The best-laid plans of mice and men…

Tornado Boy and Big Foot

…often go awry.

Well, I’m back to blogging after 19 days away, and a little Steinbeck seemed appropriate.

My best-laid plans for a memory-making family reunion fell apart as my parents canceled at the last minute due to health concerns.  That kicked off a bit of rushing around and a series of phone calls, new arrangements, and a beach rental we couldn’t back out of. Revised travel plans followed and, in August we’ll all head to my parents’ hometown in Colorado for another attempt. Airfare, hotels, rental cars, and long drives will end in a whirlwind visit since many of us used our vacation time for the reunion that didn’t happen.

But all was not lost…

When best-laid plans invariably
go awry
we cancel what we can
and with nothing pressing to do

we pack up and drive west
anyway
where too late to cancel
the beach house beckons

across the dunes of marram grass and wild roses
warm sand sifts like finely ground pepper
and the waves curl in hungry white ringlets
chase and soak us in our rush to shore
springtide cold despite the sun and kite-flying winds


we build drip castles with moats and bridges
a path for goblin scooters and pit for trapping zombies
guarded by trolls magicked into stone sentries
we collect crab claws and broken shells,
brittle sand dollars and mysterious arm bones


we build a Zen garden with scavenged rocks
balanced in crooked towers on striated sand
and the wind carves gullies while overnight strangers
add to our stones and our garden grows

tea with cranberry honey and birthday cake ice cream
carousels, waffle cones, and oysters on the boardwalk
bonfires, chocolate and marshmallow s’mores
board games and card games, stories
where mermaids sing of magic potions and wings
before the tide fills our holes
sand on the floor, in our beds, between our toes

and nothing pressing to do but
eat well, laugh well, and sleep well
all because
of best-laid plans
gone awry

 

 

My Muse (Almost Iowa)

Greg from Almost Iowa took up my challenge to write about his muse. The post took an unexpected turn… very funny. Here goes:

***

My muse arrived late.

Our appointment was for 7:00 a.m. sharp but she didn’t stagger in until well after noon and then she flopped on the couch and moaned, “I need chocolate chip ice cream.”

That was the last thing I wanted to hear.

Three weeks ago, I banished a pail of chocolate chip ice cream to the freezer in the garage. Admittedly, it was a cruel thing to do to something that I loved so much but it was not really me who did it, rather it was my diet.

Now the bucket was calling my name and apparently its plaintive cries had captured my muse.

“Absolutely not,” I told her, “I am sticking to my diet.”

She wailed and shook uncontrollably.

“It is only ice cream,” I told her.

“Noooo,” she cried, “it is not.  You are siding with HIM.”

“Him?”

“Yes, Discipline. He was my muse,” her lipped quivered as she tried to continue, “but we broke up.”

“A muse needs a muse?”

She struggled to speak through her tears.

“Tell me more,” I told her, “because I am writing about you.”

(Head over and see what happened: My Muse)