A Diary of Autumnal New England

Saturday, October 2, 2010

After two full days of traveling, I find myself in the quaintest, prettiest little town in the heart of Massachusetts. We have been set up in a bed and breakfast, with the creaking wooden floors, latched doors, and peculiar building structure of historical houses. Vastly aesthetically pleasing. It has been decorated in a very eclectic, colorful style. The room where we girls sleep has wild strawberry wallpaper, a bright red quilt, and varied furniture. Interesting, to say the least.

This morning I happened to look outside the bathroom window and see a lovely, rambling meadow right next door. As we arrived in darkness last night, I had no idea we were in such a rustic area. My heart thrilled at the prospect of a ramble through autumnal New England.

I hurried through my exercise, ate breakfast (very scrumptious, with Trader Joe's white tea!) with my wonderful family, and then Berklee, Gretchen, Jeremiah, and I embarked on our country walk.

Across the street from the white, colonial-styled house lay fields, sloping down to a wood and a marsh. The sky was a perfect robins-egg blue, and the vibrantly green grass next to the zesty color of the fall foliage was beautifully striking. It is so lovely how the trees turn color when the grass is still green.

The brisk chill of the autumn air, the wind, the wild enveloping us as we walked down the hill and into the woods was so pleasant. The forest was graced with all the ancient trees, moss, writhing roots, brooks, old rocks, and leaf-carpets of a New England wood unspoiled by logging. We took pictures, feasted with our eyes, breathed deeply of the good air, and I let my soul revel in the beauty of it all. The path ended in a sparkling pond, reflecting crystal clear the trees surrounding it. On our return back, Jeremiah insisted on gathering huge pieces of aspen bark, and I treasure-hunted some for an acorn, a scarlet leaf, a golden leaf, and a wild apple from a wild apple tree (that I took a couple bites of––very sweet and so aesthetically pleasing!). Berklee laid it all out in a beautiful collage atop the aspen bark, and then took very creative, artistic pictures of it.

Lovely! And now I must depart for lunch and concert preparations…

Sunday, October 3, 2010

I had great dreams of waking up early this morning and exercising well and then going on another ramble, but unfortunately exhaustion got the better of me. I finally forced myself out of bed at 7:15, and just had time to get dressed and packed up before breakfast at 8. After breakfast, though, while the men started to load our luggage, I stepped outside and snatched a bit of a walk.

This time, instead of going across the street, I explored the lawn of the house and the neighboring plots. It was beautiful outside. Very cold, the grass still wet and vibrant with dew, the wind fresh and invigorating, and the scenery just wild and unkempt enough to be picturesque. The back yard was very shady, with a hammock slung up between two maple trees, and an old well, built of rough grey rocks covered in ivy. I explored past the rock wall, and found myself in a field, with tall, wet grass, and, at the end of it, a lovely little red barn and house. I walked through an overgrown flower garden at the back of the barn, which had pine trees and pebbles all through it, and then, my socks and shoes very wet with dew, went back down the road to join Jeremiah and Gretchen, who were embarking on a walk down the other direction.

We skipped along the sidewalk till we came to the colonial-styled historical circle, with the Common in the middle, and, surrounding that, a beautiful, white Catholic church with a steeple and bell, a lovely small rock house-turned-library, a one-room courthouse from the 1800s, an old-fashioned general store, and other quaint things.

Once back, all of us decided to go next door to the historical Church of Christ for church that morning, as it would be the one place we'd be sure to receive communion. The building was just lovely. Bright white, with two red doors in the old Puritan fashion of segregation between men and women, and large, Gothic windows. On the left was a whole wall of tall, strong, beautiful trees. Inside, the church was just as beautiful, with all the historical architecture in tact: honey-colored pews, floors, and a great pump-organ and pulpit. Therein we spent an hour in praise and prayer, and partook of the Holy Eucharist.

The service ended, and we loaded up in the cars and headed out to find somewhere for lunch. Rather difficult, as New England boasts mostly diners, but, after much search, we found the most intriguing little place, called Salem Cross Inn. All the decorations were colonial, with penmanship hearkening back to the Declaration of Independence, the room having a roaring fire and old wooden floors and rafters. They had scrumptious pumpkin maple soup and salmon and butternut squash. We celebrated Berklee's birthday, which was a great deal of fun, and then we went by a used bookstore called the Book Bear.

Inside, amidst the aisles and aisles of dusty shelves, I found all sorts of literary delights. Easton Press books, old hardbacks with faded pages, a 24-volume collection of John Ruskin's works, and, most importantly, a pocket-sized, hardback version of George Eliot's Mill on the Floss, which, being only $4.50, I purchased. I cannot wait to start reading it. George Eliot must be my very favorite author. She combines the loveliness of Austen's personality, romance, and domestic liveliness with Dickens' intelligent, intricate plots and strong socio-political and religious principles. Benjamin was bountifully blessed with a rare Sir Walter Scott novel, a rare H. Rider Haggard novel, a beautiful pocket edition of Buchan's Greenmantle, Richardson's Clarissa, and some fantasy classic that's almost impossible to find. I feel some delicious reading in my future!

Now we're winding through the meandering little roads of rural New England for Plymouth, where we will be staying for the week. Till next time…

Monday, October 4, 2010

What a lovely day! The flat where we are staying is so pretty…clean and contained, a little too small, but with honey-wood floors and nice furniture and the most wonderful kitchen. It is so amazing to have plenty of counter space! It is right in the center of historical downtown Plymouth, with cobblestone and quaint shops and bakeries and touristy delights.

This morning we all put on our hoodies and stretch pants and went running. It was beautiful outside. A little overcast, but very windy and actually rather warm. We ran down the street until we came to an actual walking path, which we accessed by running (or falling and slipping, as I did) down a cushiony green hill. There was a beautiful, chattering brook that we followed out to the ocean, which was so wild. Where we are does not have anything of the beachy quality, but is regular land all the way up to the drop off, where you see the delightful old-fashioned tempest, with tossing boats and docks and foaming waves and crying seagulls. We also passed Plymouth Rock, which was quite small, and a historical mill, which had stocks in front that we put ourselves into. Quite horrid! I can't imagine that people used to be punished that way. The discomfort to one's back and legs is bad enough, without the horrid discomfort of having to hold your head up in that position. Ugh. We also passed a log cabin that was built in the 1600s, and several memorials of Plymouth Colony and the soldiers who died in the 'War of 1861', as the memorial called it, and a Jewish synagogue. At the very end of the run, we ran up some old rustic stairs embedded in the green, grassy hill, and into an ancient graveyard that was just wild and ancient enough to be picturesque and thought-provoking.

