polarized postcards

I took these pictures through my sunglasses. This was not the effect I was hoping for, but I like it anyway.
The contrast between the weekend and today is also plain, though the snaps don't capture the  temperature change. . .


one mo' time

One last sail. New Harbor, Block Island
One more beach day. Scotch Beach.
The elegiac quality of Indian summer has much to do with the combo of the golden quality of autumn light along with unseasonably warm temps. And this past weekend, everyone, including my beautiful sister,  was tempted into the hot gold sun and the clear and still warm waves. Another boat ride, another burger on the barbie, another windless day. The livin was easy.


fluffing and puffing

Hannah's, the master

Hannah's, the Green Room
The last guests of the season have checked into Hannah's. I went in with Ana for turnover and we turned mattresses and washed mattress pads and changed duvets and tried to replace things in their proper locations, if we could remember where that was.
   Some mysteries remain: Who took down the new hammock and put up the old one? Why is the picnic table now close to the briar patch? What happened to the rocks in the outdoor fireplace? What happened to the dishtowels? Why were the clam rakes in the locked closet?
  Still, the house remains, probably ready for a long winter's nap.


rained in

The wind picked up and howled last night, but there was little rain. What precip there was blew in through the front French doors and probably skipped the poor pond, which is a mere puddle of its former self. Like much of the country, Block Island has been suffering no rain for months. However the sea has stayed on its side of the road so far this year. It was a cooking kind of day, so I made beef stew.



Really should have reversed the two blog posts, but oh well.


8 years ago today

Hannah and Chris got married eight years ago today.
Four years ago this month, Camilla was born. One year ago last month, came Isaac. That's a lot of bathwater down the drain. . .
Mazel tov!


Waiting for the boat

Ack. So much stuff!

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On the move

Today Providence, tomorrow Block Island. Someday maybe I will not move stuff from house to house, doing wash and making beds and emptying trash and refrigerators at every stop. Someday maybe I will alight and settle for a spell. Someday. Maybe.

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$1.2 million

View from the Terrace of the Estate

Gardener's Cottage
This is a pretty sweet deal in Providence, RI, a happening town. It is in the Brown/RISDI area and is a slice of a full block. There are entrances at both ends of the property, one to the main house (large cobblestone courtyard) and one to the gardener's cottage with attached greenhouse, shown at left. I'm not that keen on the house, which is a brick two-bedroom (you can see pix on the Realtor's page), but I love the site and the ambiance.  French country estate. Check it out at Zillow, and if you buy, consider letting me the gardener's cottage for a pittance. . .
Oh and PS, once again, no one selected me for a MacArthur Award. Sigh.


show me

When I think of Missouri, I think of this: a pond scooped from a rolling green field to cup a swimming pool for cattle during the heat. Clouds in a blue sky. Chiggers. Meth. Hillbillies. Forests. Rivers.
   I do not think of Ferguson and fear.
   However, having just returned to New York, I find that Missouri has been tainted. Yes, the entire state. From the Show-Me State, it has become the Shoot-Me State.
   No one asks me now where it is. Only why on earth I would go there.


now we are 4

photo by Eva Porter

Despite the fact that the birthday girl is nowhere evident, the above photo is my fave taken of the partay. The left one, alas, pretty much captures my inability to take pictures of people who won't hold still and not so much the festive nature of the occasion.



Claudia Dowling and Donna Ferrato, TriBeCa evening, 9/10/2014
There's international tragedy, national tragedy and then there is tragedy in the home. But there is also triumph, Donna Ferrato wants to remind us.
   Thirteen years ago today, Donna and I were thinking about how to cover the unfolding tragedy at the World Trade Center. We wound up going to Oxygen to do documentaries, which wound up being about sex and violence, as projects with Donna so often do.
  Tomorrow Donna launches her new campaign about survivors of sexual tragedy, "I am unbeatable," with a show at Vanderbilt University in Nashville. I helped her write the copy for the exhibition. Be there, if you're in the neighborhood. I can't be, because of someone's fourth birthday party in Providence. Life goes on, even as all lives end.


land of corn and beans

Postcard from the road. Somewhere, Ohio.



There was a 63 minute wait for the Lincoln Tunnel.
Yes, we had no bananas. But Dada was mostly correct. Finished off the last of the boilers in NYC, there were two boxes of heirloom tomatoes (some from the West Plains farmers' market, some from my fave farmstand in Greenup, Ill.), parmesan Goldfish, two pairs of flip-flops, the new Jane Gardam, lots of smoked almonds, a couple Leicas, Thai silverware (place settings for about 75). And that was no rug: that was a leather hide from a Brahma bull, tanned camel.
   There was also a birthday present for someone turning 4 this weekend, but I can't reveal what it is.


what's in the truck?

This is the first What's In The Truck with the new truck. Please note that it fits more inside (being 4-door) and less outside, having a city slicker short bed suitable for your recycle bin and not much else.
Hint: We have no bananas, but plenty of other edibles and a six pack of cocola.
Tomorrow: New York City.


junk city

"They call us the little WalMart," says the aged proprietor. "One dollar for a shopping bag full." Alas, I was unable to find a single item that my heart desired. This is the stuff I try to give away. And since I'm packing uo to depart the Ozarks now, I am deploring the amount of stuff I have already and am definitely not in acquisition mode.


west plains daily quill

Home of my favorite small-town newspaper

Editor/publisher of my favorite small-town newspaper.
Giving credit where it is due, I wouldn't be a sitting in the Goose at the moment if it wasn't for Mr. Ed Barnes, owner of Avalanche Associates & Brothers. Barnes came out looking for trouble in the militia movement sector and found it here, thanks to a small town newspaper editor whose brains he picked. He came back full of stories of Frank Martin and his paper and town, and I accompanied Barnes out here on a lark. He's not here any more, but I still am.