My fearless child loves the beach. “Don’t get wet, we are here for the sunset Foos,” we said.  Thankful she didn’t listen.

Photos: Seth




A sweet moment in a week where nothing went the way it was supposed to.  Trips were canceled, plans postponed, elbows were burned baking, feelings were hurt, pages went unturned, toddler flew off scooter, too many calls from student loan sharks, bank account emptied.  But at least there were records, my forever outfit,  and my Banjo.  Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis has been stuck in my head for days since. It’s the little things right?



Though in this photo I am reading Ham On Rye, what I’m currently reading for the second time is Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the Unites States, because, why not?  I have two copies as a result of the book merger which occurred when my ex-husband and I originally moved in together; moving in with Seth yielded a third.  I am okay with this. Somewhere I have a list of newish fiction I would like to read, but I can’t find it. While I find this annoying, it has given me the opportunity to revisit some stuff on our bookshelves.  To be sure, there is a lot on there I haven’t read. Tomes plundered during the split with said ex-husband I have no interest in and should probably donate (I’m looking at you, Camille Paglia).  Revisiting books you love is just nice.  I always look forward to reading Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell for the umpteenth time in the fall, and there is always the sporadic rereading of the Harry Potter series (don’t judge).  Some books remind me so much of a particular time in my life that just thinking about reading them again gives me anxiety.  As if a wormhole to some place that can no longer be exists in there and I will get sucked in.  I’m going to have to get over that.


This weekend we piled everyone in the car, including the dog, and drove south to Sarasota, to see Grandma, Pepaw, and the gulf.  Seth and I snuck away for a date to the Selby Botanical Gardens, which were excellent and merit a second visit. The kids spent most of the time at the pool, where any trace of Foos’ paternal wasp roots were overcome by a conspiracy between the sun and her mother’s caribbean melanin. I loved it.  We took a backwoods way back home, which made me nervous.  For reasons I cannot explain, I feel ill at ease in America’s open spaces.  The barns and depressed towns don’t conjure up any feeling of nostalgia or even beauty, only of  mild panic and fear. Seeing a Trump sign for the first time displayed proudly on somebody’s lawn, didn’t make it any better. It may as well have said “I hate gays, women, and people of color.”  But we made it back to our nest safely, and I’m sure the only memories which will remain of the visit are of family and love.



Photos: Seth