148 thoughts on “Making Way

    1. And your comment reminds me of the Owl and the Pussycat, who went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat.

      The last lines of the poem really seem to fit nicely, even though the photo shows sunset and not moonrise:

      “They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
      Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
      And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
      They danced by the light of the moon,
      The moon,
      The moon,
      They danced by the light of the moon.”

      1. I had forgotten that poem. Poems like this should not be forgotten. Living like this should not be forgotten. No yacht or bazillion dollar house in the background, just the little boat and the moon.

  1. I like your photo. Wave motions was always an interesting study for me in physics. Those around the moving boat are golden and full of information.

    1. You’ve reminded me that I wanted to pass on this completely entrancing article about rogue waves. I was especially interested in the point that not all rogue waves are 30′ high — and the experiment with the little Lego boat is pretty cool.

      One of the most fascinating parts of learning to sail was learning to read the water for what it revealed about the wind. As you note, the waves have even more to say about what’s going on beneath the surface.

      1. That was a very interesting article on rogue waves. The universe is awash in waves of all kinds and wavelengths and amplitudes. There are particles that appear out of the vacuum and then disappear. http://bit.ly/29VoUvi

        I wonder if they are manifestations of rogue waves as virtual particles.

        1. My gosh. I read it — twice — and now it’s my head that’s spinning. I love this stuff, even when I don’t understand it. I’d rather be aware of it and not understand it, than not be aware of it at all.

          1. Were you thinking of Tennyson’s “In Memoriam”?

            I hold it true, whate’er befall;
            I feel it when I sorrow most;
            ‘Tis better to have loved and lost
            Than never to have loved at all.

            1. I hadn’t consciously thought of “In Memoriam,” but that is an interesting parallel in sentence structure. I happen to think Tennyson’s right about love, but how about this?

              ‘Tis better to have learned in part
              Than never to have learned at all.

        1. John Burroughs is one of my favorite writers about nature, and he’s a great one for reflecting on the nature of reflections — of every sort. He doesn’t use the word here, but he could have.

          “There is no literature or art without love and contemplation. We can make literature out of science only when we descend upon it with love, or with some degree of emotional enjoyment. Honey is the nectar plus the bee, and a poem, or other work of art, is fact and observation plus the man.”

          “Our best growth is attained when we match knowledge with love, insight with reverence, understanding with sympathy and enjoyment; else the machine becomes more and more, and the man less and less.”

    1. One difference I can think of is that the ducks are self-propelled, while this man had to have a little help to make his ripples. But the pleasure of heading home at the end of the day? I suspect the ducks experience that from time to time, as well.

      1. I suppose it takes a man to appreciate the visual beauty of the scene; can’t know what the duck sees or feels. They just both have that rippley wake. I can remember a late day ride back to dock on our inflatable. The sea looked like mercury…very silver and the gentle troughs a metallic yellow. The sun was obscured by a thin layer of clouds as I recall and it was just magical. Can only a human appreciate that?

        1. I don’t know, Judy. But I have my suspicions that there is a capacity for what we call appreciation in some of the creatures around us.

          I think especially of doves. There is a mated pair that comes to the feeder outside my window. Once the hubbub of the day is over, and the bluejays, sparrows, and pigeons have departed, the doves come back and sit on the railing, so close to one another that their wings touch. They watch the sun go down and then, just when I think it’s become so dark they can’t see, they take off together, and fly off to wherever they stay.

          Are they just warming themselves? Resting? Digesting their dinner? Maybe so. But I swear there’s an element of appreciation for the sunset. They never appear when it’s cloudy.

    1. Thank you, Martha. It’s usually the sky that catches my attention while I’m sitting at my desk, but this time it sky-reflected-in-water. It was hard not to notice this scene.

    1. That’s interesting. Because I knew it was water, I never saw the resemblance to a golden field, but it certainly is there. We do sing of “amber waves of grain.” A friend who grew up in the Texas Panhandle used to sit and watch the grain blowing in the wind, and dream of the ocean. Eventually, he joined the Navy and experienced the real thing.

    1. Kayti, I remember how the grasses in California can glow in the autumn sun. Wheat fields in the midwest can take on the same lovely color: not yellow and a bit in your face, like sunflowers, but truly golden.

    1. Thanks, DM. I’m just happy to have a window that provides views like this. They almost demand to be noticed, and certainly help prove that not every photographic opportunity requires traveling long distances.

