So, what now:  I turned 50 this summer and feel an unexpected ease with that.  While I hope to live a long time, somehow I feel like I completed a race and can just walk now, and notice things.  What a relief!  I spent most of my life believing I needed to accomplish and achieve and amount to…well…more.  I imagine I’m not done with those aims, but they are not so compelling anymore.  I find myself drawn to presence rather than future goals, and I like it.

Four years ago, after quitting my regular job and beginning my work as coach and consultant, I had no idea how my risk would pay off.  Fortunately for me, much of  the pay has been in currency I didn’t anticipate–garlic, for example, that I had time to plant and nurture, and lopsided pottery I learned to throw, which I could sell to lopsided lollygaggers outside the nearby fair grounds.  Who knew I’d become so artsy?   And the best pay off has been new friendships I wouldn’t have made had I stayed on the hamster wheel.  Really interesting people seem to be drawn to the entrepreneurial life, I think.

So forgive me if you’ve dropped in on this blog over the past twelve or more months and found little to graze on.  I’ll try to set that right.  Now that I’m 50, I have so much more to say; but I also am more likely to go pick the cucumbers or deadhead the hydrangeas than compose a blog post.

As the dogs munched their water-warmed kibble enthusiastically (light or dark, summer or winter, their joy never seems tempered), I shivered morosely in the wet air and stared at a sky the color of pewter.  From a thicket of blackberry and alder out beyond the front yard, I heard a sound like a piccolo–clear and sharp as an icicle.  Some winter bird had decided to ignore the realities of too little food and too much cold and sing joyfully anyway. Surprising myself, I smiled, then thought, stupid bird.  Go ahead and make me feel puny–at least in character.  I have a fireplace and homemade turkey soup–what do I have to complain about?  The loss of light, the dying, day by day, of the year–what grief do those deserve?  Are not these waning days the prelude to the sun I love so desperately?  Kill a year and a year is born; it’s all so essential.  Why can’t I swell with song like a winter bird?  Instead, I glower and pout, damn dark days.

Later, staring out the kitchen window, I noticed that a few degrees colder would set our home adrift in a sea of hoar frost.  I’d be in an inside-out snow globe.  But 34 gets you drips not ice crystals, an emotion of difference.

As days do, this one ran out, quicker than yesterday and promising even less tomorrow.  While I smiled and laughed and furrowed my brow at the spontaneous moments the day offered up to me, I am not grateful as I should be.  I stick out my tongue at the notion of cherishing every minute.  The next three weeks will feel like the closing of a clamshell, and I’m in there, in the cold and wet, in the dusky dark, and I crave light, dammit, bright light.  I refuse to find solace in the cycles of life on earth.  Perhaps a trip to the equator is in order.

In the too-early twilight yesterday, I liberated the last of the chard from shivering slugs and the leading edge of snowfall.  This morning the garden is a pan of snow with feathers of fennel and parsley poking through in protest.  I’ll be doing nothing much out there for a while, although Mom’s chickens have put in a request for greens–in any condition–so once the snow melts, I should suffer the mud and clean things out.  Take the time to add some compost and manure to the soil so the beds can digest in the chill of the winter.  Be a good steward of the soil, even though I’d rather draw into a fetal position in front of the fire for the next three months.

The gray season weighs on me, makes me tip the bottle for one glass more, seeking the lightness that comes of the wine.  My waistline expands, too, mysteriously.  Day-long dimness chases me to the cookbooks for comfort and our table finds itself entertaining all things unctuous–braised shanks, bacon-based anything, beans and greens, and cheese in generous applications.  Tom, joking, thanks me for keeping him warm by adding a layer of fat to his ribs.  At this we laugh merrily, and reach for upside-down pear gingerbread.  With whipping cream. 

The good of the gray is that I return to writing and reading with both eyes, rather than having one attached to a clock or the seducing sun.  There’s no squandering of outside time.  It’s closed for business, for the most part.  Read, write, reflect, listen to Madeline Peyroux…and cook…is how I spend the gray season.

Have a blessed Thanksgiving with those you love.

The second and (perhaps) final event in the “Sound to Summit Adventure Series” took place August 18 – 20, beginning at sea level at the Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge, traversing the Nisqually River watershed, and finishing at the highest point in Washington State; the 14,410’ summit of Mount Rainier.

