Okay. It’s May 3 and I huddle here in wool sweater and big fuzzy socks. I just want to say this has been
The. Worst. Spring. Ever.
There. I feel much better (not).
It was rainy and cold LAST week, too, of course, but my husband I still got on a ferry and sailed across a bay and spent two wild, wet days on an island in Lake Erie. My new book is set on a fictionalized version of that sweet chunk of limestone, and I walked around with pen in hand taking intensive notes, something I never do. Paul took the pictures. Here’s a photo of the back shore:
The water chortles and chuckles beneath those rocks.
We also spent a lot of time down in an abandoned quarry which, during a rare sunny moment, looked like this:
This place is Fossil Paradise and in the distance, behind a screen of tall cat tails, is a summer swimming hole. On a chilly spring day before the tourists come, though, what it chiefly is is Quiet. I sat there gazing at all the layers of rock and felt like a small thought nestled in Earth’s many-tiered, ancient and all-knowing mind.