God put a smile upon my face.

Slowly but surely, I am making peace with the color yellow.

Yellow was the color of that first house. The house with the creeping yellow fire, which the babysitter started and I was frightened by. Yellow was the relative color of Spaghetti-o's-- a staple of my toddlerhood when she was gone and I was hungry. Yellow was the apple juice that rotted my baby teeth out and made me a cute but fanged vampire. Yellow was the color of the sky in Nebraska before a tornado touched down, and the way my scar looked after surgery. Yellow is having to pee in a cup and the residual snot from a lingering cold. It is the way my bruises fade and the mold on my arm after I got my first cast sawed off. The yellow pills left a three month gap in my 8th grade memory, and made falling asleep a nightmare. Yellow is the cliche Coldplay song that always gets stuck in my head, and the color of Maria Luisa's teeth. Yellow snow is the kind you can't eat, and yellow #6 warns of the worst banana flavoring you have ever tasted in a saltwater taffy. Yellow is cowboy for cowardice, and the dirty version of white. The painful combination of "yell" and "ow!" Yellow is not mellow. Yucky Yucky Jello.

But then again, yellow is the color my best friend can't tell apart from orange, and the friendliest rooms in our house. Yellow is proof that the sun is shining; the warmth of my favorite liqueur, the sour face of eating a lemon. It is the golden hue through which I filter my evening memories, and edible daffodil teacups in Willie Wonka's chocolate factory. It is so many of those things he knows about me and the color of leaves in my birthday month. Yellow is hay on a farm and the blonde in my sister's hair. Yellow is my default color for drawing stars, and a hint of saffron in refugee rice.

Yellow is hello. Hello. Hello.

spiders, heights and very small spaces.

Besides getting caught with my zipper down, I suppose I really only have two main fears.

The first is that I will never be known.

The second is that I am known already.

please do not use this against me.

grey on raye

An old house takes time to cool. The floorboards want to return to roots--in the nighttime they can do that without fear of being trod upon. Built here into the hill side it is no wonder the walls seem to cave left. Every molecule of rebar strains against the force of gravity and the sloping gutter that is our street. I can't help but wonder if there really is a beast in the basement-- one who feeds upon our skepticism and dirty laundry. In either case he would be well fed, but probably lonely. There is wisdom in these single-paned windows that heat cannot keep in. I hear sullen whispers of 80 years of memories etched into every particle of dust that coats these vents. I think the house wants a family. I guess even houses long for a home.

A String of Pearls

Bike into town with my parents.

Farmers market.

Over easy eggs, potatoes and bacon.

Raspberry Italian Soda.

Marina Market licorice.

Glenn Miller hits galore.

All the sun and the shade one could ask for.

What a perfect Saturday.

Oh Canada!

Welcome to Canada, it's the Maple Leaf State.
Canada, oh Canada it's great!
The people are nice and they speak French too.
If you don't like it, man, you sniff glue.
The Great White North, their kilts are plaid,
Hosers take off, it's not half bad.
I want to be where yaks can run free,
Where Royal Mounties can arrest me.
Let's go to Canada, let's leave today,
Canada, oh, Canada, I Sil Vous Plait.
They've got trees, and mooses, and sled dogs,
Lots of lumber, and lumberjacks, and logs!
We all think it's kind of a drag,
That you have to go there to get milk in a bag.
They say "eh?" instead of "what?" or "duh?"
That's the mighty power of Canada.
I want to be where lemmings run into the sea,
Where the marmosets can attack me.
Let's go to Canada, let's leave today,
Canada, oh, Canada, I Sil Vous Plait.
Please, please, explain to me,
How this all has come to be,
We forgot to mention something here.
Did we say that William Shatner is a native citizen?
And Slurpees made from venison,
That's deer.
Let's go to Canada, let's leave today,
Canada, oh, Canada, I Sil Vous Plait.

It smells like the moment before a gun shot.

12 steps away from getting run over and two blackberries later,

I am home.

It's nice to be here again.

how summer thoughts are spent.

Sometimes I think I have the stupidest fantasies ever.

Who dreams of canning vegetables and picking strawberries in patched overalls?

Why do I keep thinking about wrap-around porches and sun tea and riding horses?

Will I give a speech when my squash wins at the county fair?

I get emotional about a rustic smell that will become familiar after we've spent the afternoon splitting fence posts and baling hay.

Calico will be my fabric of choice. Followed closely by gingham. Burlap for the flour sacks. Because we will have those, dammit.

I want to dance to Brooks and Chesney without it being a joke.

Wheat will be in my mouth at all times, except when I am kissing my toned shirtless farmer at sunset whose skin can be found somewhere between dirt and sweat.

There will be barn parties and early morning suns with handmade quilts and fresh black coffee enjoyed in a rocking chair.

There will always be cold lemonade in a mason jar for the weary traveler, and trips to town will be a planned affair.

Perhaps an RV, just in case the farm life gets old.

But I don't think it will. And anyway, maybe thats the point?