  2. That is indeed beautiful. It reminded me of golden fields also. I had to look again and read your haiku to see it as water. Still looks impossible.

    1. Sometimes I do a little gentle fussing about our muddy water, and long for clear, beautiful rivers and streams. But now and then, even muddy water can be transformed. It’s interesting, too, how the golden light filling the sky and reflecting off the water seems to have blurred the distinction between land and water.

    1. Believe me, Deb — there’s not a single bass lurking in those waters. (Under normal circumstances, that is. After our recent floods, there were reports of bass being swept far from home, even down to Galveston).

      But not to worry — there could be a trout or redfish, and that could do just as well for breakfast. Add in some fried potatoes, sliced vine-ripe tomatoes, and some good coffee, and we’d be all set. Come on over!

      1. Well, I’ve never fished for what I’m guessing would be Large Mouth (BIG game fish) down there; but as a kid, I’d go with Dad before daybreak while we were family camping “up north”, and they were all Small Mouth Bass that we brought home for breakfast. And (most likely) equally at home with your Trout or Redfish.

        What body of water is this, Linda?

        1. I get so confused, because there are some bass that live only in freshwater lakes, and some that prefer salt. In the same way, redfish are most common in salt water, but can survive in freshwater locales where the temperature and mineral composition of the water are right.

          If I were going to spend time fishing, flounder would be my choice. I do love a nice stuffed flounder.

          Believe it or not, the “body of water” is the main fairway in the marina outside my place. I’m looking at it right now, sitting here at the computer. The fairway leads to Clear Lake, and then on to Galveston Bay and the Gulf. But it’s a marina that’s my “tiny inland sea.”

            1. We used to vacation as a family in Minnesota: specifically, Leech Lake, and north. Walleye pike was the reward for those hours on the water. Later, I got up to Winnipeg, and discovered smoked goldeye.

              I am beginning to think I’ve been prejudiced against the Great Lakes, and I need to do something about that. Any lake that can sink the Edmund Fitzgerald deserves a serious look.

            2. Gordon Lightfoot was a huge favorite of mine, back in the late 60s and early 70s. “Early Morning Rain,” “If You Could Read My Mind” — the whole catalog. And yes, I’ve been to WinterPeg, not to mention several days in Elma, Manitoba. But the best ever was the night in Rainy River, Ontario, when we got the last room in town — over a bar — and when the fighting began, my dad shoved a chair under the doorknob. Ah, family vacations.

    1. When I heard the news from Dallas last night, I couldn’t help but think of the difference between this image and the situation there.

      This morning’s news conference with Dallas officials was remarkable for the strength and dignity exhibited. A friend there affirms what I can only imagine — that the entire city is in shock. So is the nation, for that matter. A restoration of calm will no doubt come much sooner than a return of serenity — reason enough to cherish moments like the one captured above.

  3. A scene to fall in love with. Beautiful. Your words reminded me of my recent returns home from Cairns. The flight comes in just after midnight. On my past two trips, the lights of Christchurch have glimmered beneath us, golden lights across the plain. I didn’t think ‘home’, but I did think, ‘How amazing, we are still here, our lights are still on……how did we get through?” It was awww and awe.

    1. I like that pairing. Affection and amazement (the “awww and awe”) are perfect responses to what you and your city have experienced together. As for glimmerings — I’ve always imagined them to be a combination of glints and shimmers: hard to define, but immediately recognizable.

      I love night flying. It’s been a good while since i’ve had the pleasure of seeing any city from the air; it would be interesting to compare present realities with my memories of watching cities like Houston emerge from the darkness.

      1. Glimmerings are immediately recognizable in your photo! What about night sailings? I haven’t done that for a long time……what is it like seeing lights on the shore?

        1. Seeing lights along the shore is marvelous, but even better is geting far enough offshore to see only moon, stars, and bioluminescence — the sparkling, sparking bits of light that limn the path of a hull through the water, or even dolphins. Here’s a very brief video of a Lagoon 620 catamaran on its way to Melbourne, and making quite a show of it.

    1. Rethy, perhaps the tiny inland sea was filled by golden showers from the trees in your homeland. i’m certainly glad you found this bit of gold beautiful.

      I noticed your post about Emily Dickinson. I just posted about her, too, and her love of her garden. You might enjoy reading about that, too.

