I bought an old, musty copy of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road online. One of those hardcover books where the right edge of the paper is torn, not cut. The previous owner was a library in Pennsylvania, and it carries with it the dusty smell found only within the narrow aisles of a small town library. It is perfect.
Several times now I’ve found myself re-reading McCarthy’s disorganized bursts of language, awed by how he can so successfully pull off such chaos. He describes a post-apocalyptic world where survivors are cannibals and the only Good seems to reside within a father and his son, struggling to survive. The father, forever unnamed, often falls into faint remembrances of life before, a testament to the equal power and fragility of memory.
She held his hand in her lap and he could feel the tops of her stockings through the thin stuff of her summer dress. Freeze this frame. Now call down your dark and your cold and be damned.
Amazing.
The past weekend featured a whirlwind visit from my better creative half, Adam Morse. Fresh-faced from Los Angeles early Saturday morning, Adam was already running on fumes. We spent the next 48 hours chugging coffee, quoting movies, eating great food, drinking, photographing, wandering dark alleys, and commenting on the general awesomeness of [fill in the blank].
It was nice to geek out.
Scenes from a recent trip to Cumberland, Maryland.
Like most American children, I fully embraced the Anti-Brussel Sprouts Movement. They were even worse than cabbage and despite their bite-size appeal, no amount of ketchup seemed to make them any more desirable. It wasn’t until much later – college, in fact – that I became aware of the fact that a light glaze of olive oil, a touch of brown sugar and a healthy dose of salt and pepper would transform these monsters into something delectable.
I say “Anti-Brussel Sprouts Movement”, but really this encapsulates all foreign vegetables; brussel sprouts were just the worst offenders. Anything that did not meet the carrots and potatoes family was deemed disgusting. This includes, of course, radishes, a recent fixture at the local farmers’ market.
After my Great Awakening several years ago, I can now happily and safely patrol the booths of local farms every Sunday, eager to throw another vegetable into my cooking repertoire. It just takes an open mind. And a bit of olive oil doesn’t hurt.
At the Sheep and Wool Festival (mentioned earlier), I caught this candid moment of my mom talking to Annie, another yarn vendor and a woman who played a feature role in my childhood.
Many of my most memorable moments from my youth were exploring the woods surrounding Annie’s farm with her son Kip. Through the warm, humid Maryland summers, Kip and I would wander shirtless along streams, testing the patience of snapping turtles, climbing trees, exploring 50 year-old junk yards, and getting lost in corn fields.
I remember dinners outside, watching the cows graze. Fixing broken fences in the rain before the sheep got out. Other nights, Kip and I would sleep in his tree house, but only after stretching an extension cord from the farmhouse so we could hook up his old analog television. For an hour, we’d fight for reception with a mangled clothes hanger before settling in to grainy late-night movies. One winter, a blizzard struck and I was snowed in at their farm. We were stuck there for almost a week as we waited for their mile-long driveway to be plowed. A month later, he was shut in at our farm for the very same reason.
Kip and I share the gift of growing under the wings of profoundly strong women who provided us with childhoods that seem grounded only in fantasy. My own mother is fiercely independent, free-spirited, and loves few things more than color (her boys being a rare exception). Annie has worked the land her entire life; she is one of the most stubborn, hard-working, and caring people I’ve met. They’ve raised their boys to be aware of the world surrounding them, to explore, to appreciate what’s given and to work for something more.
Consider this my very belated Mothers’ Day post, and a reminder that every day we should be thankful of those that have inspired us.
A few weeks ago, I was helping my mom sell her yarn at the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival, something I do every year. It poured on the second day of the event, but business continued until late in the day.
When folks eventually began heading back to their cars, the rain slowed down a bit and I was able to wander around, taking in the dampened crowds and home-grown merchandise. At one point, I caught this girl casually hopping into puddles, totally immersed in the joy of each subsequent conquest. This photograph captures a rare pause as she contemplates her next leap.
White is the new black.
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