We returned to a yummy brunch prepared by Mama, and then, after family prayers, I spent the rest of the day reading and resting. Anna Karenina is so very depressing. No wonder the Russians are in such horrid straits. Even back in the Victorian era, when England and America were enjoying a resurrection in good ethics, Russia was wholly degraded. Their attitude towards marriage, children, and home morals is repulsive. And now we see that their culture is one where orphanages are flooded and the average woman has seven abortions. How corrupt. I cannot wait till I finish this book and read Mill on the Floss, with its good, Victorian England morality.

This afternoon we braved the rain for a brisk walk through the downtown, where we found the most amazing health-food store called Common Sense, where we tasted fresh-roasted organic coffee with coconut nectar and carob cakes. Yummy.

We also found a very delightful book store, where the boys found a rare G.K. Chesterton compilation called On Running After One's Hat, and a 5-volume set of Ruskin's On Modern Painters for very cheap. I do wish I could have met Chesterton and Ruskin and Lewis and MacDonald and Belloc and Williams and Morris. The 1800s era did produce such a stellar array of Christian thinkers.

We just had supper, and now are about to watch The Third Man, which is a promising spy-novel movie from the 1950s. Good old iTunes.

Good night!

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

What an utterly sleepy day! Woke up this morning to horrid, drizzling, cold rain, which completely destroyed all motivation. Finally did some exercising and dressed by lunch. Had devotions as a family and by myself. There is so much to pray about, I have to make a point to just pray throughout the day, in order to get everything in. All afternoon I persistently read Anna Karenina, as I am determined to finish it before our Boston sight-seeing day on Thursday. The others asked me to make tea and toast mid-afternoon, and I burnt the toast, which filled this entire tiny apartment with smoke. Very frustrating, to say the least, especially since Benjamin complained that I always burnt everything and that everything I cooked tasted funny. Which is completely not true. I have been doing much better about not cooking funny, and Gretchen is the one who always ends up burning things. So there. It was especially distressing, though, since it was the Belgian sweet toast, which we only had a little of. I redeemed myself by cooking a very good supper of sweet potatoes and scrambled eggs with gouda cheese and asparagus and buttered toast. Afterwards we sat around and talked. The cabin fever has been very persistent, as it has rained all day long. But I made some strong coffee and we all played Scattergories, which at least got our brains exercised. Now to more Anna Karenina…

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Well, desperate to get out of the house this morning, Javier, Gretchen, Jeremiah, and I braved the rain to embark on a brisk walk down to the health-food store, where we purchased tea, and then down to a bakery owned by the same people as the holistic store, where we bought two loaves of fresh honey oatmeal bread and spelt bread. By the time we got back, we were soaked and the paper bags carrying the purchases were falling apart, but our lungs had experienced some lovely expansion, our legs had been stretched, and our spirits were wonderfully lifted.

The rest of the day I worked on completing Anna Karenina. Finally did, and then took a nap to rest my poor mind. What horror. Kitty and Levin's story saves it, but even they are spiritual nincompoops.

We had burritos for supper, and I chopped up jalapeños for it, got a bunch of hot juice on my hands, accidentally touched my face, got it on my tongue, and have been suffering from burning patches on my hands and face ever since. Never again, jalapeños!

After supper, we all ventured down to the Blue Blinds Bakery again, where they were having an open music night, and a couple of us jammed with them. The bakery and health-food store are owned by a group of Christians who call themselves the Twelve Tribes, and who live after the same pattern of the early apostles in Acts 2 and 4. I talked with one of them for almost the entire evening, and she was very sweet and kindred-spirited.

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Sun shone this morning! Had a very yummy breakfast of the gifts of pastries and cinnamon rolls that the Blue Blinds Bakery gave us, and then prayer time, and then reading. Got a bit of restless leg syndrome after lunch, and felt desperately in need of some exercise, but at that moment we all decided to go to Boston and do a bit of sight-seeing, so we loaded up in the car and headed out.

We had a great deal of fun. Daddy performed the most skillful parallel parking job in history with the fifteen-passenger van after much searching. Then we walked through historical Boston, with its cobblestone streets and old-fashioned brick sky-scrapers. We toured Paul Revere's house, which was very interesting. Built in the 1660's, extremely small and impoverished. I could not believe the kitchen. How on earth did anyone cook back then? Especially since he had 16 children between two wives over the course of his life. Of course, since back then male children were apprenticed by 13, and female children married by 15 or 16, there were only five to nine children living in the house at one time. Very interesting.

Afterwards we walked down to the Old North Church, from which the lanterns of warning were shown from the belfry. What a beautiful church. Apparently, back before Boston became urbanized, the belfry tower rose high and away above the rest of the town. Now-a-days, of course, you can't even see the belfry because it's drowned in skyscrapers. Tragical. But the church-house was beautiful. All white inside, with one middle aisle. It was interesting to see the old-fashioned box pews, with the high walls on each side of each pew. Apparently, they were built that way because the church-house was not heated in winter-time, and so the high walls framing the pews kept out drafts. People used to bring hot bricks and hot potatoes to keep themselves warm. Each family bought their own box-pew, and the warmer ones were sold for higher prices. The balcony, which didn't have box-pews, was, apparently, for the poor. Not quite friendly to the stranger…

After the Old North Church, we walked through the graveyard in which Cotton Mather was buried. It was beautiful, and used to be one of the highest points of Boston, from which you could see clearly on all sides. No more, though. The gravestones were faded and crumbling and extremely ancient, all from the 1700s, and engraved with Old English verbiage and spelling, like 'Herein lye Erasmus Worthylake y Elizabeth Worthylake, with issue Ebenezer y Myrtle y Maude y Hezekiah…'.

After the graveyard we were all tired and hungry, so we ate in an old-styled Italian restaurant called Riccardo's Ristorante on Hanover Street, and then came home…

Friday, October 8, 2010

Sunshine again today! How wonderful. This morning we had to do laundry, so, after dressing, Gretchen, Benjamin, and I gathered up all the dirty laundry in trash bags and lugged them down the block to the 'Pilgrim's Washing Well'. It was definitely not as intriguing and beautiful and clean as the name promised it would be. And expensive! Oh my goodness. $2.75 just for one small washer. And then they didn't sell laundry detergent, so Gretchen and I had to track down a convenience store up several blocks, where the detergent was $8 for just a half-gallon. Ridiculous. Finally we got the loads washing, and then we went down to the Blue Blinds Bakery, where we enjoyed some delicious granola and hot coffee and cinnamon rolls while we waited. The people there were so sweet and friendly. It is heartwarming just being in their store.