      Thank you so much for stopping by. You’re always welcome here.
      ~ Linda

    1. Of course. I used a Canon T6s, f5, 1/1250, ISO800, -0.3 EV, 180mm. When I look at that now, I’m wondering if I couldn’t have found a simpler way to achieve much the same result, but I’m so new to all this, I was just happy to have gotten the photo before the light changed! I’m glad you like it.

    1. A haiku, it is. I like that you name the color “butterscotch.” We may have some butterscotch skies soon. There are clouds of Saharan dust heading this way, right on schedule. It was last July 4 that I captured this image, compliments of the Saharan air layer.

      The Cathie Ryan song is beautiful. Her voice is haunting, isn’t it? And speaking of little boats, here’s Lyle Lovett’s wonderfully quirky “If I Had a Boat.” I can imagine the guy in the dinghy singing it as he goes along.

      “And if I had a boat
      I’d go out on the ocean
      And if I had a pony
      I’d ride him on my boat
      And we could all together
      Go out on the ocean
      I said me upon my pony on my boat…”

    1. That was part of the appeal of the scene for me, Bella — the tranquility. The color attracted my attention first, but the quietness and simplicity were so nice. A little tranquility is good for the soul.

    1. Thanks, Arti — I’m glad you like it. It was taken right from the balcony of my apartment. I have a view down the main fairway in the marina here. Most of the time, it’s the sunset and clouds that appeal, but this time it was the light on the water. When I saw the guy in the dinghy, it was grab-the-camera time.

      Since I’m on the third floor, I can’t help remembering Virginia Woolf’s words: “It is the panorama of life, seen…from a third-storey window, that delights me.”

    1. Thanks, Anne. Such a sight does raise that sea-fever, doesn’t it? I’m so glad I carry that poem with me. When I can’t get to the water, at least I have the poem.

      By the way, do you know Cathie Ryan? WOL mentioned one of her songs above, and it’s gorgeous. Here’s another sample.

  4. What a gorgeous photo! As with someone else (I believe), my very first thought… despite the fact that I grew up on an island in the Pacific, surrounded by endless waves… was of golden crops! So fascinating.

    1. It has surprised me that so many people see fields of gold. If I look at it a little sideways, I can see some similarity to wheat threshing — both are beautiful. I’m glad you like it. Only five minutes after I took the photos, the show was over: the light faded, the man was gone, the ripples subsided. it was as though it never happened. But it did.

      Just think how many such moments we miss in any given day!

    1. You know, Curt — you’re right. The good news is that I’ve started saving the full-sized files of photos that I particularly like. This is a crop, of course, so if I ever wanted to use the full photo for some little project, I could.

      As for whether the person is coming home or leaving home? It may be that there’s a third alternative. He might well be at home.

      1. I like the third option! I can only wonder why I didn’t think of it, Linda. It’s Curt-like. Sometimes when I go off wandering in the wilds, far from anywhere, I am struck by the feeling I’m home.
        Good idea on the photos. –Curt

        1. I understand that perfectly. I sometimes think I’m rather like a turtle. I carry the feeling of home with me, like a shell. No matter where I am — a friend or relative’s house, a bed and breakfast, a conference — I always consider it home. People have looked at me a little strangely when I stand up after a meal — in Kansas, perhaps — and announce, “Well, I’m going to head home.” Some people think I mean Houston, when I really just mean the Best Western.

          1. Peggy and I are like turtles, although we travel faster, in our van, Linda. It has all the amenities of home and I need very little space to keep me happy. So we have our home in Oregon and our home away from home. But as much as I love both of these ‘homes,’ it is a different feeling when I wander off into the woods. –Curt

  5. Beautiful haiku to accompany a golden photo, Linda! I guess because humans are 70 percent water, or thereabouts, we naturally gravitate toward water photos. Lucky you, living so close to the good stuff!!

    1. There is something enticing about water, isn’t there? Being on the water isn’t necessary for me, and probably not for you. Even hearing a brook, or the waves on the shore, or the rain on a roof, has the ability to soothe.

      And, yes — even a photo can serve as a reminder of how beautiful water can be when that “perfect” light flashes across it, and transforms it completely.

    1. It was such a surprise, Jeanie. There’s a lesson there, for sure. We plot and plan our next project, and then life comes along and says, “Don’t look over there. Look over here, where I’m doing something even more special.”

      And just think — all we have to do is listen, look, and stop. Funny, how that childhood safety slogan gets reversed now and then.

