You people! You lovely, lovely people! You’ve been visiting in droves while I’ve been away. You’ve spent time here in this quiet place, paging through. You’ve been reading back through who knows how many years worth of archives (oh, my, how I now want to hover over some of those early posts with my red editor’s pen!), you’ve been commenting, and you’ve been emailing all kinds of wonderful hellos and questions!
Seeing as how we were deliciously void of a good internet connection while we were away, and most days, I didn’t carry my phone with me (love), so my Instagram feed was even quiet, I now have a tidy stack of work cut out for me!
This is good.
The bags have been plunked down here in our little house, the laundry’s been started, and the sleeping bags have been thrown over the clothesline to dry (and then they went and got an extra rinse (rain) cycle through the night, ahem). I’m looking forward to catching up with you and chatting a bit in reply over the next few days (it’s going to take me a while to get to everyone, and my biggest concern is that a question will fall through the cracks and get missed, so, if you haven’t heard a reply to your question within the next week, please resend!).
Now, then. Montana.
Those northern Montana woods still hold invaluable things. The atmosphere where I was born and bred draws me in and speaks a deep quiet every. single. time. Kayaking across a mirror-clear river in the morning light, the sound of the paddles spinning the water. Loons. The call of loons that makes your breath catch and your heart listen! The sound of tent zippers closing for the night, followed by the restful breathing of five weary ones. Dinners and laughter with family. So much family. Campfires, black and white marshmallows, gray dusk and orange sunsets.
Ski boats carving large wakes across the lake, and skiers carving small ones. Wake boarders jumping and even flipping through the air (our boys took careful notes). The clang and thud of horse shoes, the game. One old cabin sitting empty and untouched under a blanket of deep pine needles.
And love. The celebration of a love that began in sixth grade. A wedding and dancing. For hours, the dancing and celebration lasted. And I even saw three boys I know, dancing out there, obviously loving this thing that they had thus far deemed too romantic and silly.
Good times. Good, good times.