Once the laundry was done, we returned to the apartment, packed up our stuff, and left. And so ended our time in historic Plymouth. The rest of the day we have spent driving. We enjoyed getting to eat lunch in Dartmouth, where the very best fish-and-chips in the country resides (or so Scott says). Then for supper we stopped in Lyme, Connecticut, at a little place called Pizza Cucina, which has the very most delicious, ethnic Italian pizza. And now we are driving towards the ocean horizon, and I am going to take the advantage of moonlight and an empty van seat to go to sleep.

Good night.

Milly's Hay Adventure

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Milly Rose who liked playing inside more than she liked playing outside. Her imagination seemed to run better when playing with her plastic kitchen set inside, than when she tried to create an alternate reality for herself between the evergreen trees and the fencepost outside.

So the days would go by, with the little girl very rarely venturing out into the sunshine, except to play with her doll on a picnic blanket under the maple tree, or jump on the trampoline in the windy sunlight. Then, just as the summer had reached its very hottest, the little girl, with her many brothers and sisters and Mama and Daddy, loaded up in a long white van to drive down through Memphis, and Little Rock, and Mena, to get to Grandma Jane's and Grandpa Riley's house.

They lived in the country. They didn't even have wireless internet, or fast computers, or nintendo, or cable TV, or any movies except old Westerns and black-and-white romances. They did have the church-house where Grandpa Riley preached right down the dirt road. They had horses and saddles, guns and bows-and-arrows, a swimming hole down in Cow Creek and pasture-lands with the promise of mad bulls and ticks. They had woods that were haunted by Bigfoot and wild boar and armadillo, and a log cabin where Aunt Sherry would make them chocolate milk. All the cousins lived down there, too. They loved the outdoors. The little girl who liked to the relaxation of the indoors was amazed by their tanned skin, wiry muscles, and great athletic abilities. They could outrun her in a flash. They could saddle up a horse by themselves, and even gallop bare-back. They could ride the bucking mule named John. And they could all drive the standard transmission pickup truck, even though they were all not even in their teens yet.

They were also very good at outsmarting Milly and her little sister, Gretchen. The cousins, Sara, who had feisty brown eyes and a flashing white grin, David-Riley, whose wiry physique boasted the fastest runner of the lot, and Milly's older brother, Benjamin, who was a pale, slight boy with a giant, brainy imagination, could read and spell, whereas Milly was still learning. They would give secret messages to each other in front of Milly by strange codes, like 'Let's go play at the C-H-U-R-C-H', and then they would run off so quickly that they soon lost Milly. She would huff and puff after them, her plump little face growing beet-red, her little lungs becoming hyper-active. Soon she would be forced to sit down beside the dirt road and try to parse out what C-H-U-R-C-H could possibly mean, since she couldn't keep up with them. Once she had found from her older siblings Annie and Alex that C-H makes a certain sound, and that 'church' was the only word that had that sound on either end, Benjamin had the bright idea to start spelling foreign translations of the word, like K-I-R-K. And that completely lost her.

Milly was a smart little girl, however, and she told Mama about it. Mama, her hazel eyes sparkling and her pretty pink mouth twitching with suppressed laughter, scolded Benjamin and Sara and David-Riley. Milly felt a little guilty for being a tattle-tell when she saw how sorry they all looked, even though Mama had always said that tattle-telling was a good thing.

So the cousins and Benjamin began to take Milly and Gretchen along with them to play. The little baby, Jeremiah, who was just starting to leave Mama's arms to toddle around, was still too young to join in.

The children's favorite haunt was the old barn on the Chattam place. It was cluttered with old boxes full of antiques and fiddleback spiders, rusted tin barrels of oats for the horses, leathery-smelling bridles and saddles, and, most importantly, an utterly mountainous construction of hay bales reaching all the way up to the peaked roof. The cousins would easily hop onto an old trailer hitch and tumble up onto the hay bales, stacked seven feet deep, and then they would laugh as Milly and Gretchen tried many times to jump up only to slide right back down. Finally, though, they helped them up.

Then the festivities began. The hay bales, squishy and sweet-smelling under their feet, had all sorts of pathways, hiding places, and precarious holes from where the tractor had pulled hay down to feed the cows and horses and the bales had fallen. The children loved to play tag up there. Milly, who could not run fast, and had a tendency to get the giggles so hard she was incapacitated, found that hiding was much more effective than running away, and so she would creep around corners and duck under bales while the rest had dashing races around the hay palace, catapulting over the holes in the hay as they ran.

But such tactics could not last long, especially once David-Riley found out about them, and, next time David-Riley got tagged It, Milly found herself huffing and puffing, running for her life, and falling down in terror as David-Riley leaped gracefully up to tag her. The bell of doom had tolled. She was It, and she knew in her heart-of-hearts that she would never be able to tag David-Riley, Sara, Benjamin, or even Gretchen. Especially since she was mortally afraid of stepping on one of the cracks in the hay bales and slipping down into the mouldy grey tempests beneath.

Milly's mama was a very good and attentive mama, and had read her all the old fairy tales like Little Red Riding Hood, The Three Little Bears, and The Boy Who Cried Wolf, but Milly was unfortunately not so good and attentive. She, though she had heard about the boy who cried wolf, and knew what happened to him, did not heed the moral of the story. Knowing that in order to not be It until the end of the game, she would have to outsmart everyone else. She therefore decided that, once everyone had run off and hid, she would scream and wail that she had fallen down into the hay. The first time she started fake crying and yelling 'Help! Help!' Sara, David-Riley, Ben, and Gretchen all came flying out of their hiding places. Milly made mad dashes toward them, but even after the trickery she could not tag them.

They scoffed at Milly's fakery as they ran away, leaving her out of breath and at a loss behind them. She waited a little while, and then she again started wailing and crying, 'Help! Help! I've fallen down in the hay!' The other children ran to help her, and, as they came into sight, Milly again dashed off after the closest, trying to tag somebody. They easily outran her, but she kept on puffing and huffing after them, running around and around on the prickly hay bales.

Then she fell. Down, down into the hay bales she slipped. She saw the golden-grey hay close over her head. She felt one foot touch the hay bale beneath and the other foot slip down even deeper.

She screamed.

She wailed.

She cried.

But neither Sara nor David-Riley nor Benjamin nor Gretchen would believe her. Then she wept, and the other children, realizing that she was not joking this time, ran to her assistance.

Milly was terrified. Mama and Grandpa Riley had told her how snakes liked to live in the hay bales, and how one must be very careful in the barn because of the fiddleback spiders and black widows that made their home there. The sunlight seemed very far above her, and silhouetted against that light were the worried faces of the other children, staring down into Milly's misfortune.

