD player in Jim's desk. We had an extensive vinyl collection at one time. One by one, the favorites were replaced by CDs. Many of those are deteriorating with age or rough handling, but I had some gems squirreled away. Charlie is charmed by yet another piece of ancient technology.

A decade

 Proof to me that time is not linear. Jim's been gone ten years now. For me, ever-present. Sometimes, I still feel he's just gone to the store and should be home soon. 

Although he was almost always smiling or clowning around, this is a good look at a smart, serious guy staring down some big picture. Making a plan and a backup. He took care and let me be a goofy butterfly. 

Treading time

 

Thinking ahead to the holidays, but I have to work harder at it these days. The festivities, that is. Gratitude comes easier.

I've just come off a three-day struggle with one scene. The one that strikes the match to much of what comes after. I closed the laptop on it well after midnight and have not yet reread it. 

But I will. Words are much more forgiving than cloth or stitch. 

Two completely different stories are coming into focus at the same time...I need a walk. 

    I moved the story excerpt here

Wither

There's a conspiracy brewing out on the Island. It got away from me early this year. All the perennial seeds I tossed around so casually didn't stand much of a chance against the unchecked weeds. A few brave zinnias, cosmos, and marigolds made statements here and there. For the most part, it's a jungle. Still, there was a lot of flowering stuff that attracted pollinators so I didn't do anything drastic. Like, set it all on fire. 

For now, the rotting pumpkins, some squishy potatoes, sprouted onions, and garlic will languish until I call a pro to plow it all under so I can start fresh in the spring. The gardenias up in the mailbox garden continue to bloom. I'll pick some more today and cut the mildewed peony leaves and butterfly bush back down to the ground. Easy pickin's.

Firsts

 Charlie was delighted with the idea of comics being tucked in with each piece of gum. 

After I commiserated with him (he can't have gum due to some fancy dental work) I showed him the real fun of bubble gum. So glad I kept the camera on him.

Spirits

 ... Ghosts. Souls. 

    There are a lot more names for the Others in English alone. More beautiful names in other languages. Fantasma, esprit, iwin. Every culture in the world acknowledges the existence of the energy that animates us. Shadows that ripple, the scent of magnolias in December, and the feeling that you are not alone when you are the only one in the room. Figures in the cloth. 

Animals know. Why struggle to explain? They just are. 

I've been struggling for a little while with the new story. Not writer's block, but a lack of "why". An internet rabbit hole took me to a British police procedural from 2015 titled "River" starring Stellan Skarsgard. He's a police detective trying to solve the brutal murder of his female partner. 

Her ghost and others will not give him a break. I don't usually binge on TV but the timing was right and I absorbed all six episodes. The writers seemed hell bent on making River seem or feel that he was broken. All of the spirits had various coy axes to grind. 

Would it ever occur to anyone that displaced souls might be mostly clueless as to their purpose? Still and all, I gave the show a solid A. Did not want to sue anyone to recover my afternoon/evening. 

Here I was critiquing an old TV show when I remembered that my two main characters do not have to advance the story all on their own. I had forgotten about the ghosts! I felt like someone just handed over the large handful of pieces that were missing from a thousand piece jigsaw. 

Now to put them to work and, maybe, finally wise them up. 

Moonlight

 

Country comfort

 All Souls in the grove and then a road trip to pick Charlie up from school and stay over.  

A backyard campfire just for the good company and s'mores.

I'm glad the pictures have been telling the story because I have been putting words elsewhere. 

I also find I'm doing more listening than talking these days.

The world often leaves me speechless except for some lackluster swearing. 

The colors of stone

 

Hunter Moon by Colin

Camilla 

I went to the dye table with the colors of New England in my head. What I got turned out like carnival clown barf, except for these. 

This is Raven with a touch of Marigold and Deep Space for balance.

Some are darker, others lighter. I have about twenty skeins close cousins of these two and will post them for sale. The rest? 

Over-dyeing on the kitchen table eventually.