People keep asking me if I’ve readjusted to civilian life yet. No, I have not. There are so many people in Montreal. They are all so fashionable. It’s loud here, and never quite dark. There’s something to do every single night of the week. Not that I’m complaining, quite the contrary. I can’t believe my good fortune.
My friends are even more brilliant than I’d remembered. Aaron in his blue velvet sport jacket and Stephen in his corset. Oh my. And Alexis, so sassy in her red poke-a-dot dress and black motorcycle boots, and so classy that she walked me to a pretty park so I’d have scenic surroundings while she phoned the Yukon real quick. Then we arm-in-armed it through Outremont. Jenn’s back from Tokyo. Kai’s off to India. Lisa has managed to make fibroids sound funny, and Darragh has managed to make pregnancy sound benevolent. I wouldn’t have thought either possible.
And what am I doing? Besides presiding as French-ly as possible over the OBORO Annual General Assembly, family-reunion-ing with so many long lost friends at sweet Nancy’s jam-packed CD launch, making dinner dates left right and centre, and then making dinners left right and centre, and partaking in our friendly local neighbourhood Kiss My Cabaret? I am pining over my Ucross photos, that’s what I’m doing. All seven rolls of them. Poor everyone-that-comes-over. They suffer though the album tour. Mary even braved the rock collection.
I cranked up our ancient scanner this afternoon:
Cottonwoods line the Ucross Foundation driveway.
The Big Red Barn was built in 1882. Now it’s a gallery.
The Angus cows are so black they look hollow.
The wild turkeys seem to have no idea it’s Thanksgiving.
These paths lead to the tepee rings.
More hills to come.
. . . . .