November 25, 2017

From my Mother’s story


“We went to our daughter’s home in September when the warm still days of mellow lingering sunshine created a balm over the pregnant vines and across the breadth of tranquil lake. It softened the stern alps in Haute Savoie before drifting onto the ancient, crumbling Jura Mountains, far over towards the hidden elbow of Geneva. In Jo Ann’s garden, bees droned among clumps of purple Michaelmas daisies, bacchanalian roses and stiff, yellow goldenrod. Autumn bonfires painted a fine haze over the hollows of the valley and even the steamers, plying across the dreaming water, and the tiny jets, pencilling their highways in the sky, seemed a natural part of the landscape.”

Excerpt from Blowing Feathers, chp. 8, pp. 185-186