I saw my first (and so far only) alligator in Florida, when I was four. I haven't spent much time in the state since, except for a conference in Orlando. This weekend I am in Clearwater Beach, on the Gulf, for a family reunion. Driving in from the airport, I remember an article about escaped exotic snakes in the Florida waterways. And yet the waving fronds of the palm trees are quite soothing.
I wonder what will happen to areas like this one as sea levels rise. What will this look like in 30 years? It has been 30 years since my husband came here regularly with his grandparents. He and his sisters say they don't recognize anything--new hotels, restaurants, and strip malls line new roads. Only the beach feels the same. Thirty years from now will the beach even be here?
Friday, October 16, 2015
Friday, October 2, 2015
And now for another coast
And again we have moved! What is it about moving that gets me writing? If I moved every week, would pages pour forth like drops down a waterfall? Well, it did take a few months of disorientation this time before I regained writing concentrating, so maybe the constant moving would not be the magic prolific pill.
We are in the Northwest now. Back in the part of the country, though not the same city, where I spent my dazed and roller coaster 20s. We are on the tip of the Kitsap Peninsula. Owls hoot at night. Coyotes and deer cross the driveway. We are no longer within walking distance to coffee or wine. But we are even farther away from traffic noise than in our last place. We hear fog horns and the occasional small plane whirring overhead.
O is going to school on a farm, Sunfield Farm. When I drop her off, I park next to some charming brown and white goats. The children greet the chickens on their morning walk. So far the class has harvested squash, beans, and lemon cucumbers from the garden.
The Northwest is drier this year than ever before. When we moved here in July, forest fires were burning on the Olympic Peninsula and on Vancouver Island, as well as across the Cascades, "on the dry side." Because of the burn ban, we have yet to have a bonfire on the beach or in the woods. We are saving that for November and the dark months.
An old friend of mine who lives in Seattle quoted a local theater director who said, "In the Northwest, we like to go into dark places and tell stories." When I was here in my 20s, I went into some dark places all right, but I wasn't able to tell many stories in them or from them. Maybe my storehouse of stories is now full and ready to be shared.
As the cedar trees "flag" or show their patches of orange needles, I can almost look forward to the quiet of the rainy days. As long as I can build those fires...
We are in the Northwest now. Back in the part of the country, though not the same city, where I spent my dazed and roller coaster 20s. We are on the tip of the Kitsap Peninsula. Owls hoot at night. Coyotes and deer cross the driveway. We are no longer within walking distance to coffee or wine. But we are even farther away from traffic noise than in our last place. We hear fog horns and the occasional small plane whirring overhead.
O is going to school on a farm, Sunfield Farm. When I drop her off, I park next to some charming brown and white goats. The children greet the chickens on their morning walk. So far the class has harvested squash, beans, and lemon cucumbers from the garden.
The Northwest is drier this year than ever before. When we moved here in July, forest fires were burning on the Olympic Peninsula and on Vancouver Island, as well as across the Cascades, "on the dry side." Because of the burn ban, we have yet to have a bonfire on the beach or in the woods. We are saving that for November and the dark months.
An old friend of mine who lives in Seattle quoted a local theater director who said, "In the Northwest, we like to go into dark places and tell stories." When I was here in my 20s, I went into some dark places all right, but I wasn't able to tell many stories in them or from them. Maybe my storehouse of stories is now full and ready to be shared.
As the cedar trees "flag" or show their patches of orange needles, I can almost look forward to the quiet of the rainy days. As long as I can build those fires...
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