        1. I’ve never thought before how nonsensical that phrase is. I found this little tidbit at a UK site I sometimes use when I need to interpret British English:

          “‘Head over heels’ is a good example of how language can communicate meaning even when it makes no literal sense. After all, our head is normally over our heels.

          The phrase originated in the 14th century as ‘heels over head’, meaning doing a cartwheel or somersault. This appeared later in Thomas Carlyle’s History of Frederick the Great, 1864: ‘A total circumgyration, summerset, or tumble heels-over-head in the Political relations of Europe.'”

          And I laughed at this bit of editorializing:

          “‘Head over heels’ isn’t alone – many everyday idioms make no literal sense. Another nice example is ‘putting your best foot forward’. Anyone trying that should arrange to have at least three legs. We humans should limit our efforts to ‘putting our better foot forward,’ unless we want to end up ‘heels over head’.”

    1. An abstraction wouldn’t have paired as well with the haiku, but about a minute after I took the photo shown above, the boat’s wake reached the dock on one side and the bulkhead on the other. As refracted waves combined with the wake still being created, this was the result.

  6. Must send a hug for your lovely image, Linda. Anyone who loves water and small watercraft surely must feel moved by the serenity and simplicity you’ve captured here.

    1. Believe me, Gary, there are people in this world — people with very large, very impressive boats — who long now and then for the experience shown in that photo.

      Remember the conversation between Mole and Water Rat, in “Wind in the Willows”?

      “”Nice? It’s the only thing,” said the Water Rat solemnly as he leant forward [on his oar] for his stroke. “Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing—absolutely nothing—half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats…

      “In or out of ’em, it doesn’t matter. Nothing seems really to matter, that’s the charm of it. Whether you get away, or whether you don’t; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you’re always busy, and you never do anything in particular; and when you’ve done it there’s always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you’d much better not.”

      Exactly. And hug accepted, with thanks.

      1. I’ve always loved that passage since I first read it as a child, and the phrase “messing about in boats” has stuck with me and has returned to soothe me many a time since. Absolutely nothing like it.

  7. I’ve been to look at this wonderful image before and thought I’d left a comment. Seems I haven’t got through.

    What can I say except to concur with everybody who has commented: it’s a magical scene, so necessary in these troubled times.

    1. Honestly, Friko? If we paid attention only to what the media serves up, we might soon believe that Armageddon is next Tuesday — and probably before tea.

      For me, this still water and golden light is a fine example of what Wendell Berry counsels for times like these:

      “When despair for the world grows in me
      and I wake in the night at the least sound
      in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
      I go and lie down where the wood drake
      rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
      I come into the peace of wild things
      who do not tax their lives with forethought
      of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
      And I feel above me the day-blind stars
      waiting with their light. For a time
      I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.”

      1. Thank you for the Wendell Berry poem, too – “forethought of grief” is a phrase that describes our truly natural response to hearing every week, or every day, of a new disaster or heartbreaking situation somewhere in the world, and when such events pile up on top of our own personal heartaches and painful events…

        Then we have to find the place on the earth or in our souls where we can be in the peaceful moment that exists right now.

        Your photo evokes that sort of moment. I’m glad I didn’t see it until after so many comments revealed more about it: butterscotch, golden fields, California’s summer hills. :-)

        1. And again, tonight, another event to grieve. Lately, I’ve been remembering what it was like as a child to be truly ill — people used to talk of waiting for the fever to break. Once that happened, recovery was possible. In past weeks, I’ve thought that, as a country: we’re like a sick child, waiting for the fever to break, for recovery to begin.

          In the meantime, there are the golden fields; the butterscotch skies; the glowing, golden hills. There’s a song for them, too.

          1. That is a favorite song of mine – it reminds me of my late husband, because it is about lovers, too. I love that particular music video of it, too! Thank you, Linda.

  8. That is a very nice piece from Wendell Berry above, and could well serve alongside of the photo, but your Haiku does a lovely job as well.

    I’m interested in the many comparisons with fields noted above. Just last week we were picking strawberries beside a wheat field, and I videoed a bit of it. It is mesmerizing, as is your photo. I find that images can do that in a way that words can’t – or perhaps words do it differently. Words seem to take me to another place, but images take me deeper, or perhaps differently, into the place the image shows. At any rate, I’m very glad your window affords you these pieces of gold, and that you share them with us!