Milly cried and cried, and reached up her hands to be pulled out, but none of the other children were strong enough to pull her out. She felt as if she could not breathe, and suddenly, added to her terror of creepy-crawly things was the fear that she might suffocate down there packed in the hay bales. Her legs gave way under her, and she sank down upon her knees, tears blinding her eyes, her long brown hair tangled up in the hay.

The children couldn't manage to get her out, and so Milly started yelling, 'Go get Alex! Go get Alex! Please, go get Alex!' Alex was Milly's older brother, who, at the very old age of thirteen, had started lifting weights and, in Milly's seven-year-old mind, could accomplish anything.

Sara thought that was the best idea, and, jumping nimbly off the hay bales, took a dashing Tom Sawyer run for the log cabin, where Alex and Annie and the grown-up cousins were playing board games. Meanwhile David-Riley, always finding the humor in the situation, started trying to persuade Gretchen that it was really fun down in the midst of the hay bales. It was like a different universe, he said. Milly, her blue eyes spouting fire and tears as she glared up at them, very vehemently told Gretchen to not listen to him.

And then Benjamin announced that Alex was coming, running behind Sara, and in five minutes he had leapt up onto the hay bales, taken Milly's soft, pale little hands, and had pulled her out of her golden-grey grave. Alex, trying not to laugh, told her that she was perfectly all right and that it really was not worth all those tears. Milly did not believe him, for he had not experienced it. But she dried her tears by and by, and then, with slow dignity, walked to the log cabin, her hair covered in hay and her little eyebrows red. She had experienced her first trauma, and had come through determined never to play trickery again.

The Feast of Shelters

Yahweh ordered His Chosen People to observe certain fasts and feasts. One of the latter was called the Feast of Shelters, and in it, the Jews would pack up and go live in tents for a week at the river-side, feasting and praising God for the harvest of olives and grapes. This Labor Day weekend, my siblings and friends and I were blessed to experience a camping trip that in many ways resembled the holy-day of antiquity.

After spending a day of packing, we all loaded up to drive three hours down winding mountain roads to the Ocoee River. The weather promised warmth as the mountainous beauty on our left and the sparkling blue of the river on our right delighted us. We stopped at the Thunder Rock camping site, where we built our temporary home in the midst of the beautiful hilly terrain. After we were settled in, we all embarked on a hike through the Smoky Mountains. The splendor of our surroundings amazed us, proclaiming the beauty of God inherent in His creative Fiat. The trees clapped their hands in praise of Him. The rocks cried out with joy at His goodness.

We wound our way through the sylvan scenery, climbing a steep trail of rustic dirt, wild stone steps, naturally-occurring bridges, and fallen tree trunks. Throughout we skirted the cliff to our left, while to our right the mountain wall guided us. As we trudged through the beautiful greens and browns, we morphed into Arwen and Eowyn and Legolas and Aragorn, traveling through the woods outside the Shire, finding large mushrooms and oak leaves and healing barks.

Once back at camp, I had the opportunity to reminisce on Laura Ingalls Wilder as I experienced the joys and sorrows of frying potatoes, grilling chicken, and steaming squash over an open fire. Then eating the food out-of-doors. Then walking a ways to the hand pump to wash the dishes and lay them out to dry on a rock. I must admit I enjoyed every minute of it.

The next morning we went rafting down the Ocoee River, in gear and a raft that was much safer and more convenient than the raft Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer got to use. It was lovely. Our guide was very pleasant, and the weather perfect. The blue sky, the silver water, the green foliage and mountains on either side, the grey rocks, the white foam, the warm golden sun. The energy and vitality inherent in the fast flow, the rowing, the spraying, the splashing, the swimming, the near-capsizing experiences. As we wound to the end our guide allowed us to jump in the water and float, with careful instructions to get out before we got to the rapids. I didn't understand quite rightly, and was floating quite carefree along when suddenly I realized I would lack the strength to swim against the current and into the dock. So I struggled to the bank, grabbed a tree branch, and dragged myself onto the rocks before the current washed me away. Needless to say, it was a great deal of fun.

We came back, and sat by the smoldering ashes all afternoon, talking, resting, sleeping. When the sun had crept below the trees, we stirred from our nests for another scrumptious feast, and then a beautiful time gathered around a roaring campfire. Two mandolins and a guitar accompanied our voices as we sang hymns, and then listened to the instruments make their own music. The twilight sank deeper around us. The fire burnt orange in the lavender dusk. When the sun had quite sunk and our supper was settled comfortably, a couple of us took the lantern across the way to our pantry (or the trunk of the car), where we retrieved our s'more ingredients. The boys carved sticks for everyone, and soon we were all seated in our chairs, concentrating on the precarious pastime of roasting marshmallows to a place of perfection without catching them on fire or letting them fall off the stick. And then, oh, the sweetness of that golden marshmallow combined with chocolate-almond spread, melted dark chocolate, and graham crackers! Delicious.

The next morning we all awoke chilled to the bone. We groggily moved around the camp-fire, bundled up in our hoodies and fuzzy socks, rekindling the fires and getting breakfast started. The sun came out from the horizon, melting the chilled dew from the grass, imbuing our pale, cold selves with golden warmth. The fire began to blaze, the potatoes and french toast sizzled in the cast-iron skillets. We became warm and vivacious as we gathered around the picnic table for the last feast of our delightful weekend. It was good.

Afterwards we took our seats around the campfire for a time of prayer, scriptural study, praise, and observance of the Eucharist. As we partook of the Body and Blood of Jesus, the Holy Spirit felt so closely present in the rustic beauty of that mountain forest. Afterwards we remembered afresh the power of the love and fellowship that only Christ can give as we all worked to pack up our sleeping bags, tents, kitchen, and other various and sundry items. The lovely homeliness of our temporary home slowly crept back into the boxes and bins in the back of the van and the pickup truck.

But before we could drive away, we all felt that we must have one more ramble in the loveliness of the wilderness. So, little brother led us down the dirt road to his favorite rock-climbing spot. He climbed up the mossy, rocky steep, and then we all climbed up beside him. The ascent was fairly easy and very fun, but the descent was quite a different picture. After hanging on for dear life to a tree trunk, a root, and then having exhausted every foothold, I had to consent to sit on older brother's shoulder and be carried in order to reach the ground quite safely.

