This may not mean much to folks who live at lower latitudes… but our spectacular sunrises have returned, after a summer sans.
We went to a musical at the high school tonight, put on by our local community theater. I watched my friends perform, and the kids saw their friends and teachers and coaches in a different element. We danced in our seats and sang our hearts out… except for Chris, who sat front row and took photos and shouted I love this town over and over.
Every September for the last nineteen years, a local artist named Mavis has led my community in an interactive art experience, a night designed for remembrance and unburdening.
To celebrate summer’s goodbye, a giant basket is erected on the beach from natural materials that have reached their season’s end, such as alders and fireweed and peonies. On the night of the event, people gather at the basket and pin notes to the structure’s walls, memorializing loved ones and things lost in the last year. At sunset, the basket is set ablaze to the sounds of cheers and claps and drums and whistles.
Last night, I got to attend my first Burning Basket Project. It was just as beautiful as I anticipated.
Add to the list of firsts and I can’t believe we live here:
He wears my old Vans and sings along to my old punk rock tunes, filling in on air drums and singing the harmonies beneath me. He rations the beef jerky and sips the kombucha I bought him before I picked him up from school. He asks questions about politics and points out rainbows between the mountains. We count four. He soaks in the beauty of his surroundings. He enjoys the hotel and the food and the service, exchanging pleasantries with strangers. He complains not about the hands in his mouth or the missing tooth or the long ride back without cell service or bathrooms. He is polite and conscientious and awake. I love this kid.
Tonight, we made plans to attend a play at the local museum’s outdoor theater. I scooped Ames up from soccer and arrived home just in time to pile into the Suburban with our rain and cold weather gear, just in case.
En route, we called to order our usual Friday bag of burgers but Miss Laura, is there any way we can eat there instead of grabbing it to-go? Miss Laura said she’d see what she could do, but they were pretty busy tonight.
It took awhile for our eyes to adjust to the dark and crowded bar. There was certainly no table available, but a group had just left one. I started to bus it, but when I brought the receipt and tip to Miss Laura, she smiled and pointed to the back of the restaurant. Got you all set up, she exclaimed in her booming, affectionate, all-consuming voice.
And there it was. A table reserved. Platters of burgers, fries, and onion rings, hot and ready and waiting for us.
After dinner, we drove a block down the street and enjoyed The Adventures of Robin Hood under a canopy of trees at the end of a twinkle-lit path. Faces familiar and not, on stage and off, cozy all around.
It is hard to describe how magical tonight was.
With my husband doing his photography thing so often and so well, I find myself taking fewer photos. Today, for example, we hiked to a glacier — a glacier! — and these are the only photos I got. Oh, well. It was fun and not to flex, but… we can see the glacier from our house.