    1. To be frank, the haiku with the photo now isn’t the one with which I began. Initially, I was more focused on the nautical aspects of the scene.

      As so often happens, things changed — partly because I realized that most of the terms I was using would require explanation. I don’t think haiku are supposed to be footnoted — three lines and six footnotes would be a little awkward.

      I was surprised by the comparison with fields. I’ve been wondering what that says about how we perceive images. I suspect most people who thought first of a field were responding to the color. When I look at the photo, the wake and the wave patterns are more significant. Neither is “right” — it’s just a reminder that different experiences and environments shape our perceptions.

      Latitude plays in, too. You were picking strawberries, and ours have been gone for nearly two months. Even the farm where I pick tomatoes, figs, squash, and eggplant is closed now. It was a good crop, but the season’s over for them. It’s time for a Plan B (or Plan V, for veggies).

      The Berry poem is a good one. It would pair well with the photo, too — but I wasn’t thinking of despair when I started.

    1. You’ve added another layer of associations, nikkipolani. Until your comment, I’d not thought of the song based on the 2nd movement of Antonín Dvořák’s Symphony No.9, “From the New World.” Here’s the wonderful group Libera singing “Going Home.”

      1. It’s poignant to hear such young people singing about a perspective that must feel remote from them at this time in their life, when they probably haven’t even left home yet, or begun to stumble along the path. I wonder if 50 or more years from now the song will play again in their minds and hearts as they begin to long for that “real life” to begin.

        It’s a wonderful song!

        1. It is beautiful, isn’t it? There were versions of the Largo that were even lovelier musically, but not everyone would know the words, so I chose this one.

          I didn’t know a thing about the group, but when I was exploring their site I came across a wonderful tidbit, which I’ll paraphrase. The boys don’t think of themselves as a choir, but as a different sort of “boy band.” The Jonas Brothers, et. al, had better be looking over their shoulders.

    1. It’s an unusual color, and not quite what I associate with the color “gold.” I was so taken with the water I didn’t think to photograph the sky, but I remember it as being brighter. I suspect the color’s partly a result of the golden light falling on muddy, brown water.

      I’m glad you enjoyed the pairing. I think we all could use a bit of beauty and serenity in our lives just now.

      1. Interesting . . . the picture is so beautiful that it never even crossed my mind that the water might have a “golden” hue because it was muddy.

        1. When the water is settled and more clear, the reflections from the sky are truer, more mirror-like. Just yesterday, I noticed that the mud brought down by the flooding rivers is starting to settle in the bay. For the first time in weeks, the water looked more bluish-green than brown. By the end of summer, if we have hot, still weather, the bay will be prettier, and the blue gulf waters will come almost to shore.

    1. That advocate of simplicity, the good Mr. Thoreau, had some words I suspect you’ll find congenial. They do rather well as a commentary on the photo and haiku, too:

      “The fault-finder will find faults even in paradise. Love your life, poor as it is. You may perhaps have some pleasant, thrilling, glorious hours, even in a poor-house. The setting sun is reflected from the windows of the alms-house as brightly as from the rich man’s abode; the snow melts before its door as early in the spring. I do not see but a quiet mind may live as contentedly there, and have as cheering thoughts, as in a palace.”

    1. As the realtors like to say, “Location, location, location.” Since I live facing west and north, it’s the sunsets that catch my attention. If I were on the east side of the building, I’d be more attentive to sunrises: except that, on the east side, there’s only parking lot and other buildings to look at once you’re not looking at the sky.

      I understand why some prefer to show landscapes without a human presence, but there are times when a person completes an image, rather than disturbing it, in the same way that a single, singing bird doesn’t disturb the silence.

    1. I love it too, Bob. It’s not only lovely, it’s a wonderful reminder that we never know what beautiful or interesting sight is just around the corner.

  9. Although an entirely different light, your image reminded me of this shot from Maine a few years back. Fog versus golden light. Different feeling altogether.
    This is lovely, Linda. A shot most any photographer would be thrilled to have in their portfolio.

    1. I wouldn’t have remembered that photo without prompting, but I’m glad you prompted, Steve. That’s an even more glorious photo — and there I was, muttering about the wake. It is remarkable to compare the two: one silver, one gold, Fog created the sense of mystery and beauty for you, while haze and clouds created an entirely different light for me. Vive la différence!