After this adventure, we ran, skipped, and then attempted to click our heels on our way back down the dirt road. To end our celebration, we spent a lovely half-hour on the river-shore, sitting on the very edge of the rocks, folding our pant-legs up, and plunging our feet into the rushing waves. What bliss and splendor we found in the warmth of the rocks, the cold fury of the water, the fresh breeze, and the invigorating sun. We felt how truly wonder-full is Elohim's creation. And yet this beauty we see only as through a looking-glass darkly. Let us look forward to the time when we shall see clearly, face-to-face, the Beautiful Imagination of the God who is Love.

And thus our Feast of Shelters came to a lovely conclusion.

The Little Brick House

Once upon a time there was a little brick house with green shutters and a red door. A family lived in the little brick house. It was a large family, with many children who were almost grown up. They were very busy, and often left in a long white van for many days at a time. The little brick house with the green shutters and the red door grew lonely. Its rooms stood empty for hours and hours, and they missed the sound of laughter, the buzz of talking, the sweet soaring of musical instruments, and the sense of comfortable satisfaction the walls and ceilings felt when they were sheltering the family.

One day the family of mostly grown-ups left, and didn't return for a very, very long time. The sun rose, the sun set, and rose again, and set again. Rain blew upon the house, but no young girl cooked chili and cornbread in the kitchen with the flowered wallpaper. The leaves of the trees surrounding the house grew gold, and then brown, and then they drifted to the grass, but the glass windows saw no little boy playing in the leaves. The first snow fell sweetly upon the little brick house, but the den with the black-and-white pictures heard no mama ask the papa to build the first fire of the season on the little brick hearth. The first spring buds crept from the plum tree outside, but no young girl went outside to smell the blossoms.

The sunroom especially grew lonely, for the sunroom had wooden siding instead of brick, and often felt left out from the other rooms in the little brick house. Too, though the sun continued to shine in through its many windows every day, there was no papa to come into work early every morning and drink hot coffee from the pewter mug. The wooden siding on the outside drooped and became soggy from sadness. The eaves hung lower to the ground, and wasps died in the windowsills.

Then, one day, the sunroom was shaken out of its sadness by a pecking. The pecking rang sharp and clear in the early spring stillness. It hammered evenly and crisply on the planks. It tickled the sunroom, and, as the windows looked down, the house saw that it was a bird. The bird worked hard night and day, pecking away at the sunroom's siding, trying to make a home for his mama bird to nest and lay her eggs in. Soon a hole appeared in the siding, and the papa bird and mama bird flew to the hole almost every day, bringing twigs and paper and pebbles and things to build their home with. The sunroom became happy again. The walls grew interested in the little nest between the siding and the drywall. Once the birds built their nest, they pecked at the wires inside the walls to decorate with the colorful plastic. The wires became hot and their warmth heated the little space. Soon little blue eggs lay in the nest, and then the blue eggs cracked and little baby birds peeped their heads out. Now the mama and papa birds worked even harder every day, flying out of their little home before dawn to search the ground for worms to feed their nestlings with.

The birds, as they flew, tweeted their sweet songs. When they perched for a rest in the communal birdhouse in the backyard they sung with the other birds. They sang about their lovely nest with their fair fledglings inside and about how warm and cosy were the colorful wires around the nest. The other birds were jealous of the house-birds, and began to fly around the little brick house more and more, looking for a place to build a nest.

One bird family found a hole in the side of the brick that was covered with a tin flap. They squeezed underneath the flap and found a long tunnel which gleamed silver in the sunlight, and was lined with fuzzy lint of different colors. The birds loved the warm prettiness of it, and built a nest there. The laundry room, which felt cold and unhappy because for a long time its walls had not seen a young girl come in to fold the clean, fresh-smelling clothes or sort colors, grew warm and happy with the birds fluttering inside its walls.

The squirrels, who loved to climb to the top of the trees and eat walnuts and plums in the heat of the sun, saw how joyful the little brick house with the green shutters and the red door was to have so many little friends inside of it. They chirped about it with their friends the mice, and the mice, who had long been battling with a mole and a rabbit over who was to live in the backyard, burrowed their way under the house to keep from fighting any more. The walls of the cold, lonely house were now quite warm from mice scurrying up and down, building their roosts and having many new baby mice. The pantry, which hadn't been opened by a young boy looking for crackers in so long, now saw mice scurrying on its shelves to gather food, and the drawers in the kitchen with the flowered wallpaper were soon poked open again by little mouse paws and little mouse snouts.

The mice and birds were so happy in their newfound home that they peeped and tweeted very loudly about it, and the termites outside in the very old apple tree heard them. They learned about how the house was full of friendly neighbors who didn't eat them, how there was a great deal of wood to eat, and how there were no two-legged giants inside to harm them with deathly poisons. So the termite colony chewed its way into the garage, which was full of wooden furniture and wooden planks. They grew fat and jolly from feasting, and they boasted to their friends the ants about their happy fate.

The ants, hearing about how heavenly the little brick house with the green shutters and the red door was, left their ant hills and pilgrimaged to the no-longer lonely house to live with the mice, the birds, and the termites. They found feasts of raisins and rice in the pantry, crumbs in the dining room, and spices in the cabinets. They climbed up and down the flowered wallpaper and lived in harmony and comfort, safe from all spring rainstorms.

The little brick house with the red door and the green shutters was happy and full now. The walls loved the mice, with their loud scurrying and their many little ones; the kitchen basked in the loveliness of seeing creatures eat inside it again; the garage liked to see the tiny termites chewing so ravenously on the old furniture; and the laundry room and the sun-room walls were the happiest of all with the sweet birds singing songs to them early every morning.

One day the long white van pulled into the driveway, and the large family with the mostly grown-up children stepped onto the long grass. They opened the red door and exclaimed with happiness at how they had missed their little brick house so much. They were sorry for how cold and stale the air felt in the rooms, and clucked their tongues over the dust on the bookshelves. The walls of the house were very happy to see them, though they had found so many other friends.

The family went to bed early that night, as they were all very tired, but promised to clean the house very well tomorrow morning and get back into their regular home routine as quickly as possible. The next morning, just as the birds in the sunroom walls were feeding their hungry babies, they all awoke and began to get the little brick house homey again. The papa was the first to get to work. He came into the sunroom and sat down at his desk to sip hot coffee from the pewter mug and play songs on his piano. But then the walls saw him wrinkle his brow and cock his ear toward the wall as the sounds of fluttering wings hit against the drywall. The papa stepped outside and groaned and rubbed his head when he saw the hole in the siding and the papa and mama bird feeding worms to their nestlings.

