Searching for Clues with Aidan and Guthrie (6 and 4 years old) in the rocks at Folly Cove -- searching for clues that they save in their cave, clues to solve the mystery of what we should do while we're here -- "See this claw," says Aidan, "Change the letters around; it becomes 'walc'" which means "we should walk some more" -- we do and I find a jagged broken piece of a blue foam buoy -- my own clue that Aidan names "Big Blue". . . Does this mean His blue hot wheels car needs a “lube" job? that my five year old IBM laptop has broken down? that little boy blue is big now? that we must "bulge" with "bilge" as we grow old? . . . sshhh! listen as big blue's "bugle" blows reveille in the inner ear. Sunset -- Revisited Interesting -- as we stand in the fog, looking at the sea, how the dark approaches so slowly -- impossible to know when night falls -- we only know it has fallen, like when I was eight years old, playing baseball by myself in the field behind my grandfather's garden, tossing the ball up, then hitting it in one direction as hard as I could, chasing it, then hitting it back again -- it never seemed to be that dark when my mother called with more and more urgency -- and finally, how surprised I was -- and still am at the end of day to look back from a lighted house and see the world outside so definitely, so unaccountably black. The Castle of Growing Things little more than a pile of sand and dirt in the middle of Chloe's sandspot on the shore of the New Hampshire lake a sandpile with wild things only -- no cultivated flowers: daisies O.K., large and small, some goldenrod, pink and white clover, loosestrife, Queen Ann's Lace, buttercups, and mystery guests -- some orange, some purple flowers -- assorted grasses, fern, patches of moss, small twigs -- and last night's marshmallow toasting sticks once and still growing things poking up in unpredictable places -- with rainbow arcs of freshly ripped out roots over all the entrances. Stinky Fish Manor two layer sand birthday cake building made with love and decorated with everything interesting Quinn, Jordan, and I could find on our trek along the deserted beach in the mist and drizzling rain: parts of lobster backs and claws, broken crab and clam shells, whole ones, charred driftwood, some seaweed, a few feathers, and the piece d' resistance -- a dead fish -- over a foot long -- the sweet flesh gone, the skin and bone curled in an odd half smile, half frown beneath the shining inside of blue clam shell eyes and between blushing red crab shell cheeks . . . "It's beautiful!" says 4 year old Quinn, and you know, he may be right.
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