The longest break I ever took between journal entries was after Julia's birth; nothing had, I guess prepared me for the stresses of parenthood and so, on paper, a kind of magic occurs (cue literary present tense): It is autumn; I am pregnant with my first child and then--in the next entry--same volume (different ink), it is spring. I have become, abruptly, the mother of four children, aged two through eight, living in a different house, in a different town, and with a whole new set of pets. Eight years has passed.
This I tell myself to remember that I've lapsed before, dropped out of sight before, lost the threads of the story a time or two--not so bad, no big deal--right? And it's a blog, not a diary. As the archive sez: "That was then; this is now."
So...that garishly piebald brick extravaganza at the top of the page is my new for-the-past-two-years house. Circa 1977--and looks it. Wait 'til you see the basement.
Some elements are perennial, of course: the concrete fleurs-de-lis (three of them--or, I guess, trois), for example, salvaged by Bruce from the slag-heap of a razed Catholic church, have now accompanied me to their seventh house, and are guarding cilantro and lovage in the back garden.
There's a vegetable garden, of course. Summer squash, peppers and tomatoes are coming along. I've been remiss in the lettuce department, but it's been a hellish year; I'm catching up.
There are cats (also trois), walls, (new) roof--believe me, you'll soon know more than you ever ever wanted to. And this new!new!new!edition is going to have pages, too for some recipes and art and interviews and what-have-you. That's it for now--thanks for hanging in and showing up.