Breathless, Imp

I've had many a short-hair muse since first cropping mine. But now that I've finally made it over to see Breathless all shined up and remastered, it is Jean, Jean, Jean all the time. Based on the somewhat impressive number of short-haired ladies who turned out for this particular film Sunday last, it seems I'm not alone. May short-haired imps abound, wear stripes, collars, tees.

Paper, Ink

It has been many months since I returned from my little Paris month. Very many indeed.

I bought just a few things for me in that land of matching roofs, and tucked most of them away for another day. A day in late spring or summer, perhaps, when I might wish to be someplace else. It is nice to have them out and about. A lacy chemise, a wooden ladle from E. Dehillerin, a length of gorgeous fabric, a copy of Le Petit Nicholas. Glass yoghurt jars. A bag of lavender. Savon, a vintage dress, paper and ink. Treasures, each.

For writing thank-you notes, catching up on correspondence, thick Paris paper, tinned Paris inks.

Words to Read When You Wed

I'll be over at A Practical Wedding this week, where beautiful Meg is reprising a series I compiled for her long and long ago. She's rerunning the compilation of pieces--Words to Read When You Wed--for summer brides seeking not-so-traditional readings. How I got lucky enough to make it into the pantheon of Classic APW, I have no idea. If you haven't seen them, or need some lovely words, pray skedaddle to the land of Meg.

I had the great honor of hearing a smattering of these pieces read at Meg's own wedding. Full and lovely wishes, words uttered beneath the sun. I may or may not have cried two times. Dear reader, may you find words for you.

Weekender: Fireflies, Curds

On the day before the first day of summer, they came to catch fireflies. Heads shorn they ran, jars in-hand, beneath the low-hanging branches. The lady, more magpie than mother, plucked an escapee out of the air.

A haircut shorter than I'd like/the perfect length for summer's dawn.

The line to glean Shakespeare tickets; a line that I love to wait in, a cool morning at the park. A breezy drink with the truly affable. A splendid set for The Winter's Tale, all puppets and boats and numbrellas and mist. I don't know why I'm always surprised by Shakespeare--that however well I know what's coming I sit, mouth slightly agape, stunned and made to grin and weep. Among many nodding sheeps, a line just for me: "the queen of curds and cream."

Stone fruits, bees, beer that is cold.

The heat. The heat and damp to which the only proper response remains running through sprinklers, eating popsicles, catching a film. For two glorious hours, the cool of the theatre. A matinee, a matinee.

The sun gilds the leaves. The fireflies weave their magic low.

Balloons Are for Filling

Balloons were next. Here is how.

Balloons are for filling, for filling all up.

Wednesday Words: Buddons, Corn

She plucked off the last of the silk threads from the ear and dropped it into the tin bucket with the others. Inside the bucket, the bright ears of corn lay on top of one another, pointing in all directions, their perfect yellow kernels shining in the late afternoon sun like little buttons asking to be pressed. There was nothing like a bucket of uncooked sweet corn to really turn around your day. The yellowness, the fertile symbolism, the promise of melted butter: it was enough to change a boy's life.

The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet, Reif Larson

Bells on the Door, a Very Old Goat

Where I grew up there are some bells on the door and a Very Old Goat. There are some other things too. Chickens just next door, for instance. Littles and pancakes and tickles and tag. Twinkly aspens, a rooster that crows. My little family and cold beers on a warm evenings, and my big family too. Painted toes. The first margarita of summer, an outside fire and the cool of the evening smelling of smoke. My birfday mama. And houses with bells on the doors that used to be my houses that are not my houses now but still sort of are. I pat the Very Old Goat and the Worn Pup and give them lubs and thank them for being the goat, the oggie-dog. I wonder if I will see them again. I kiss the cheeks and shoulders of those I love. It is enough/it is never enough.

Then I am home in my new house, my now house. 

I'll need to hang bells on the door.