Early morning reservoir runner

*****I have a new hosting service, Articulation, because Weebly wasn't cutting it. This transition has left me rowing through the cruel and choppy waters of technological adversity. My hope that putting this up on the website is not merely a mirage, but actual dry land. Because of said challenges, this is a very old post. 

Carin asked early on in the summer whether I'd be going back to the Reservoir early morning walk ritual, and after thinking about it, thought I probably wouldn't because there was no longer any need to vehemently insert it into a day, not that time is abundant. But it turns out to still be an almost daily draw, an active contemplation rather than any kind of exercise, whether creative time, meditation, or plain old being out in the world. Today, it was creative, writing in my head. And along the way I laughed aloud, making more of a fool of myself than I already had by warming up my otherwise bare arms by keeping them inside my baggy t-shirt. 

Back in the late naughties, I had a company called picture life books, dedicated to preserving individual and family stories and their photographs, in coffee table books. One of my clients was a young and beautiful couple from southern California who were both toiling away at what turned out to be a fruitless climb from minor to major celebrities. The book was intended to capture both their family stories and then theirs, so I spent a bit of time interviewing parents and grandparents. There were wonderful stories, including one about a piano transported across half the country on a covered wagon. But my favorite was about an Italian immigrant matriarch who lived in Chicago who incessantly told her descendants to watch out for falling flower pots, which were common on windows and porches. Yes, Ma, they'd say while figuratively rolling their eyes. Well, guess how her life ended?  Flowerpot, square on the head, dead as a doornail. So maybe not all phobias are crazy.

Some picture life books, photos by Mary Giordano Brackett

Bozeman has been on my mind lately. It's funny, the time we were battered by hailstones on a hike, the staggering view of snow covered peaks from the CCC lodge, dinners out or beers on that great downtown main street aren't the things that crop up. It's random moments. And images. Nat and I talked about it the other day, texting favorite photos. It is a staggeringly beautiful place. But then it turns out, there are so many in the United States, aren't there?

A strong moment that keeps reappearing is the day we meant to hike but ended up turning around at the trailhead after reading the sign saying only idiots would progress without bear spray. To get there, we walked for some amount of time along a path that was prettily overgrown, strewn with purple and pink wildflowers. We were stomping along, giving resident snakes a heads up that large, scary mammals were coming through and they best get out of the way. In her inimitable way, Nat softened our stress by injecting humor, pronouncing them snahkays, which they will now forever be.  I believe she has an even bigger fear of worms, which reminds me of the time that, like a practical joke that went too far, when getting out of the car in Williamstown, there were thousands and thousands (no exaggeration) of dead worms, strewn all over an asphalt parking lot. I worried she would faint.

The David Hockney view, as Nat calls it, just east of downtown Bozeman. One of the images that comes back to visit.

My number one image, the Tetons, south of Bozeman on the way to Jackson, WY

On the sidewalk in Cleveland Circle the other morning, I looked down and twitched, then relaxed, feeling absurd. I sent the photo to Nat with no comment, and she asked me if it was a w*rm, to which I replied "no, it's a stick". But it was only today, walking around the reservoir that I thought about her spelling, so horrified was she that she equated a worm with He Who Will Not be Named. And that's what made me laugh out loud.

A stick, about four inches long

There was much talk on the porch last week about how the Scots visiting for World Cup had injected life into downtown Boston, and right they were, though there were also Norwegians and Moroccans, giving the town, I really can't call it a city, a less provincial atmosphere. In fact it was downright jolly. I took a spin through Quincy Market on my way from one place to another and saw loads of people at the outdoor bars watching footie on big screens. And the Scots really had taken over, they were everywhere. The first photo below was taken without permission, which I felt bad about after and wanted to rectify. I passed up a few posses of Scots, some with drab tartans, others too drunk, but eventually, I found the two lads in the second photograph below. They were delightfully accommodating, mentioning that they felt like Brad Pitt and George Clooney, having been stopped for photos regularly. One offered to have his photo taken with me, which of course I accepted. We chatted a bit, they told me the kilts only came out on special occasions, of which coming to the US to see their team was one. I thanked them and got a "Cheers, love" back.

A friend of mine who is not a big football fan had a birthday the other day. The week prior, her boyfriend (do we call them that at our age? ) said "Ever since you were a five year old girl in West Virginia, I know you've dreamed of seeing England play Ghana, and so I've arranged to make your dream come true, AND on your actual birthday!"  She's a good natured lass and laughed.

​There are too many teams to root for.....

Tartan and tatoos

Scottish lads and HomeGoods, Downtown Crossing

Third husband? Maybe not