patriotism

Patriotic Beer Shed patron, Alton, MO.

Patriotic baby waits for fireworks, Alton, Mo.

Patriotic, godfearing teens wait for fireworks, Alton, Mo.

They know how to celebrate in Alton, Mo. The whole town turned out for fireworks (really good ones), but first they had a local country band (Smith & Western!), a raffle and marching with the colors and prayer from the Boy Scouts. The entire crowd stood up with their hands on their hearts to recite the Pledge of Allegiance and sing along with the Star Spangled Banner, well warbled by a local woman. Kids rode ponies and a mechanical bull and kaBOOM!

happy birthday, merika

the plumber

Dale grew up in a house with a dirt floor and no plumbing. Now he's a plumber.
 Went back into the archives for this one (all the way back to March).

yard art

Festive Fourth of July display

 Dianne and Frank and I went to Home Depot in Mountain Home, Ark., yesterday, passing through many hamlets with peculiar names (being as they were in Arkansas—just look at the map sometime). Frank did a double take at the fence row of stuffed animals and turned around to do a cruiseby as I shot out the window.
   Meanwhile Dianne wants to know why I did not post the picture of myself below in the hayfield. It was for approximately the same reason she wanted me to throw the picture of her in the hayfield away forever: i.e. vanity.

Me and my mason's jar of ice coffee with Dianne's trailer

think pink?

 The setting for the portrait series has been disrupted. I had had it with trying to keep the pale green floor clean, repainting spots here and there as the paint peeled up. And it was garage floor paint! I thought it would be perfect for a cement floor, but it wasn't. So I went for a darker but hopefuly still glowy color. It is awfully pink right now, but as it gets dirty I think it will be just the color I want. And I hope that this oil based polyurethane paint that was quite hard to find will be just the ticket.  However, I am not sure what to do about the last bit, which will prevent me from getting up the stairs. And no, it doesn't dry overnight.

you lose!

C'est la vie, cheri. New York Times article here.

making hay

The clouds were gathering as the last of the 90 bales were safely stowed in the barn. It was as hot as bejezus, 90 in the shade, and Dianne was sweating as she ran the unairconditioned forklift. I could prove how miserable she was after being in the field for a week or so, but she said she would kill me if I posted the picture of her looking, as Frank said, "like you lost the war." I've always heard that one helps one's neighbors with haying, so I drove the air conditioned truck and trailer. I can't imagine what it was like with pitchforks instead of forklifts. Lawsykins!
And then the heavens opened.

the polyamorists

Denise hooked up with Martin on line (with a bio her daughter put up) a few years ago. They began a relationship with the understanding that it was not to be exclusive and that there was to be no subterfuge: All lovers would know about the others. Denise recently came out to her Mother-Earth-News, aging-hippy community as a polyamorist, giving a couple of talks. Martin was in the audience. So I figure it's fair to post their portrait here.

the hired man

His first job, at 12, was as a paper boy at the West Plains Daily Quill, when Frank Martin was the editor and publisher. Barry claimed to be 13, the minimum age for employment, and no one asked for ID.  He recently picked up a few hours haying for the Martins and marvels,  "I never thought I'd be working for Frank Martin again 40 years later."

strawberry moon

solstice moonwatch

The Goose in Summer

It's full moon and the summer solstice (Litha, to Wiccans)—the first time that has happened in my lifetime. To celebrate, you are supposed to stay out of doors. Farmer Dianne will be able to spend the longest day of the year haying, which she prefers to do in the evening when it's a hair under 80 degrees. I will celebrate the season with a run into town for water. When I got here on Saturday, I had a bit, but I plunged immediately into entertainments and ran through it. Potable water, that is.
You can watch the strawberry moon broadcast live from the Canary Islands here.

morehead

Hmm. Nice place name. Yes, I am in Morehead, Kentucky, after a beautiful drive on a beautiful day. To be continued tomorrow.
Here's Merle Haggard on my disease, White Line Fever.

getting down to them

the case of the missing pillows

The possible escape route

The crime scene

Only one week into season and we have The Case of the Missing Pillows. Where dd they go? Did they run to the balcony and drop to the ground, silently in dead of night? Had they been stabbed, there would be telltale feathers. Or perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity—those last seen with the pillows might have thought they were theirs.
   In any case, there will be plenty more cases as the season wears on. We already have The Case of the Mysterious Aerobeds. Next: The Case of the Missing Pillow Cases. But all will be subsumed by The Case of the Disappearing Phone Chargers. . .

a little bird told me

The Brooklyn experiment

Bird in the lobby of 98. Manhattan

 Some people say I never go to Brooklyn. They lie. There is nothing like a fine day in the outer boroughs. Yes. I have been to the Bronx, too. OK, Queens and Staten Island not so much.
In other news, Chien Chi Chang is selling prints at Magnum. Donna Ferrato has a domestic violence film at Time and a write-up about how her photos changed attitudes at HuffPost. Our pl Jane Evelyn Atwood was the subject of a piece in the New Yorker. And Peter Meyer debuts his  newsletter about education.

Brooklyn sky

wrapping up

 The new railings were blinding when I left them, thanks to bro-in-law and sis-in-law and daughter. And sis and bro and Sam, all of whom had a hand. I was inspired to mount the old railings on the underside of the house. Then bro and sis in law gifted me with two sofas, which I put in the master bedrooms at Hannah's and Claudia's. Thank goodness for The Family That Ate The World!

master of all i survey

Fluffed and puffed and primped and prepped. The push is over (or will be in  about four hours), and now I get to admire we the work we have all done. Thanks everybody!

ready to fly

Katie's view

 We're all getting ready for summer. Grills, take your stations. Lawn furniture, check. Porches  arranged. Beach chairs, assemble. Feels odd when it's 58 degrees out, but we've all gotta go.The ferry awaits.
 And just in time, the baby birds living in the corner of my porch have learned to fly.

