We’re in Vermont now, at a super-charming, peaceful place called Four-Legged Farm, and it seems like just the kind of place we all need about now. David and I seem to hear daily of new struggles and challenges facing so many of our friends and family, not to mention the world. I hope this post can be for you a tiny respite of serenity and beauty. Know that you are never far from our thoughts and prayers. So imagine yourself here . . .
And the location is about as far from sketchy as you can get. No barred windows and double-bolting needed. Here’s what’s outside:
And this little lady who definitely wanted her picture taken:
View out our back patio door. (More on the horses later.)
This place is a tonic for the soul, with beauty everywhere you look.
I love the blending of skill and artistry that goes into a New England stone wall. My dad commented recently that we seem to make friends wherever we go and asked how we do it, and I’ve been pondering the question ever since. We have met some wonderful people, and I wish I had a wise answer, but there’s a mystery to friendship. Maybe it’s a bit like a good dry-stack wall, with labor and art and balance all playing a part, with a need for good raw material and attention to detail, but not perfectionism. I’m afraid I really don’t know. I just know we love meeting new people and hearing their stories, sharing a bottle of wine and a beautiful evening, like we did tonight with Shawn and Diana, our hosts here and our absolutely newest friends. I hope they enjoyed the evening as much as we did.
So peace be with you, friends old and new. You will always have a place in our hearts.
This past week, David and I had an opportunity to sit in on a Big Band and Swing music class with Helen and John and about twenty other octogenarians. Lots of reminiscing and YouTube videos of smooth singers and timeless tunes. Must have been that that made me think of the title for today’s post.
David and I are behavin’–sort of. Admittedly in a vacation-mentality kind of way, meaning too much rich food and strong drink and not nearly enough strenuous exercise. We are walking some–not nearly as much as in France–but the most strenuous part is swatting at mosquitoes and deer flies and flailing with the zapper racquet trying to defend ourselves. Despite that, we are definitely enjoying this leg of the adventure.
The weather is behavin’ most of the time, enough that Helen* could open the roof deck, and I could get this shot of one of my favorite rooms anywhere:
And it was nice enough to tempt a loon out during full daylight, close enough to the dock to get a semi-decent shot:
The wind was behavin’ enough that the sailors were happy.
(Cousin) Jennie’s dogs were behavin’ enough to get a float-ride:
But THIS guy is definitely misbehavin’ every chance he gets.
He must have read the last post, especially the part about never giving up, because he is relentless. I could learn from him (the persistence, not the thieving).
*David’s mom Helen is still camera-shy, sorry to report, but behavin’ at least as well as the rest of us!
Besides all the family, who have now mostly gone their separate ways, there are plenty of other photo opportunities. The animals here provide some photographic challenges. Like this little guy:
The chipmunk above and left, darts around so quickly, I had to use sport mode to capture a decent shot (and delete about thirty useless shots–gotta love digital cameras).
This heron hangs around periodically, mostly when I do NOT have my camera, but I managed to snap one decent shot (and only had to delete six or seven).
This duck is much easier. She’s constantly swimming around the dock and practically posing for close-ups. Note how clear and beautiful the water is here.
And I managed to sneak up on this little merganser family:
No such luck so far with getting close enough to the loons for a good photo. They’re out on the bay most evenings and you can hear their haunting cry late into the night and sometimes at dawn, but I’d need a longer lens and a tripod (or a really quiet boat). Still, as I’ve learned from this tree . . .