Nautical Watch
Domestic pirates, potty-mouthed birds, and late night, full bloom treasures
Hello, my loves, from the Midwestern den of squabbling par excellence, from the lair of two parents looking at each other, eyes telegraphing panic. What HAVE we done? How will we survive? They won’t leave for school for another two months!
How are you all? It feels like I’ve been vacationing since the crack of May, and while I’m happy to be home now, reacquainting myself with the doldrums of summer, I’m here to share a few pics of a road trip south to see family and the ocean. I was going to subject everyone to passages from Rob Lowe’s second memoir, but you’re lucky because I’ve run out of space and steam.
Before I go too far down vacay lane, I want to give you what we’ve all been waiting for, which is the back-up cover of Jerry Baker’s gardening tome, Plants Are STILL Like People. [Insert jokes about this title, or see the comments section of my post here.]
For those who need a reminder, here’s beautiful Jerry clutching a panoply of confusing props:
And here is the second coming of Jerry Baker:
Looking back, I should have color-coordinated things more strategically. And gotten myself enshrouded in more plants? I was too excited by my child’s ear muffs lying about as they do all year, vexing me/the living room while making themselves available for the two times a kid actually wears them. (Finally! I thought. A use for those things!) I should have put on a lemonade pink shirt and a green scarf/towel/sweatshirt-thing, instead of the blue scarf/Christmas present more traditionally used as a lasso / limpid sword in our common living rooms duels.
On my trip to the ocean, I found the coolest wall / mosaic with tchotckes galore, impeccably bric-a-brac’d into place in front of someone’s house. It was so great I dragged my daughter back two nights later. We were going to look at the fullish moon over the ocean but were too spooked by the sea swollen with her power. We had been excited to go down and take a look, but the strand - normally populated with night revelers and their flashlights - was nearly empty. Our little souls quaked at the sight of the black waves, themselves like something out of a pirate movie, lonely and looming.
My daughter was the perfect person to take with me to the wall. She poured over it even more than I had. We met a woman on her knees opening brass turtle hatches and other lidded objects. “You have to check everything,” she said. “They leave little treasures in here and change it all the time.”
Indeed, we found a dangly sparkly earring that we held up to our faces and a black lanyard necklace that looked like tangly licorice with beads (we left them behind for other explorers).
At one of the many cement pirates protruding from the wall, my daughter gasped. “Is that . . . Jesus?”
We played mini-golf one day: two women, four children, and one fine and able spectator recovering from a broken ankle. No one fell in the eerily green lagoon. Everyone got a hole-in-one except me. My son said: “You’re the worst putt-putter but the best mom.” I’ll take it! Two nights ago, he referred to me as the loving machine called Mama. I mean . . . my work here is done? At least for my reputation.
Back to mini-golf (forever), we saw several teeny turtles that won our hearts and some birds sitting sadly in cages. One parrot, warned a dad with two kids, knew every single swear word and rattled them off one-by-one. I didn’t stick around to find out if this was true but judging from the sunburned sailors running the place, am pretty confidant it was.
I went to dinner at a place that actively feeds raccoons. The waitress was from Michigan and did not disappoint. Other years, I’ve wondered if the wait staff at this restaurant was actually made of raccoons, so bizarrely behaved were they (maybe raccoons on cocaine?). This time the waitress used the phrase “shut up” within the first two minutes, and not like a Valley Girl. Not like, “Shut up! I didn’t know that!,” no.
More like: “You stop talking now.” It was said with love, however. A+ for salty servers in a salty town!
Alrighty-ho, folks. I’m out of here. You have evaded my summary of books by too-famous people (for now!) but I am sending healthy walks if you are up for them, little prayers if you are inclined, cooling agents in the blood and mind, spectacular (or middling) books, handsome companions, kind(ish) children, and furry, devoted, amusing love!
photo credit: Tim Conrad, author of Dead Animals We Trust, with apolgies to this poor person waiting innocently for their meal. The symmetry of the gaze with that of the buck was too much to pass up. (While we’re on the topic of Tim, if anyone wants to leave an Amazon review for The Machine, it would be so appreciated. Thank you!)
The Jerry Baker redux! A commendable first effort, to be sure (guffawing occurred for this viewer). If you do end up adding a pink shirt and mint-green scarf for greater congruence with Jerry's original intent, might I suggest the application of a bald cap under the ear muffs? Enjoyed seeing your vacation photos, all (especially the turtle, of course). I really hope that you choose to excerpt passages of that "Trophy Deer of British Columbia" book betwixt the moose bookends rather than that Rob Lowe memoir. It looks like it has real page-turner promise and frankly, I'm disappointed you didn't mention it ; )
Wowww I love the homage to the plant guy!! Can you get his email and send him a link to this post?? Maybe he has a Substack?! Ha. And omg, that wall and the seashelled canine. I also spotted some bunnies. Lolz. I always laugh at/love what you write in that caption space to try and lure(?) in new subscribers. Can I hire you to write mine?? xoxx