The cows low, the fog is thick and
we can only see 20 feet in front of
the car. It is 3pm and the air is
bitter and bright. The boys both
read and Lola stares out the
window.
The roads are long and winding. Many car accidents.
Julian is covered in fog and rain and
a wind so fierce we are knocked off
balance when we get out of the car.
Everything is soaked and bone cold. The wind goes through the two layers I have over my legs like teeth through a peach.
We stop at the knife shop. The boys browse knives,
Lola walks with hand carved canes and I read the
autobiography of Kit Carson, leaned against the
glass. He and his men raid an Indian camp, kill
all the adults, and take the children captive. The
true details fill my mind with the wind and cold
and fog and I am transported back to a completely
wild and terrifying time where life was back breaking work and survival, as uncomfortable as
dry wind against twigs, as brutal as the bears attack
on the deer. I close the book with my stomach hurting, yet I am delighted to be moved.
Fires rage through Julian during the summer months. Some years are worse than others.
We wait for our table. Outside, as requested. 
Hot apple cider, with whip cream, please.
Life is intense.
( two tents )
I'm intense.
( i'm a wigwam, i'm a teepee )
xo maggie may