The Green Paintbrush

Which is, I think, what God used when He made this place in summer. The rains have come, but it was a patchwork day today, and I happened to go out just as the sun came out and kissed his lover, Mt. Flag. I stopped dead in my tracks and stared openmouthed at that green. I've never seen green liked that before. It's just...mindboggling, I think. I am not this good painter or anything, but I did mix a tint to match up with our bathroom counter a couple years ago, and was quite pleased with the result. However, neither I nor anyone else (and most people are better than I) could match that tint! Not even a camera, complete with a darkroom--digital or otherwise--could come even close. And Mum says that Emerald Ridge on Mt. Rainier is the same way!

Time ditched with the snail she had been keeping company with, and is dragging me along at a fantastic pace! Sometimes I want the snail. Sometimes I want all the stress and grief and sorrow to zip by at a faster pace. However, I'm not wearing track shoes, and my companion has a mind of her own, unfortunately. If I were in charge, we'd zip along and slow down only at important parts. But Time gets her orders from a higher source, and I'm lucky of that.

I'm sitting here alone while my mother and father judge a contest. My sister came with them, and I'm enjoying having the five-room apartment all to myself. I'm reading comics (not Unshelved, but another one) and typing alternately and also listening to Atwater-Donnelly. Sometimes a folk tune just perfectly describes what I'm thinking. Other times, it must be pulled way out of context but holds a special meaning (sometime, I must tell you about "Donkey Riding" and Palm Sunday) for me because of it. "The Road to Drumleman" is one of them. Drumleman has become my personal word for heaven-on-earth, so to speak. No place is perfectly Drumleman. I found Drumleman many times here. Will I find it when I go back "home" to Seattle? I miss the comforts of the city, but a sort of a rural-y town is relaxing.

Oh, gracious. Here I am, rambling with no purpose, really, and not singing along because I'm concentrating. I can sing along with practically every song Atwater-Donnelly does if I'm listening to a.) the selfsame recording or b.) them actually singing it, but I still have many songs to go before I can sing them alone. Life is good.