Claudia's Surf City  view

in the pink

 Camilla made her debut as a ballerina. She did very well and made us proud. As an experienced mother of a ballerina, I knew that one presents flowers after a performance. (One father saw me waiting with bouquet and ran out to purchase one.) Fortunately, I am the sister of the former President of the Garden Club, and it was peony season. Tnx, Erin! That the bouquet was the perfect color was just luck.

My ballerina watches her ballerina. Wow.

the graduate

Madison Glenn graduated one day and went to work the following day.

Mother of the graduate yesterday, pianist's mother today.

It's the time of proms and graduations and piano recitals and awards dinners. It's the end of things and the beginning of things. And it's spring. Lot of love and high emotion running around.
  Will get back to posting just as soon as I've shut Claudia's Surf City down on Friday. Sorry.

they came, they ate, they painted, they left

 Memorial Day is a kind of trial run for the summer. Everything that can shakedown, does—with just enough time to fix it all before The Guests Them. Or not. At least there's time to make signs warning them about all the dangers that have been caused by our "improvements."
   And then the rels leave, and it's me and the last laundry til October. The whole island takes a breather until the weekends and then the massive invasion end of June.

holidays

All was better than broom clean for the two-wave invasion. The first tenants arrive in a week. But first—the family.

magic morning

After a day of rain and a sudden warmth of sun, the dew and the fog were heavy. Edie asked if i could come over to her beautiful old house (her grandfather built it and a year or so later got married—"he got the cage before he got the canary," she says) to take pictures of her tree peony. It was fully flowered—better late than never—and a gorgeous color.

soft opening

The weather is still chilly, so the waiters at the Oar let down the shades.

Roberta and I enjoyed a lady's lunch at the Oar.

 Block island is prepping for the coming weekend. Wait staffs are in training, carpenters are hammering, painters are touching up, cottagers are cleaning for the rental season, crews are trying to finish the lines for the wind farm and the stairs over the dunes.
   And Islanders are checking out the new season's just-opened restaurants. Me, I stuck with the sushi at the Oar and the last free clam night at the Yellow Kittens. And one night the thought "ice cream!" popped into my head. Maybe Aldo's is open, I thought. Drove down to town and not only was Aldo's open for the first time, it was free ice cream night. Ah, some people are the fortunate ones.

The Yellow Kittens is still deserted but for a gaggle of old-timers clustered around free clams at the bar.

the graduates

I love this picture of my beautiful niece, Madison, and her childhood friend, Nathan, going off to the prom. So many years, and still friends. Graduating from high school. Oh my!
   Then there's nephew Noah. He was helping me put down hay bales to build Hannah's Hideaway nine or ten years ago. And now, as of yesterday, he is a college grad.
  Mazel to all!

sunset over the compound

From left: Hannah's; Claudia's; John's Big Barn, Little Barn, Big House and Kite Store; Douglas's Little Brown Jug and shed (rear).

Former tool shed behind the Kite Store, emptied

 When Mr. Hopkins died and we bought the place, the four buildings on the right were all there was—the big house Hoppy had moved to that spot, the kite shop, which he had left to his mistress, the little house by the tidal pond where Douglas and I lived and Douglas's shed, site of the first Claudia's Surf City. That was 1980.
John had vision, and he dug a pond and built and helped us build. Douglas built Claudia's and Claudia built Hannah's, and here we are—until last month, when John sold the tiny corner of the property that has the Big House and the Kite Store. Not visible in this aerial are the two brand new mansions that bracket the former compound (known to the locals with deep political incorrectness as The Gaza Strip). The new owner plans for the Big House to continue as a summer rental. The Kite Store will become a flower shop.

Big House and Kite Store on right, from Claudia's.

license to kill

 
 So yesterday I received the following from that perennial thorn in my side, Nose Bite Kitty, Esq.—or as I prefer to think of him: Many Spurious Suits Pain-in-the-ass Esquire. The message was in French, of course, and I have translated it for you. What I really take it to mean is that I can whack carpenter bees with a badminton racket, pour hot water into anthills, pay a dime to young children to swat flies, kick dogs, chase cats and do whatever I want to members of the animal kingdom—with impunity—for the next four months. I'm goin' in. . .

Dear Madame Dowling: Thank you for your kind testimonial about my human benefactor, Ms. Andrews. She indeed has many fine qualities, and I am glad you appreciate her as I do.
Since you have been so thoughful and expressed your sentiments so publicly, I and my firm, Les Felins por la Justice, grant you immunity from proscution for the period of four months. Sincerely yours, Nose Bite Kitty, Esquire

presenting: the birthday girl!

Sisters in crime

 

I forget how old she's turning today, but I know she's a hair older than me, and I'm 65. In any case, we've been clowning around for almost 40 years. That's a long fucking time. She can still make me laugh—so hard—which is about the best thing I can say about anyone. I also don't know anyone else who would spend hours composing the perfect response to a scamming email, seek for buried treasure in adulthood, ask her psychic what color truck I should buy (you should have seen the poor Ozarker salesman's face when she made the call) or spend all night watching a serial about mass murder and then all day composing a review to post on Amazon about how bad it was. 

   One of a kind. Love you, B!

where in the world

Do you recognize this place? I am glad to see that I recollected the first rule for a writer traveling with a photographer: Stay out of the frame! That's the legendary David Burnett in the khaki pants. We were traveling on Air Force 2 with Al and Tipper Gore. Late '90s. This picture was likely taken by Tipper herself, Burnett thinks. He got it recently and sent it on.