Flowing 78  miles from its source at the Nisqually Glacier on Mount Rainier, to its delta at the Nisqually NWR, the Nisqually River is the only river in the country with its headwaters protected by a National Park and its delta protected by a National Wildlife Refuge.  Much of the watershed itself is managed and protected by the Nisqually Land Trust, the Charles L. Pack Experimental Forest, and the Nisqually Tribe.

My journey began on bicycle at the Refuge, crossed the fertile flats of the Nisqually plain, passed through the cool forests of the Nisqually Reservation, and rolled over hills through the towns of Yelm, McKenna, and Eatonville.  The weather was cool and cloudy, requiring an extra layer under my jersey and preventing any views of my final destination.

I rendezvoused with Susan in Eatonville for a water drop and a shuttle through the hazardous 7-mile Alder Cutoff.  A combination of no shoulders, blind curves, and numerous log and gravel trucks convinced me to forego the tempting climbs and descents of this scenic stretch of road.

With 35 miles of rolling hills behind me, I got back in the saddle on the shores of Alder Lake for the steady climb up highways 7 and 706 toward Elbe, Ashford, and Mount Rainier.  By this time the sun had come out, the sky had cleared, and Mount Rainier stood out prominently against the blue sky.

As the miles went by, the mountain’s profile kept shifting, bringing to mind the 36 views of Mt. Fuji, a series of wood block prints from the 1800s, depicting the sacred Japanese mountain from various places and distances.

I paused briefly in Ashford, the home of Rainier Mountaineering, Inc., who have been guiding on Mount Rainier for over 40 years, and who were providing my guides for the upcoming ascent.  I had already met my lead guide, who had recently completed his 400^th summit of Rainier.  With that kind of experience I was confident of a safe and successful climb.

Several miles beyond Ashford I entered the cool, green tunnel of trees marking the entrance to the National Park.  The road curved and climbed ever upward, providing occasional views of the Nisqually River on my right, and Mount Rainier on my left.  At Longmire I once again met up with Susan to hike the last several miles to Paradise.  After 60 miles in the saddle I was ready to stretch my legs on the trail.

After a day of mostly energy bars and trail mix, the post-hike Nepalese-style meal we enjoyed at the Wild Berry restaurant was certainly welcome.  After dinner we returned to Ashford where Susan dropped me off at Whittaker’s Bunkhouse, where I could prepare for the next two day’s climb.

Ice axe, crampons, sleeping bag, climbing harness, food, water…  the list was long, and the pack kept getting heavier.  I made some last minute adjustments and eliminations, and I was ready.  I turned in early in the hopes that my body would also be ready for two more days of exertion.

At 8:00 the next morning I met the RMI guides and the rest of the climbing team for the bus ride to Paradise and hike to Camp Muir.  It’s hard to believe, but I considered the hike to Camp Muir as almost a recovery day.  I knew all too well the summit day would be the toughest of all.

The marine layer that had moved in over western Washington that week had me concerned for our summit chances, but we soon hiked above the clouds affording incredible views of the Tatoosh Range and Mounts Adams, Hood, and Saint Helens.  After the moderately paced hike to Camp Muir, we settled in for dinner and an early bedtime.

After a few hours of attempted sleep, the wake-up call came all too soon.  Our three rope teams departed Camp Muir at 12:30am with only headlamps to light our way.  For 6 ½ hours we climbed ever upward, picking our way past gaping crevasses, grinding up over Disappointment Cleaver, and onto the final expanse of snow and ice below the summit crater.  We reached the crater about 7:00am with a stiff wind trying to push us back down the mountain.

Exhausted and exhilarated, I sat down on my pack in the crater for much-needed food and drink.  After an hour of rest and photos, we roped up once again for the trek back down the mountain.  The descent revealed the crevasses that were shrouded in darkness on the way up.  The crevasses were at once both brutal and delicate, with tons of frozen snow looming above, and graceful chandeliers of ice dripping below.

The rope teams reached Camp Muir, packed up, and began the final 2 ½ hour walk to Paradise.  Some of us glissaded, and some post-holed, but we all welcomed the sight of the bus which took us back to Ashford for a cold beer, a real meal, and a brief ceremony celebrating our accomplishment.

It was an amazing and exhausting journey through a truly remarkable watershed.  The Nisqually River, the wildlife in its watershed, the salmon in its waters, and the public all benefit from the many volunteers and organizations working to protect and restore this magnificent ecosystem.  Below is more information on some of the organizations who call the Nisqually home.