The basement stairs were rudely jarred as the oldest grown-up child came running up them, shock in her large green eyes. The walls heard her exclaim to the mama about how she had nightmares all night about mice scurrying around in her bedroom walls, and then, lo and behold, in the morning there were noises of animals running in the walls. The mama looked very puzzled. Another young girl, looking in the kitchen cabinets for the oats to make the morning's porridge, shouted out and spilled the cereals because she saw ants scurrying inside the oat box. The mama came in, looked grievously at the ants, and moaned over the little mice pills which she saw in the rice and the drawers.

The laundry room that morning looked in, too, upon another young girl in great distress, for, after sorting a mountain's worth of colored clothes, she turned on the dryer, and heard birds screaming and fluttering their wings inside the dryer tunnel. She gasped and shut off the dryer as quick as she could, and hoped she had not scorched the poor little birds. She did not know what to do, and so she came to tell the papa about it, and then she and the papa together went and talked with the mama and the other two young girls about the mice, the birds, and the ants. As the large family with the three daughters discussed together, one of the older young boys came upstairs with a worried look on his face, for he had seen termite marks in the garage.

The walls of the very full, happy house saw the despair on the faces of the large family with the mostly grown-up children, and the home felt sad that the family they loved so much couldn't live in peace with the ants, the termites, the mice, and the birds. They hoped, though, that perhaps one day the family would realize how peaceable the animals were, and grow to love them as the little brick house with the green shutters and the red door loved them.

Finé

Fairest Lord Jesus

Fairest Lord Jesus, ruler of all nature,

O thou of God and man the Son,

Thee will I cherish, Thee will I honor

Thou, my soul's glory, joy, and crown.

Dusk spread its silky fingers over the horizon as we drove through Clover Meade. It had been a long day: sitting in a car, reading Jane Austen, and listening to Bach fugues over the speakers as we drove up the continent to our homeland. The day was glorious. A blue sky and a golden sun graced our eyes with their beauty as a cheerful, fresh wind breathed Spring into our lungs.

It seems fitting that the Savior, who is Life, should have been resurrected in a time that such Resurrection takes place. The new birth of all around us thrilled through our veins, though we were only passive observers of the growth. Perhaps the best way to come into fellowship with that same renewal is through the spiritual camaraderie of our own Soul's newness in Jeshua.

The beauty of the season and the soul pervading the season filled my heart, and, when the car finally came to a stop in front of my home, I lost little time in running up to my bedroom, replacing my travel-weary clothes for a fresh eyelet skirt and sky-blue shirt, and, my feet bare-shod, I tripped down the back staircase and out into the loveliness of the evening.

Fair are the meadows, fairer still the woodlands,

Robed in the blooming garb of spring:

Jesus is fairer, Jesus is purer

Who makes the woeful heart to sing.

The Chinook had been busy while I was absent. It had sprinkled away the plum blossoms on the Tree of Life and the pear blossoms on Lady Cordelia––as I had christened them in a blissfully Emily of New Moon phase––and onto the lush green clover, intertwining pure white petals with the lavender violets and yellow sunflowers that carpeted the damp, warm earth. Old William and Lady Dawn, the apple trees, seemed a bit belated in the growth of their canopy of green leaves, but close inspection boasted little buds just breaking forth from their wooden cocoon. Squirrels scurried through the tree branches, watching with eager eyes for the fruit that was soon to appear to make their supper. Red-breasted robins chirped their cheerful chorus from their newly built nests, while brilliant bluejays hopped along the grass, looking for the earthworms that were just burrowing up to the warm sunlight from their winter haven in the depths of the ground.

I walked down the hill, inhaling the sweetly-scented breeze as it blew all worldly cares from my eyes and mind, and sang Fairest Lord Jesus as I surveyed the beauty of His creation. I marveled at the knowledge that Jesus is, truly, fairer and purer than the wonder-full fairness of purity I saw all around me.

Fair is the sunshine, fairer still the moonlight,

And all the twinkling starry host:

Jesus shines brighter, Jesus shines purer

Than all the angels heaven can boast.

I directed my steps to the peach tree sapling, which, just planted last year, and rather neglected by its stewards, is struggling to obey God's commandment to bear fruit. It looked beautiful in the setting sun, just sprouting its first emerald leaves and pink flowers, from her slender ivory branches. I prayed that God might make her bear good fruit, and, after a little thought over what name would encapsulate her beauty, called the tree Cherith, in the old tradition of Adam.

The sun dipped below the hills as the moon grew clearer in the periwinkle heavens. I lay on the grass for a few minutes, letting the warmth of Spring seep into my bones. After praying to the Lord of the dance of creation, I made my way back up the sloping lawn and into the house, praising the Rose of Sharon for the Beauty birthed of His Holiness (Psalm 29:2 KJV)

Beautiful Savior! Lord of all the nations!

Son of God and Son of Man!

Glory and honor, praise, adoration,

Now and forevermore be thine.

Hymn by Munster Gesangbuch

A Maritime Adventure: Day Four

I awoke early to the silence of a warm Sabbath morning out at sea.  The boat was on the move again, retracing the ocean path that we had sketched out over the formless deep, and every hour the tropic conditions seemed to grow colder.  I dressed quickly in my Sunday best, and then awoke Daddy, as he had wanted to see the sunrise.

We walked up to the next-to-highest deck, where we stood against the railing along with several other viewers, and looked out at the sea.  It was rather early, but the sky itself was breathtaking, with its periwinkle timbre and innate peacefulness.  Somehow seeing that much sky makes one feel small and insignificant, even while it fills you with inward quiet.  Be still, and know that I am God.  There is no better place to be still then in the magic of the wind and the salt-water and the sky all melding together into the majestic union of God's creation.  As we watched, the sun began to shine its crimson glory into the pearly clouds of the East, building up slowly to the climax when the tip of its fiery arc appeared over the earth and seemed to race past the shimmering horizon and into the great blue heavens.  Beautiful.

When the sun was completely risen Daddy and I returned to the comparatively dark and musty inner rooms, and joined the others in preparing for the church services.  Arriving at eight o'clock in the belly of the boat, we sound-checked and had a very enjoyable time chatting with David Nasser, the speaker of the morning.  He told us a little bit about his life as a refugee from Iran, and the amazing occurrences of his escape from that country.  I was personally quite dumb-founded by the very swash-buckling nature of it all.  Such miracles and adventure and peril are quite unheard of in our extremely blessed, free nation, and when tidings of the oppression and terrific events in the rest of the world always comes as a shock.

