I handed the camera to Martin.
One of two survey markers that triangulate the highest point on the mountain.
Iris & Mama.
We sit on a rock.
The summit was densely populated.
Cars filled the parking lot and stretched in a line nearly a mile down the mountain road.
It was difficult to crop all the people out and still get any scenery.
I like this one.
— says Iris, as she sits on the sheep footstool in front of the chalkboard easel.
“This, Papa’s name,” she explains, pointing to the portion on the right,
and “this, Mama’s name,” while pointing to the bit on the left.
Like all good authors, she writes what she knows.
We got it back.
* * *
Iris decided the best option would be to avoid the swamp altogether.
To the left of the front door, across from the kindling pile, under the deck, there is a mud kitchen. Iris measures careful cups of water into saturated soil. She wears white with flowers. Joshua dumps gleefully. He wears dark colors. Both children remain remarkably clean, which is more than can be said about the walkway.
Iris has learned the art of pointing out her favorite ones. She picks out favorite pictures in different books, favorite flowers to smell, and favorite clothespins. She has four favorite clothespins which she picks from the basket: three blue and one yellow, the yellow being the favoritest of all. They are 1950s vintage plastic clothespins that look something like this:
Some people collect them and display them in glass jars with fancy lids. I use them to hang laundry.
