Let's play some number games. If you take the number 17, multiply it by 4, you come up with 68. In the year 2021, I will turn 68. That means that I have been writing here on Ocean for one fourth of my life, because today, Ocean is 17 years old.
One fourth of my life, writing daily posts? Insane! (Some have said as much.) Why set yourself the goal of finding something fresh to write every day, with no time off for vacation or to defog the brain a little? Why stay up late to finish a post? Even on dead tired days?
The truth is, I haven't spent much time thinking about the whys. Most people who like to write do write every day in some fashion. Asking them why they write is like asking a jogger why she runs or a gardener why she plants seeds each spring.
Many believe that a blog is a dated artifact. A product of the early years of postings and sharing. Everyone has moved on to Instagram and Twitter. Even the word blog feels lumpy and tired (I rarely use it! I prefer Ocean!) But I have found no better way to write for others. Ocean maintains a nicely balanced, I think, combination of words and photographic illustrations. And though it surely isn't my most serious writing, it is, nonetheless, a serious attempt at consistent, audience driven writing.
And to repeat what I have said in the past, even in these days of questioning where truth lies in the reality that we depict for ourselves, let me assure you that I tell no lies here. I skip over a lot, I avoid politics, I do not spill family secrets, but what makes it into an Ocean post is as real as the Montana Forest candle that is burning next to me as I write this.
One fourth of an old person's life. That does seem a long time! Like the Energizer bunny pounding away at the little drum, with no end in sight.
Another cold day with no sunshine to warm you up outside. The cheepers have been hiding in the barn for weeks now, but today they decided to throw a glance at the greater world out there.
It was just a glance. Back inside they all went, huddling in some corner of the barn for the rest of the day.
Breakfast. I think Ed needs a beard trim.
I shave his face immediately after.
In the late morning, my daughter comes with the two grandkids for her Saturday visit at the farmhouse. It gives her a little time to sit and read, without being too far from a child's demand for a story or a cuddle. For the kids -- it's a break from the pandemic never ending routine of staying home. For me, it's a sad reminder that our time together is nearly at an end yet again. But this isn't the time to think about that. The kids pounce on the books I usually leave out to tempt one or the other...
And after lunch, I suggest snow play for Snowdrop. It's a rare chance for us to spend a longer period of time outside while her brother stays indoors with his mommy. Sparrow never has a great time navigating the winter world of slippery surfaces and snow drifts. Snow pants only add to his misery. Pretty quickly he wants to be either held or taken indoors. So today, I push Snowdrop to consider the outdoors despite the absence of an inviting sun shine. And she agrees.
For the little girl, a snow covered field is just another venue for her extensive fantasy world. I'm a sidekick to her stories, a not too relevant one at that, though she always has roles for me to play with ample instructions on what fits into her story line and what is just plain wrong. Most of the time, I let her take the lead. Sometimes I tease her with being obstinate or difficult. But today, I go along.
These days she starts off with an announcement that the Magic Meadow of Snow is open for business.
And then it's one long romp through the snow drifts, in the front yard and out back.
In, under, and around the great big pine trees.
Snowdrop can go on like this for a long long time. I'm the one that eventually gets cold and in some fashion, we bring our story world to a close.
Will I get another chance to play with her outdoors this winter? I don't know.
In the late afternoon, Ed and I ski again. It's growing colder, but we don't mind. And maybe, just maybe -- well, you know how the song goes -- the sun will come out, tomorrow.