If you visit, though, take your time, breath deep, and let your shoulders relax.  Don’t rush through like I did!

Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge

The Nisqually NWR was established in 1974 to provide nesting and resting areas for migratory waterfowl, songbirds, raptors, and wading birds.  The Refuge includes 3000 acres of salt and freshwater marshes, grasslands, riparian, and mixed forest habitats.  The Refuge is open to the public with its miles of walking trails and educational exhibits.

Last November, Refuge wetlands were expanded by 762 acres with the breaching of the century old Brown Farm Dike.  An additional 141 acres of wetlands were restored by the Nisqually Tribe on the east side of the river delta.  These additional tidal wetlands provide much needed habitat for young salmon which are vulnerable to predation in the open waters of Puget Sound, but can grow to maturity in the shelter of the grassy, tidal wetlands.

Over the past decade, the Refuge, working with the Nisqually Tribe, Ducks Unlimited, the USGS and others, has restored more than 35 km of historic tidal sloughs and re-connected historic floodplains to Puget Sound, increasing potential salt marsh habitat in the southern reach of Puget Sound by 50%.

Nisqually Reach Nature Center

The Nisqually Reach Nature Center is a 2100 sq. ft. facility at Luhr Beach on the shore of Puget Sound on the west side of the Nisqually Delta at the mouth of McAllister Creek.

The NRNC has been offering estuarine environmental education a Luhr Beach since 1982.  Through the years, the NRNC emphasis has changed from general public outreach to their current focus of providing supplemental classroom laboratory and field trip opportunities for schools in the Thurston and Pierce counties area and beyond.  In a typical year, upwards of 2,000 school kids, mostly in grades 5 through 12, visit the Nature Center with their teachers and parents.  The NRNC also supports and sponsors estuarine research opportunities for South Puget Sound college students.

The Nisqually Land Trust

The NLT is dedicated to acquiring, managing, and permanently protecting water, wildlife, natural areas, and scenic vistas of the Nisqually River watershed, including important salmon habitat on the Red Salmon and Ohop Creeks, and the Mashel River.

Five species of native salmon, including the threatened Chinook, benefit from NLT habitat restoration work, which includes invasive species removal, native tree and shrub planting, and the restoration of meanders to previously straightened stream-beds.  To date, the Land Trust and its watershed partners have permanently protected 71 percent of the river’s salmon-producing shoreline. The NLT also has plans for developing trails for public use.

Thanks to a grant from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and a donation from the Nisqually Tribe, the NLT recently acquired 600 acres near the town of Ashford along the approach to Mount Rainier.  This purchase brings the Land Trust closer to completing a protected wildlife corridor between the Gifford Pinchot National Forest and Elbe Hills State Forest.  In addition to protecting endangered and at-risk species such as peregrine falcons and bald eagles, this acquisition protects the view-shed of the main approach to the national park along state route 706.  Additionally, the site includes an extensive stretch of the Mount Tahoma Trails Association’s hut-to-hut ski trail system, the largest no-fee system in the country.

Pack Forest

Located at the foot of Mount Rainier, the Center for Sustainable Forestry at Pack Forest sits on 4,300 acres of working forestland.  The purpose of the Center is to discover, teach and demonstrate the concepts of sustainable forestry, with a special focus on advancing the strategic themes of the University of Washington’s School of Forest Resources, in areas including:

          *Watershed and Community Development

          *Forestry Extension with focus on Sustainability

          *Forest Certification Services

          *Landscape Management Systems

          *Public Participation in Resource Management

          *Forestry Forums

The Center aims to provide internationally recognized leadership for sustainable forestland management through research, demonstration, and technology transfer.  The Center is actively advancing the concept and practice of sustainability, engaging resource scientists, professionals, policymakers, and communities.

What happened to July?  It’s August?  When did that happen?  Funny how time off with plenty of sunny weather can relieve one of an awareness of the calendar.  Wasn’t it June just a moment ago?

But apparently the combination of a little paid work, a lotta gardening, and a couple of long weekends paddling, biking, hiking, and generally, indulging, add up to 31 days.  My to-do list for this summer begs to differ, however; it looks as pristine as it did July 1st, with nary a line drawn through a to-do!  I’m in some kind of wrinkle in time.

