I’ve been writing all my life, triggered by lost things, like fathers and friends, subdivision developments pocking Marin County. What happened? I want things to stay the same, but not really.
I hope to explore legacies inherited from my family. When my memoir exploded from my brain, I wanted to tell all the stories left my my people, like the Irish side and my doctor grandpa who built his own skeleton for medical school. People are not interested, but I am.
Ok, I inherited booze problems and a love of words. I sing songs and feel sorrow in my pores. Yet, hilarity and funny expresssions also bend around the corners on how I do my days.
Give me time to keep growing, California weather, color and dreams. I rely on color because its honest expressions in things like roses and blue sky make my life worth living. I love to check out the green bushes and grey roads with black tar stripes as I walk on Spink Road in my town.
My dreams contain most of my truth because their messages come when I’m looking for direction. Sometimes they drive the truth into the future, like when I dreamt about my third husband four years before I met him.
I’m crafting two and three dimensional objects in my studio, what a blast to build with clay or oil up a canvas.
My husband and I built a lavender labyrinth that doubled in size this spring, fed by Mokelumne River water pumped up from our pond. I harvested bouquets that are drying and we may make $50 this year.
I’m happy to still be breathing, and so glad to know you can read! Thanks for the time you spent on this.