The services were so very blessed by God's spirit, and we all felt a quickening as we sang the profound lyrics of the old hymns and psalms and heard David Nasser's penetrating message on contentment and the gospel.  He shared the story behind the writer of the hymn, 'It Is Well With My Soul'.  Horatio Spafford experienced two major traumas in quick succession, one, the Chicago fire of the Autumn of 1871, in which he was ruined financially, and then, shortly thereafter, his four daughters were killed in a shipwreck out to sea.  His wife, Anna, was the lone survivor, and sent him a telegram with the two words, "Saved alone."  Spafford retraced the sea passage to the place where his daughters had drowned, and there, facing the seeming ruin of everything that he had built and held dear in his life, he wrote the deep-seated sapience of those amazing verses.

When peace like a river, attendeth my way,

When sorrows like sea billows roll;

Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,

It is well, it is well, with my soul.

That evening, we all gathered together on the deck of the ship to watch the last sunset of our journey across the ocean.  The sun had accrued power in his day's work, and burnt fervently in the golden dusk of the sky.  We all shielded our sensitive eyes as it slowly dropped toward the glassy mirror below it.  I wondered if, before that fatal bite at the dawn of time, our bodies would have been powerful enough to take the light of a sun ten times the brilliance I saw.  I looked down into the sea to ease the strain in my ocular engines, and wondered if there were mermen and selkies beneath me looking up at the same sunset, and arming their underwater kingdoms to guard against the sea-monsters that pervade that midnight murkiness.  I often wonder what makes us so sure of ourselves as to trump the beliefs of the millions of intelligent, sane human beings who lived before us, and decide to discredit their records.  You must think that if bald eagles, giant pandas, and the tigers of Asia are all going extinct in our generation, how many creatures have gone extinct in the course of the seventeen thousand years in the journey of this world?  Such things are easy to muse about surrounded by the resplendence of God's creativity.

And that's the end of my maritime adventure!  I hope you've enjoyed it!

A Maritime Adventure: Day Three

God delights in routine.  The sunrise happens every morning not because God ran out of ideas, but because the sun so glories in its rising that he does it again and again, as a child never tires of seeing something especially interesting done once more.  Therefore, this morning, I did almost the exact same thing that I had done the previous morning.  After a nourishing devotional time on our room's deck, staring off into the great black of the sea, I ran against the wind on the second-to-top deck outside, and then I carried an exercise mat outside and did refreshing Pilates exercises in the salty breeze.  Very aesthetically pleasing, I must say.  We all dressed in our most island-ish clothes, all us girls trying to compete for the most Grace Kelly outfit, and, when finished, we leaned out of our cabin to watch as the little English province came into view.  

 

Grand Turk Island.  It was very small, and almost wholly destroyed by Hurricane Ike, but my heart palpitated with expectation as I realized that I was stepping for the first time on foreign soil.  How many times I've read the phrase in books I know not, but there is something so romantic about seeing the world!  Secretly I made plans to drag somebody on a mad exploring expedition through the sand-hills and wild palm trees.  I've always prided myself on being practical.

Once the boat docked, we made our way through the three thousand people trying to get off at the same time, and walked out onto the great concrete walkway bridging the waters to the beach.  It was very hot, and I donned my sunglasses and a light cotton shawl to protect my very sensitive Irish skin and eyes from the tropical glare of the sun.  Once on dry land, we fought our dizziness (especially bad when standing on tile or any other very flat surface) and the instinct to stand with our feet wide apart for more effective balancing.  We younger kids stopped at a fresh fruit smoothie shop, where a beautiful, strong-boned woman with a dark, rich complexion and a lovely accent served us drinks made of mango and papaya and coconut and other island fruits.  I was afraid I looked very tourist-y to her, but hey, you don't get to be a tourist every day!  :)

Gretchen and I departed from the rest of our group to tour the jewelry shops, and soon had found some beautiful, native presents and shell-and-fresh-water-pearl earrings for ourselves and some others, and, having made our purchases, we all made our way to the beach.  I had never before seen such a lovely beach.  The sand was very clean and white, the water a glittering blue so clear one could see to the ocean floor even when one couldn't touch.  We all ate a splendid luncheon while chatting with other newly-made acquaintances, and then, donning our bathing suits, rushed into the waters.  Or rather, approached the salty expanse warily, stuck a toe into the very edge, and jumped back screaming because it was so cold!  Somehow the heat of the day didn't affect the ocean very readily.  Jeremiah and his friends, in the natural childhood immunity, were already soaking wet and playing out in the water, but we adults were having a rather painful time of it.  Finally, seeing Annie, Scott, and Gretchen brave the frigid deep, I forced myself to plunge under the still liquid and came up shivering and gasping for air.  

We all swam a bit, trying to get our blood pumping enough to warm us, but I could not get warm.  Salt-water got into my eyes, making them sting, and, when nobody could think of anything to do, I decided I had had enough of the tropics (I know, I know, quite contemptible, I must say!) and left the beach with Mama and Daddy.  We had a very pleasant walk and shop-sifting, but unfortunately the island wasn't much to explore, being mostly wreckage from the hurricane, and my parents are rather too old for exploring, and so soon I was carried back off to the boat.  Daddy and I got some frozen yogurt cones and sat and looked out at the ocean from the boat and had a splendid time, however.

In an hour or so everyone returned, with stories about what they had seen while snorkling, and, after another very delectable supper and melting chocolate cake to aid us in gaining those healthy constitutions and rosy cheeks that Grandma loves so much in her grandchildren, we all played a game of Scrabble and had a wonderful time.  I won the game, because of the word WINDLOG down over a couple triple word and double letter scores.  Unfortunately for the rest of the players, nobody realized till afterward that windlog should be hyphenated…including me!  I proclaim my innocence!  :)

Once it was dark we all journeyed down a back path to the very front of the boat, where there was a deck that no one knew about.  There were no lights on, and so we stood out on the very brink of the ship, the wind so forceful it was difficult to stand upright, our hair blowing itself into tangles, and our eyes gazing in rapture at the constellations above us.  I had never seen so many stars.  Planets and comets and formations and clusters, all dancing and burning in the great black deep above, which mirrored the great black deep below.  The wind strummed the wires stretching above us in the mast, creating a dissonant and mysteriously beautiful hum that increased into a shrill scream as the wind increased, and ran back down the scale to a throaty tone when the wind softened.  Our friend Jill said she had heard of a cruise where a woman murdered her husband by pushing him off the side of the boat in the dark.  A chill quivered down my spine, and my eyes moved from the stars above to the murky waves below, and imagined the cold impact and the slither of sharks against my ankles.  

Soon afterwards we all went back inside to electric warmth and fluorescent lights, all of us feeling rather creepy…especially after Jill's husband, David, told us all he had seen another person out there with us––a shadowy woman with long black tresses and empty eyes that stared into the infinite sea and sky, her whole being yearning for the peace that would not come till she was avenged…  Thankfully I'm not Nancy Drew.  Wouldn't you hate to be a person who seems to get picked to solve all the world's mysteries?  :) 

And that's day three of our maritime adventure!

