A journalist observes life in the far north.
Lucky is alternately eating Cheerios off of the floor and gnawing on one of my flip flops. When I read “Little Read Riding Hood” to her this morning, she didn’t crawl away mid-story. I am interpreting her attention to the book as a good review. To entertain myself, I read some of the Sunday paper, drank coffee and zoned out on the couch, ignoring the phone.
The truth is, I don’t feel like washing dishes or going to the market or picking up toys today. Even after drinking two cups of coffee, I am still spaced out. I was going to use the word malaise because I think it sounds more intelligent than the expression spaced out, but I looked up the definition and malaise means ill or depressed, which isn’t quite right. I am feeling good enough to hike later and I wouldn’t change anything about my life, except maybe I’d be 10 pounds lighter and I’d have a wood-burning sauna outside. (Now Lucky is tearing up my Land’s End catalog.)
We went to the cabin near Paxson over the weekend. I brought my yoga mat, laptop, hiking shoes and containers for berry-picking. All of it went untouched. I napped, visited the family next door and watched a stupid Ridley Scott movie called “Kingdom of Heaven.” It’s one of those movies that asks for too much willful suspension of disbelief. People change too fast. I loved the final battle scene, however, where the Muslims took back Jerusalem from the Christians. One of the Muslim Army’s weapons was a cross between a lighthouse and a slingshot, this wooden contraption on wheels that catapulted balls of fire into the city.
Alec went to bed about halfway through the film. His weekend was full of work, jacking up a corner of the cabin that had been sinking, patching the roof and tearing down some moldy drywall, a job that rained chalk all over the tiny living room.
We raced black clouds back to Murphy Dome last night. After putting Lucky to bed, I took another crack at a memoir, “Blue Blood,” of a New York City cop. I’m on page 155, so it’s safe to say I’ll keep reading. On deck, I have Washington Post editor Ben Bradlee’s memoir, “A Good Life,” but his tone is too self-satisfied, which turns me off.
Now Lucky is playing with the snakes’ nest of power cords under her dad’s desk.