Our son and daughter-in-law arrived late last night so we have sleepover guests for the next few nights. They're in town from Montana apartment hunting in preparation for moving "back home" at the end of the month so our son can brew beer at a brew pub in town, which is all part of moving toward their ultimate goal of opening a brew pub of their own. I'm hoping they'll let me be hostess or fold napkins or something in my old age. I'm also going to Home Depot to take advantage of their 5/$10 perennial sale. More lilies and iris! Yay! But because of our company I won't be at writer's tonight. Boo. I'll miss it but I'll be back next week with my critique of Jenny's story and my own to submit.
May 5--Grand Canary Island, Spain. Carved and shaped by the wind, the Maspalomas dunes reminded Rema of a kind of sculpture. Like a Calder mobile any puff of wind changed the look of them. She stood with the sun at her back watching her shadow lengthen, seeing the ripples in stark white and black. Fascination took hold and she couldn't tear herself away. Every day of her holiday she walked away from the shore and into the dunes. She walked up and down the shifting slopes, her leg muscles burning, seeing the dunes from every angle. A rain storm blew over pelting the sand with large drops that pocked the thirsty grains turning them a darker color. She was most intrigued by the constant movement of the grains into her footprints, how they began to disappear as soon as they were made. The fleeting evidence of her presence on the island made her feel lighter, as if she were a wraith, a phantom, the mere suggestion of a person.
Oh, that's a feeling I want to explore more. Enjoy your day; I'll be out digging holes in the dirt.
--Barbara
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