A Maritime Adventure; Day Two

I awoke in the dark of the early morning with an eery feeling at my heart after a frightening dream of a mystery where I was forced unwillingly into the role of a heroine.  My eyes became used to the darkness and the silver light of the cold moon sifting through the window pane.  My ears hearkened to the lapping of the waves against the boat, cradling my senses in the warmth and safety of the bedclothes.  Just on the brink of dozing off once more, I jolted myself awake by throwing off the sheets and, pulling on my robe for warmth, I took my Bible and a reading light and stepped out on deck.

Lifting my face to the softness in the sky, I felt the wind kiss me as it blew by.  The heavens were periwinkle and grey, mundane and beautiful, and the sun had not yet risen over the expanse of the dark, quiet sea.

Opening my Bible, I sat down in a chair and devoted myself to reading and prayer.  Once finished and my soul refreshed, I stepped back inside and shook my younger sister awake.

"Gretchen!  Gretchen!  You've got to get up!"

Gretchen moans.

"Come on, Gretchen!  You know Daddy won't let me go exercise alone!"

"Get one of the boys to go with you," she says, turning her face toward the wall.

"You know they won't come!  They're probably all still asleep.  Come on, don't be selfish!"

Gretchen's better half prevailed, and, grumbling to herself, she got out of bed and we both pulled on our tennis shoes and sweats and went out into the hall.  We felt our adrenaline start pumping as we took the stairs two at a time and ran out of the glass doors into the dance of the ocean wind.  It blew my hair into my face, and I struggled to get my hoodie over my head and tie it firmly beneath my chin.

The boat was quiet under the quickly-fading stars, and the only sound to be heard was the breeze whistling in the ropes overhead and the waves rushing by.  Gretchen and I climbed up to the lap deck, and began running around the lap, letting the wind blow vigor into us.  We conquered one lap.

"Stop!  Stop!"  Gretchen said, puffing and huffing heavily.  "I can't go on.  It's too hard."

I impatiently jogged in place.  "You are ridiculous.  Don't be a sissy-pate!"

"I'm serious.  I'm not used to this sort of thing!"

An extremely fit army soldier passed us running at a very steady and altogether marvelous pace, and yelled over his shoulder, "Run eight minutes, walk two minutes––that's the way to do it!"

We smiled, and I turned back to Gretchen.  "Just keep on going.  You'll get used to it."

So Gretchen and I ran on, I reveling in the dark expanse of sea all around me, and wondered what sunken kingdoms we were sailing over.

Halfway through the lap.

"Stop!  Camille, I really can't go on.  My throat is burning from this wind.  I'll go sit on deck and read my Bible till you're done.  Go ahead without me.  Really."  She hobbled way, slightly doubled over and panting.  

I continued to run.  As time went by and six thirty struck other exercise buffs came to the lap deck and began to jog.  We formed left and right traffic lanes, and I enjoyed the fellowship even as I wondered at the great speed of the genuine runners, running two laps to every one of mine.

About six forty-five I turned the corner and was awe-inspired by the appearance of a glorious sun rising over the still horizon of the waters.  I wondered, as I ran round and round and came upon the miracle again and again, at the thought that the same sun I looked upon was the sun that Adam and Eve had looked upon, that had risen over Abraham on his journey to Canaan, which David wrote about in his poetry, and Jesus saw when He lifted His eyes to the Heavenlies to pray.  I marveled at its brightness, and how it alone warmed our entire planet and gave us light to see by, gave us the beauty and colors that decorate the earth so splendidly.  All from the golden disc hung in the blue sky.

At three miles I joined Gretchen, Annie, and Scott on the lower deck, where they had been observing the sunrise as well, and within an hour we had all dressed and met the family in the restaurant below deck for a yummy breakfast.  

After breakfast, Alex, Benjamin, Gretchen, and I went back on deck in the hot late-morning sun, with the wind blowing knots in my hair and no hair-band to constrain it.  Our friend David showed us how to play the shuffle-board game chalked on the boards, and soon Gretchen and I were pleasantly observing the boys trying to scoot the disc from one goal to the other.  I remembered pictures of Grace Kelly playing this very game, and wished I had a chiffon scarf, glossy sunglasses, and red lips like she did.  

Gretchen and I took turns with it for a while, but, as our frail, feminine muscles couldn't quite manage to scoot the disc more than two feet, the boys soon gave us leave to step forward a great deal from the line, so that we could actually score something.  Gretchen and Benjamin won, unfortunately, as Alex's muscles were too much for the poor disc, which generally shot completely away from the goal and off into the outfields.  

Once we were finished, we went up on top deck, where there was a put-put ring and several children playing in the turf.  The wind majestically tore at us, making Gretchen and I hold on to our shawls lest they go flying off to smother some poor fish in the wide ocean.  The deck was decorated in ship-wreck garb (yes, quite what one would like to dwell on in one's first cross-ocean experience), and Gretchen and I took turns struggling against the wind onto a false ship bow, letting our shawls float behind us, and crying, "I'm the queen of the world!"  Unfortunately the wind got a bit angry at this complacency, and, after almost keeling backwards in its wrathful force, Gretchen and I desisted.

After lunch the whole band gathered in the very belly of the ship, where our performance that night was to be held, and had our soundcheck.  The sound-people were very helpful in our slight seasickness, as the stage lurched so much that my harp kept on falling away from my shoulder and I could hardly keep my eyes on the right strings as my hands searched for the ever-moving strings to pluck.  Benjamin was forced to replace his uneven stool for an even one, because it rocked back and forth so much.  Annie, Alex, and Gretchen had some very serious concerns as to jumping while playing, lest the floorboards drift away from them.  

We partook of a delicious, gourmet supper, and then all dressed for the concert.  Gretchen and Alex finished early and went to hear Phil Wickham and Third Day perform, which they very much enjoyed, and then, at eight-thirty or so, we all gathered in the Palladium for a splendid concert.  There were some rather dizzy spots, but otherwise our legs showed themselves dependable, and we loved learning the art of balancing while playing our instruments.  Such an interesting feat to experience what one experienced at the age of two.  

After a delightful hour with a wonderful audience, we packed up our instruments, and Benjamin and I, who are generally the ones of the family who can't keep our eyes open past ten o'clock, went promptly to bed while the others went to hear other performers and drink coffee (decaf, of course!) with old and new friends.

And thus ends day two of our voyage.