The only wrinkle, if I’m being honest, is that July was so fluid it passed through my consciousness in a single stream.  It opened and closed like a sigh, or maybe it closed and opened like eyes dreaming.  All I know for sure is that July has always been my favorite month.  The month of my birthday, of vacations, of sun and berries.  And it’s gone again.  August always seems a bit grouchy by comparison.  The sun may be out–though not today–but too often a gauze of marine air or heat haze wash out the blue skies.  Temperatures are often hotter for days on end in August, but it’s not a caressing heat; August hot is mostly tired and itchy.  While I love that my garden teems in August, and the Farmer’s Market runneth over, inspiring amazing meals and much to jam, pickle, freeze, and can, the plenty hints at fall around the corner.  Put up the food now, so we eat in December.  July is always free of such responsibility.

Today I cleaned out my freezers and made jam from the remainder of last summer’s berries.  I can now strike out one item on my to-do list.  I’ve also updated Susan in the Rain, neglected in the shadows cast by brilliant July.  I find my writing muscle is a bit weak from the lack of exercise, or perhaps it’s the muscle between my ears that’s grown weak.  I’ve been a bit of a lotus eater of late, stirring myself to seek pleasure, but not much else.  Sigh…July:  white wine on the porch in the afternoon while I read or committed desultory acts of gardening.  But this is August now. There’s work to be done.

It’s more than a paddle on the Sound, it’s more than a bike ride, and it’s more than a walk in the woods.  But is it an ADVENTURE?  I don’t know.  What I do know is that “The Sound to Summit Adventure Series” sounded like a pretty cool name for this thing I dreamed up nearly two years ago.  Shortly after summiting Mount Rainier in September 2008, I conceived of and starting planning a series of events – triathlons really – that would follow four major Washington river systems from Puget Sound to each river’s namesake origin.

Each event would include kayaking up river, biking to a mountain trailhead, and hiking to the summit of the mountain.  I sketched out a plan for following the Stillaguamish River to Stillaguamish Peak, Skykomish River to Skykomish Peak, Snohomish/Snoqualmie Rivers to Snoqualmie Mountain, and finally the Nisqually River to Nisqually Glacier and the summit of Mount Rainier.  It would be a bit like the “Ski to Sea” held in Bellingham each year – but going uphill instead of down.  It might also be compared to the journey of the salmon – if fish had ice axes and crampons.  The concept had continuity, completeness, even a little poetry.  And I liked that.  It also sounded really hard.  From Sound to Summit under human power alone.

Once the idea had taken shape, the research and training began.  I scrutinized tide tables, studied bike routes, and pored over topo maps of mountain trails.  To build strength, I started lifting weights and doing yoga.  To increase endurance, I ramped up my running and biking mileage.  I scouted each bike route; first by car and then on bike.  Even The Courage Classic, which I rode in August 2009, was but a step toward this larger, more personal goal.  And now, after many months of planning and training, the first event has come and gone.

I began the first journey on June 18^th, where the waters of the Snoqualmie and Snohomish Rivers flow into Puget Sound, with a 6:40 am launch in Everett.  As I had planned and hoped, the incoming tide was in perfect balance with the river’s current.  I set out on water so smooth and still it was hard to distinguish the shore from its reflection.  I paddled easily past hulking tugs and barges and under the twin spans of I-5.  Then, 2 miles upstream I saw the first sign of riffles on the water.  I knew that as I moved upstream the tide’s influence would diminish and the river would exert its power.  I moved closer to the bank where the water was slower, and hoped the current wouldn’t get too strong.  Fortunately, after another ½ mile or so, the river again turned to glass.  I paddled the last couple of miles without incidence, with just the sound of birds and the rhythmic slice of my paddle for accompaniment.

I transitioned to my bike and began riding through the rolling hills and farmland of the Snohomish Valley.  The morning air was cool, the pavement smooth, and my legs felt strong.  I zipped past Snohomish, crossed the river at Duvall, and turned the corner toward Carnation.  At about 20 miles I switched from the asphalt shoulder of route 203 to the packed gravel of the Snoqualmie Valley Trail, an old railroad grade now used for hiking, biking, dog walking, and bird-watching.  Past Carnation the trail crept from the valley floor to the hill side for a gradual but unrelenting ascent toward Snoqualmie Falls.

