So summer has officially begun. We spent a wonderful (weather-wise) weekend doing only things we wanted to do. Playing with good friends, grandkids, kids, having drinks on the deck by the ocean in the balmy air. We also made time to picnic in Prescot Park in Portsmouth and found a letterbox...well, Carey did. This particular letterbox must have been planned and hidden by a small child, so for a six year old it was perfect! Of course I made him his own stamp before we left..Darth Vader with a light saber, what else.
Looks like a nun carrying a big stick.
For my family who doesn't see my grandkids half enough:
Carey, Papa and I after we found this beautiful stamp:
And Charlotte. How cute is this little blouse? Her, too.
I think she's decided being vertical is much faster than crawling...halfway across the floor she stood up and walked the rest of the way to her destination. Never to look back.
I just finished reading a great book, The Stone Diaries. It's left me thinking, which good books do. It's a fictional autobiography, complete with fictional family pictures. It addresses the question: How do small lives assume significance and coherence....several lines stuck with me, "She never realized old would last so long"... (I'm in trouble)..."Despair did not suit her looks" and more that hang on and give you something to chew on for a few hours. Or minutes depending on your concentration level. Or memory level. Funny, poignant, sad.