Dust

Last night after supper I spread what the nursery calls "screenings" and the Brute Squad calls "crusher dust" over the new patio blocks and swept it into the cracks, and then watered it in. I see that it's not a perfect job so I'll have to redo and redo until it's right. Tomorrow JJ, the head Brute, will come over and he and I will deal with the medium Tetons of soil and sod. It's good to have strong friends. Durwood commented that when it's wet the new blocks aren't the same color as the old cement slab. When I asked if he wanted the blocks taken out, he said, "no, fix the old stuff." Very funny. There will be no jackhammering to remove a perfectly good, uncracked cement patio, mister. He cracks himself up. But I think I'll keep him; he's a good sport about most of my hairbrained schemes.

I'm very excited to be going up to The Clearing with my knitting friend Dusty on Saturday to walk the shady trails and take pictures of blooming wildflowers. Maybe I can snag my muse who I am certain is lolling around up there rather than in my writing corner WHERE SHE BELONGS. Oh, sorry, I'm a bit out of sorts with the whole not-much-inspiration thing these days.

May 19--Maldives. It was the worst pier I had ever seen. Barely above the water, cracked and crooked, and sporting patches of greenish black crud that was slippery and smelled of equal parts salt and dead fish and old sweat socks. That pier, made of coral boulders badly cemented together, was still the site of one of my best vacations ever. Early in the morning just as the sun began to tint the clouds pink with dawn, the fishermen would tie up their shallow boats and sell their catch to the local women who waved to me sipping coffee on my porch as they went chattering past with their purchases. Once the fishermen were gone, the inter-island ferry would belch its way over the horizon with the day's mail and the workers for the resorts that line the leeward coast, natives of this island who worked off island would be there in their tidy uniforms and morning faces ready to board. Down the beach past the pier would trudge schoolchildren on their way to the building that did duty as school and church, and once a month it was the courthouse. By the time the last of the children had pelted by the dive boat would be tying up. I would be waiting, having witnessed the start up of the day from the porch of my bungalow nearby. They had warned me at the resort that the end bungalow might be too noisy and that the beach past it was too busy for relaxation, but I loved it. Loved the feeling of being a small part in the vital life of this backwater part of the world.

Raise your hand anyone who wants to be there with my right now.
--Barbara