The gravelly climb was taking its toll as I doggedly cranked the next several miles from the town of Snoqualmie to Rattlesnake Lake, where I met Susan for a brief lunch and rest stop.  5 river miles and 55 bike miles behind me, and the serious climbing was just about to begin.  From Rattlesnake Lake, I took the Iron Horse Trail, the McClellan Butte Trail, and Tinkham Road, reaching Alpental about 4 pm.

At the Snoqualmie Mountain trailhead Susan joined me once again and we hit the trail leading to the 6278’ summit.  I hiked this trail last year on my birthday, and I described it at the time as “steeper than Mount Peak, requiring a mixture of scrambling and route-finding, and due to the rugged terrain takes as long to descend as it does to climb.”  It’s also an 8 mile round-trip, which took 4 hours last year on fresh legs.  As tough as the trail was last year, it’s tougher now, with wind-fall and snowmelt providing additional challenges.

About a mile into the hike we realized we were running out of trail and daylight.  We had climbed over several fallen trees, and were splashing up a snow-melt stream in places.  (I did say this trip would be a bit like the salmon’s journey!)  We figured we had another 4 or 5 hours of fairly unpleasant hiking which would put us back at the truck between 9 and 10pm.  Keeping safety and the time-honored tradition of post-hike pub food and cold beer in mind, we headed back down the mountain.  There’s nothing worse than finding the pubs closed when you’ve earned the right to replace some calories!

We returned to the parking lot and started the much more reasonable hike toward Snow Lake.  We walked the well-maintained Snow Lake trail about 2 miles in, enjoying the scenery and each other’s company.  A part of me hated to turn back from Snoqualmie Mountain after all the time and energy spent leading up to that day.  But I had a great day, a fine adventure, and looked forward to sharing the last few miles, a big meal, and a cold beer with my wife and partner who supported me throughout.  I started at sea level, ended in the mountains, and covered 80 miles under my own power.  Susan dedicated a day, drove support vehicle, and joined me for the last few miles.  Who could ask for a better day or a better person to end the day with?

As we settled in with cold beers and garlic fries, we toasted to all the future adventures we’ll share.

Stay tuned for Sound to Summit part 2 – Mount Rainier, August 18-20!

As my sister has said, my plants are my babies.  I know each one.  In that silly, anthropomorphic way of nurturers, I address each flower and shrub and tree as if it has sentience.  Certainly each has personality–some are generous and others stubborn.  So I was only mildly surprised when within a week, my babies were pushing new growth out every pore.  To look at them is to see battered, sere blades and stalks, but look more carefully, lift a shattered leaf or two, and there!  A new bit of growth, and effort at reclaiming itself.  Without enough green matter, my babies will starve, so they grow to replace the lost foliage.  How often is that my response to a dashing? 

This morning I noticed that my pink phlox are about to bloom, even though none of them has more than a leaf or two left from the hail storm.  Blooming is the beginning of reproduction.  Maybe they are giving their all to leave behind a genetic legacy.  To support them I’ve been ladling cups of organic fertilizer tea onto their root crowns.  I’d hate to see my flowers bloom in a kind of self-sacrificial death scene. 

Last night I planted another round of lettuces.  I think the carrots will make it and maybe the beets, although their shredded red flag leaves have a lot of work to do first.  I bought strawberries from the valley the other day, giving up on the now brown beads that should have been a bumper crop.  So, I guess I’m suffering little from that bizarre storm left over from last winter; at least my suffering isn’t material.  I will surely miss my voluptuous garden this summer.  But I’ll love what I got.

Last night we had a salad made of mesclun and spinach thinings.  It was light, green, and gently crunchy.  I dressed it with a simple vinaigrette, and we munched it reflectively, rather taken by the oddness of home gardening in the modern age, where one can thoughtlessly toss out half a three-day-old pizza, but glean all the bitty sprouts of salad greens from a half-hour’s garden maintenance, pick off hundreds of tiny roots, and finally deliver the greens up on a dinner dish, with a smile of pride usually associated with the mom of the kid who kicked the goal.  Look, Honey!  Our lettuce seeds have grown two inches!  Dish up.