      I will share with you the secret that made this photo possible. When I’m sitting here at the computer in the evening, I’ve learned to keep the camera and both lenses right behind me, on the dining room table. I may get lucky, or I may not, but at least I don’t have to dig around for the camera, only to find that it’s missing a card or a charged battery!

      And I am thrilled with this one. Thanks for your encouraging words.

      1. I am thinking that your comment about keeping the camera at hand means you nailed this shot from your window? I have discovered a missing something often enough that I now make sure all is at the ready upon downloading my images after a shoot. Card in camera, batteries charged and all in its place in the bag ready to go. Saves precious moments in the morning as well.

        1. Not from my window, but from my balcony. This is what passes for my back yard — the primary fairway at South Shore Harbor marina. Here’s another view you may remember, from a midsummer post a year ago. I’ve made use of sunset shots from my balcony, too, like this one.

          I began learning the value of routine the day I landed in my nearby nature center with no card in the camera. Of course I didn’t have a spare in my bag, because I’d left the bag at home. Sometimes it takes me a very long time to learn a lesson, but sometimes even I can be a quick learner.

    1. Andrew! Thank you so much. Little by little, I’m learning. Best of all, I’m having a great deal of fun. And it’s so nice to see you. It really was great to see you re-activating your blog. I’m looking forward to your new offerings.

    1. I’d put it a little differently, Yvonne. The photo is wonderful — I’ll grant you that. Me? I’m a learning photographer who’s come to the point of knowing where the buttons are, and how to check my settings. I am getting better at recognizing an opportunity when it presents itself. If I notice the light beginning to change in this way or that, I always — always! — get up now, to see what’s going on.

      I take so much pleasure from the photos of others, it’s nice to know that you took pleasure in one of mine. Thank you!

    1. Sometimes a photograph is enough. Sometimes, words are all it takes. But now and then, words and an image seem to fit together perfectly. I’m glad you felt the same completeness I did. ~ Linda

    1. Thank you, Mary. It was such a now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t moment. I’m not certain the light lasted even ten minutes. It might have been only five. When we have these moments given to us, it’s best not to sit around and ponder whether we ought to respond.

  10. Calm and peaceful.. lovely as always.


    two ‘back-to-back’ earthquakes rattled us last night.. (13 minutes apart).. i don’t know how those living on the coast have any calming energy left.. they are the ones that would wish to be in that sweet scene of yours!

    1. There you are! I saw the news last night, and wondered where you were. I figured you’d surface soon enough, particularly since there weren’t any early reports of significant damage. I hope that doesn’t change.

      I was confused at first. I thought there had been one quake that was downgraded. Then I realized there had been two. I did read today that they’ve been categorized as aftershocks of the big one.

      Stay safe, Lisa. You know you’re in our thoughts, always.

      1. Hey dear one!
        It’s good to know you’re on that other end, always watchful…

        I sat in the truck for an hour last night and was so surprised that no station was covering the quakes, but then, the people on the coast are experiencing them almost daily.. Someone said there have been several thousand aftershocks… I think Bahia de Caraquez had a bigger one last week, though i’ve not had time to check..

        Another worry/thread I just finished reading is that swine flu is here and has killed some people. Great, just great.. I think I’ll stay on the property forever!!!!!


        1. I think the cloud forest sounds wonderful. It’s been typically hot and humid here, but it’s starting to drag on a bit. We’ve been hitting about 105F for a heat index every day. That’s why I’m home now. Through the afternoon it’s just too hot to work, so I find other ways to amuse myself.

          I met a couple on July 4th who split their time between Houston and Mississippi. At their MS home, they have beautiful gardens, and acres of naturalized daffodils. A friend and I have been invited for a visit, especially during the spring bloom when the dogwoods, daffs, and azaleas are in flower. I can’t remember the name of the small town close to them, but they’re about an hour south and west of Oxford. It would be a treat.

          Maybe you could get on the Magic Carpet and fly up to join us. Wouldn’t that be fun?

    1. It’s fun to remember those early poems, isn’t it? You reminded me of the gingham dog and the calico cat, so I re-read that one.
      By the time I got to the last verse, i was thinking there might be a moral there for our political parties. I wonder: at the end of July, once the two get done fighting, will there be anything left?

    1. We all see differently — that’s part of the wonder of it all. Thanks so much for stopping by, and for commenting. I was happy to be introduced to your interesting blog. ~ Linda

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