Imagined

I imagined your blue button up against the rust of the train cars, the horizon line of dry fields, telephone poles and hills stretching out beside you.

For Thursday - Slacking

I'm a wee bit distracted.

First of all, I'm on holiday: no rules, no time lines, no have-to's.

Second, I'm in California, the land of my birth. There is sunshine here. And warmth. And my family. They are hard to resist.

Also, I'm at the beginning of planning two weddings with my love and just so excited about the whole damn thing that I can hardly sleep in.

Lastly, related to the prior comment, all I want to do is curl up and snuggle with my love. She's got no exams, no studying, no classes to attend. We get to just hang out, eat whatever we want, go anywhere, no pressure or appointments.

Life's pretty darn good.

Fowey Royal Regatta, Floral Dance

There is an old song in the southwest of England, heralding back to Pagan times, that somebody or someone at one time wrote the words to that no one seems to remember. This song is known by all who have heard it once in the form of dun-dun-na-dun-na-na-na-na-na-na and so on or, alternatively, 1, 2, 3, Skip! 1, 2, 3, Skip! It is the Floral Dance.

On the Monday evening of Fowey Royal Regatta, after the working boats and racing boats arrive from Flushing into the old port town of Fowey, the children and women, and sometimes the men too, dress all in white with wreathes of flowers on their heads to parade through the town. They gather at the top of the town on the property of the family who owns have of Fowey and whom open their gates for just this occassion only once a year. The Regatta Queen and Attendants are announced. The procession forms a large queue. And then, the drums begin.

Monday, Tuesday

As you can probably tell by the sparatic nature of the blog this week, Fowey Royal Regatta was a busy week! And now I'm back 'home' to California in less than 12 hours. More time to write then, which I am looking forward to. For now, pictures from Regatta:

Diaries of a Carpenter's Daughter

May 8, 2008

When you spend most the hours of your work day on the ground of a roofing project, you're bound to inhale a few things. Working on a hundred year old shingle roof, however, you're certain to inhale a lot of crap.

I think my favorite moment was when I blew my nose one morning into my yellow paisley hanky and saw black boogers. Sorry, I mean snot. No boogers--they were sticky. That's when you know you've been cleaning up debris from a shingle roof. Or getting it dumped on your head.

For Saturday - Ben's Surprise

• Two parts vodka
• One part white rum
• One part dark rum
• Orange Juice
• Cranberry Juice
• Grenadine