...something tells you that you've got to get away from it....
It has been so wet, the leaves are sullen in their greenness, refusing to change.
"I was stalking your blog," says the Mome Rath, "and I want you to know that I would never think of you as chopped liver." Well... thanks.
My childhood friend Squirrelly appears on site with her family. We see each other once a year, these days, and it's now. I haven't said a word to her in six years. Her eldest daughter and mine hit it off and play nicely together while Squirrelly and I shop for walking sticks, despite the fact that one of them isn't speaking. They demand a play-date. It would be nice to talk to my friend again.
The site is packed. We head out on stilts, Gigi and I, because that is the most effective way to entertain a crowd of this size. And Martin injured himself showing off yesterday, so he's benched for our biggest day ever: 24,761 is the figure I hear afterwards. Patrons have waited up to four hours to enter our village. That Girl finds it amusing to share with me that she has gas, which is unfortunate for the patrons behind her, since our cabooses are roughly face-level. We move quickly through the throng. Leaving the parking lot later proves to be a challenge.
We drive past a sign that used to say BATEMAN FOR SHERRIF in white letters on a dark blue ground. Some wag has blacked out the E in Bateman.
"Let's take the long and stupid way home, Mama," Fluffy requests. Okay. The blackglass harbor multiplies sparkling city lights. I drive past my favorite bar, the one I don't visit much (the ones I don't like, I visit never) and wonder if my friends are inside. Fuzzy is asleep on her brother's shoulder. When we reach the end of Key Highway, I ask Fluff if this is long and stupid enough.
"Yeah," he replies. "Let's go home."
It occurs to me that because they are with me, I am home already. The house is just a final destination.
(Our House; Talking Heads)