The View from Judy’s Cottage
September 5, 2016 Labor Day
This is not the view from my cottage, though in some ways I wish it were. It’s the view from Key Largo on Jordan’s last sunrise there with friends. She comes back to reality tonight.
But the title of this blog is the title I’ve chosen for my new blog. For those who Google Judy’s Stew or search by URL, be assured the URL will remain the same—at least until I figure all this out. But try to think of it in new terms.
Right now, my view is not awesome. To my right I see the deck with a beautiful profusion of blooming plants, but below that are the forms and rebar for a path, and outside my French doors directly in front of my desk are the forms and rebar for the new patio. Beyond that is rocky bare ground and a scrawny old cherry laurel.
But my view is of possibilities. We will landscape. My neighbor, whose property extends a few feet into our back yard, is talking of ferns, grasses and wildflowers against the wall of his house—all things I love. Greg plans to seed the lawn, and Jay and Christian have promised to help. Everything has been held up because heavy rain halted the concrete work. We hope they’ll be here tomorrow, and after that the roofers will arrive—main house has a new roof, but the cottage is in desperate need. My vision for the future may materialize next spring, but I can wait.
My view is also in my mind’s eye—scenes from my life, past, present, and future, musings (almost part of the new blog name) on everything from ancestry to politics, though after November 8, I promise to limit the latter. My oldest son said in reading about the new blog Thoreau came to his mind. Thoreau built a cabin, I built a cottage, but both to chronicle our simpler lives. So proud of my CPA son for his understanding of an important American literary voice—and his out of proportion pride in me.
Today my contemplative mind is on Labor Day and the great tradition of cookouts. My Canadian daughter emailed that immediately when she woke up she remembered Labor Day ten years ago, when she lived next door. I was sure she would remember a grand cookout at my house, but no she remembered my son Jamie rescuing her from a tarantula which had paralyzed her with fear.
But I do remember grand cookouts, and as I stare at a fairly empty day with tuna for supper, I long for brisket, potato salad, corn on the cob, mac and cheese. Nope, the contemplative life isn’t all gravy.
Please bear with me as I explore in the next few weeks.