Growing a home garden makes me more respectful of food.  I look askance at the processed and packaged food-like items in the grocery store, knowing that I will soon have more fresh-off-the-vine sugar and snap peas than anyone with good sense could want.  Why would I buy something in a box, with ingredients that have been sourced from more parts of the globe than I will ever see, when I can pick a peck of dewy, crisp-cool pea pods from my own back yard?  Boxed and plastic-wrapped snack, three dollars; home-grown produce, priceless.  There’s no accounting for the value of a home garden, though, because it’s not an economic endeavor to begin with–at least not for me.  I can buy most everything I eat from my garden cheaper at the store or the Saturday market.  But the pleasure of watching the inert become life, a seed become dinner, and the exercise of patience and attention required to husband the process, are rewards beyond the cost/benefit analysis.  I know how to grow food.  That feels both magical and powerful.

Tom likes to point out how scary it is that we have products on the market called “cheese food” and “juice drink,” which are neither cheese nor juice.  The irony, he notes, is that the words “food” and “drink” are used to signal the products are not what they appear to be.  They are, in fact, non-cheese and non-juice.  But in this age of soy powder, high fructose corn syrup, and designer bottled water, who’s to say what’s food and drink anymore?  I’ll stick to the stuff I pick when I can.  (If we get some sun, it will rain strawberries here!)

So it’s June 1, and I need to hustle if I’m going to get my squashes planted in time for a pre-frost harvest in late September.  Gardening is as much deferred gratification as it is cultivation.  Fortunately, six rows of potatoes are sporting curly sprouts, so I only need to make my tube of Pringles Lites last until August.

Plant the squash

Put out slug bait

clean the bathroom

Buy bread, milk, and Gerbera daisies

Create the PowerPoint for next Thursday…

And so it goes.  My life this month has been lived in lists.  They are scattered everywhere, testimony to my attempts to stay focused and efficient in the face of more to-dos than time to do ‘em. 

It’s not like life isn’t always busy.  If I want it to be.  But when I quit my conventional job three years ago to be a work-from-home consultant, part of the agreement I made with myself–and my hubby housemate–was that I’d choose not to be busy.  I’d work part-time and shrug off housework, letting the dust layer itself like prehistoric sedimentary rock all over my furniture and window sills, that in trade for languorously paging through a book on the porch in between dozing and bird watching.  In other words, I’d relax more for my mental, physical and spiritual health.

So what happened a few weeks ago?  You’d think that after three years, I’d have worn a relaxation groove so deeply in my habits that I wouldn’t know how to rev up again.  But before I could say, “Stress!” I was scribbling lists of nagging tasks all over random scraps of paper, the outward expression of my inward spin cycle. 

So here I am May 18th, finally getting to the item “blog” on a yellow sticky note.  Below blog is “paint” and “lodging for Ketchum.”  I’m tempted to truncate my essay and skip to our late July mini-vacation, an act of escaping my current labors as well as the zig zagging of my concrete-random style.  But I resist.  There’s a chance that a few devout readers will return to this page for more Susanintherain, and I’d better reward that.  And yet, as I tap out this post, our resident house sparrow flits past the window, reminding me that I need to sweep the porch clean of his aggregating contributions, and then I think of the hanging baskets that need watering, and the slugs–ugh!–which must be picked off daily.  How was it I ever had time to work a regular job?  Not to mention my three new pots drying on the kitchen island, each ready for a quarter turn to balance the effects of subtle drafts wafting through the house.  I’d better add them to my lists.

Send Linda the pictures from Ireland

Pick up some potting soil

Repot house plants

Walk the dogs

Order out for Thai

Pour a glass of wine ( :

Last year spring was all water and rain, leaving me with plenty of time to write at the computer, hot tea steaming nearby.  The weather was cold and unappealing.  Clammy.  As if in contrition, this year sports skies of broken clouds, blue background, enough warmth to enjoy but not alarm.  It’s like a spring from a Disney movie, really.  How can I justify a couple hours tapping at keys when I could be up to my elbows in the earth, tucking a new phlox and cranesbill geranium into their beds.  The peas are up and the mesclun, poking the tiniest green fingers of promise above the soil line.  It’s important that I sit in a patio chair beside them and honor their arrival.  My blog goes stale as I review recipes for baby beets.

So if you read regularly, if you are generous enough to follow my random narratives about life in my corner of Puget Sound, then I thank you whole heartedly and promise more to come, more well-developed, and I hope, entertaining pieces on what happens along here.  But today I write like the breath of a butterfly, gentle and quiet and oh so short.