It was almost redundant, the pungent whiff of the first slice. As October lost its grip on summer, falling into autumn, her own grip was firm, solid. Her slicing was as swift and adroit as it had been in her youth.
My cousins talk about their mother and father before casting their ashes into the bay.
On a mirror-calm bay, on a see-forever day, we scattered my aunt and uncle’s ashes. They died within months of each other over the past year and we took them back to northern Canada, to the cottage they built so long ago.
Taylor sits atop a small waterfall on geothermal Kerosene Creek outside of Rotorua, New Zealand.
A babbling brook on a hot summer’s day turns out to be a 100 degree geothermalcreek. Mud bubbles up into pools with the smell of either bean and bacon soup or, more succinctly, farts — as the ladies say. These cracks in our perception of the way the earth should be are magical and meaningful. Welcome to Rotorua.
Somewhere out there, a thousand penguins are getting ready to barf.
Close your eyes and imagine sitting by the sea. You’re on a multi-level deck, accessed by a long and winding walkway. Now look out over sea, the clouds have gathered around the already set sun. Ask yourself what would make this scene better, perfect actually.
Why penguins, of course, hundreds of ’em. Close to a thousand.
Taylor poses for Marci outside the Hobbit Motel after a very comfortable night’s stay and well before second breakfast and elevenses.
I’m taking a shower in a Hobbit hole. That’s the lead I came up with as the warm, delicious water washed a day of caves off me. Contenders were The hobbit hole has heated blankets or No wifi in Baggin’s place. The one ring to rule them all is embedded in our bed and I look forward to falling asleep in Middle Earth, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.