“We are the Cowlitz Tribe and this is our land! Welcome to our land!”… continued…
…even ukulele players.
Hey, I never said I had skill or talent, only that I did, indeed, play the uke. This mangled version, mistakes and all, is based roughly on this one from Chordie. You should record yourself playing it and show me how it ought to be done.
Happy Sunday.… continued…
I’m super impatient with expat memoirs. And I have a deep dislike for the kind of travel writing that’s all introspection and metaphysical. When I agreed to read and review Café Tempest: Adventures On a Small Greek Island
It’s just about a month now since we rolled back in to Seattle. The Routan was unloaded and returned to VW’s fleet supplier pronto, but there’s still a pile of REI gear that I have to ship back along with a few other odds and ends. And part of my brain, or maybe it’s my heart, is still leaning back towards the Hi-Line, that northern Montana strip of road punctuated by old grain elevators and barbed wire fences and gas stations where time stopped in 1967.… continued…
I’m standing on the east gate of the larger lock. The salmon are running, they’re hurling themselves in to the air and slapping back down against the dark green water. The sun is behind the rail bridge, it’s early evening. Every time a salmon hurls its silver body out of the water my heart leaps.
A very fit gray haired gent in shorts and a red polo shirt strides across the gate behind me, then stops.… continued…
