Frost

I dreamt last night that I was Jack Frost.  I came to this world because my own had been destroyed.  While I was here I found work as an actor in an upcoming play.  I was cast as Jack Frost.

They tried to tell me how to move, how to speak, what accent he would have.  I listened and obliged.  Smile and nod.  Smile and nod.

I noted how cruel they saw me for, in the play, I was to be the villain.  Their story told that my home had been destroyed so I came to this world and opened a street cart to sell brightly colored snow cones made from the magical snow of my world.  Whenever a human consumed the snow it turned them into fairies and, therefore, my slaves.

I chuckled at the nonsense of it all.  Of course, eating magical snow would certainly not turn one into a fairy; fairies are created carefully by the Builder one by one, just like me.  I would not rule them for they are my own kind.

I would pat the small pouch at my side and chuckle at their ignorance.  You see, my pouch held the last few snowflakes of my once frosty world; made with my own two hands, chipped from the fractured light of a thousand glittering moons.  They were pure, beautiful and bright.  They were the last pieces of my home, precious and few.

Opening night I took their notes, listened calmly to instructions, allowed them to poke and prod me into their image of who I was.  The curtains opened and the stage was mine. 

I bickered with a passer-by, like was scripted, then took my precious bag of snowflakes and emptied them carefully onto the cart.  There they glittered brighter than diamonds in the stage lights.  The actors were stunned by their beauty.

"Come," I said softly, taking one's hand.  "Come, and see."  I brought her to the thick, glittering snow and let her stoop to peer into its loveliness.  "This is the most special snow," I whispered.  "Chipped from the light of a thousand shattered moons.  My home."  I caught her tears before they could touch my precious snow and she looked up at my icy blue eyes. 

"I came here because I have nowhere else to go."  I could feel their eyes upon me as I showed them my true face.  Sad, lost, longing.  Pale and gentle blue, their eyes traveled my fairy form.  Wings like icicles pierced my back, chipped and broken.  A tear traced my frosty cheek and floated to the floor, a lone glittering snowflake.

I cupped her hands, "Will you carry my snow?"   She nodded, frightened and unsure of what responsibility she had just agreed to.  I placed a small handful of shining snow in her palm.  "On the first snow, release it into the wind for me."

More hands outstretched to me and I filled them with the dwindling memories of my home.  And then it was gone.  The night was over and I faded into the streetlights to wander and wait for winter.

The weather grew colder.  I wandered fields of some far-away prairie.  Leaves fell from trees and the mornings began to glitter with frost, but not my frost. 

And then the clouds moved in one blustery, windy day.  I crept up to the window and pressed my nose to the glass.  She was there, waiting for snow.  She could no longer see me, I had faded from her world too much, but in her hands was a jar, glittering with the light of thousand moons.  Her eyes were tired but she waited, I lay my head on the sill and breathed.

A single, pure, fluffy snow flake drifted down and settled on the tip of my nose.  I smiled. 
"Jack?"  I met her eyes as she stood in her door, startled to see me looking so grim.  I smiled wearily again and nodded.  She stepped down, barefoot on the frosty earth, and lifted the little jar.  A breath of wind blew and my snowflakes tumbled out into the air.

She smiled as she watched the snow dance around her and turned to see my approval but I had been swept along in the current of my fluttering flakes.  Alive and new again. 

The rest of my snow found its way to me many months later.  Seated comfortably on the crescent moon above the peaks of snow-capped mountains I gathered them into my pouch and held them close to my frosty heart.

"Welcome home," I whispered softly and drifted off to sleep.

Dream Home

My Mr. and I often discuss the house we will eventually build together.  It's mostly hypothetical, fantastic ideas left unbridled by the restraint of finances but, in reality, we have a secret understanding of which suggestions are too big for our dream house unless some financial miracle takes place. 

We dream of vast stone fireplaces and exposed beams in the ceiling of our vaulted living room.  Of course, our living room comes complete with cat-walk that leads to a small reading nook in the large second-story window which looks out across the wooded drive leading up to the house.  Our house is secluded, but not out of the way, friends come by often to spend late nights in our game room laughing, adventuring, and rummaging through our walk-in closet full of the most wonderful board games, cards games, and video games imaginable for we are the most happy when we are at our nerdiest.  There is a table against one wall with five seats at it, this is where we play League until the early morning hours.

Upstairs there is a library with floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with leather bound books we've collected over the years. There's a fireplace, of course, and a cushioned window seat between two tall, dark shelves.  This is the room for snowy days when you want to stay warm and be whisked away from it all.  There's even a rolling ladder on the far wall, like the one in Beauty and the Beast, so vertically challenged people, like myself, can reach any book their heart desires.

The kitchen is grand.  Marble counter tops, floors of stone and wood together, industrial piping snakes out of here and there providing towel racks, shelving, or just ambiance.  The kitchen feels like the heart of the house.  It's heavy and bright all at once.  A large window above the sink looks out into the little orchard behind our dream house where a bear of a dog sleeps in the shade of the trees.  In my dream house another large, sleeping dog lies in the corner of our kitchen on a mat we've placed there for him; he's not allowed inside... but I break that rule often because I enjoy his company.

In our dream house, the stairs are carpeted (in spite of my protesting) because little feet travel them often and old dogs can make the climb to sleep in the arms of a little one after a bad dream. 

Often our bed is full by day break in the dream house.  Little bodies crowd between My Mr. and me, and the dog, who's sneaked in during the night, is snoring soundly from the foot of the bed.  Our room is bright and warm and full of giggles. 

The dream house is busy.  There's always someone bustling or scurrying or dancing; it's a good kind of busy.  There's a small barn out back for a little herd of sheep and a chicken coop beside that.  Even on frosty mornings I wander out to greet my little friends and feed them.  There's a spinning wheel in the living room beside the fireplace.  In the spring I spend most of my time in the shed cleaning wool, getting it ready to be spun, and the rest of my time is spent up to my elbows in dirt planting this years gardens.  During the summer I always have purple fingers and a clothesline of rainbows strung up across the yard.  Inside, the kitchen is steamy and sticky with jams, juices, and jellies being canned.  In the fall, our pantry starts to fill up with canned goods from the garden and the kitchen now always smells of cinnamon and cloves.  In the evenings there's almost always some kind of bread being made and the delicious scent fills the house with a warm, comforting tone.  Winter is spent beside the fires or kicking off the drifts from snow-caked boots while tossing the damp, homemade scarves, hats, and socks into our simple laundry room to be cared for later.  There's always hot chocolate in the winter.  My Mr. makes the best hot chocolate and there are always little fingers, red from the snow, warming themselves against the mug as he sneaks them another marshmallow and warns them, with a wink, not to tell.

In the dream house, there are walls covered in pictures.  Smiling faces, past vacations to strange new places, friends, family, old, new.  There are drawings and doodles and crafts strung up in every room; creativity comes naturally there.  There's a craft room, in our dream house, with a rainbow wall of yarn.  It's as if all the colors or textures of yarn you could dream of can be found on that wall.  There's a loom in the corner and mannequins here and there dressed in costumes and armors from past cosplays.  The craft room is hap-hazardly organized because one can, almost certainly, never keep up with all the projects going on in the dream house. 

There's a patio out back, with a stone fire pit built in, and a grill.  We spend every night during the summer there.  There's a tree house, just far enough into the tree-line that it feels secretive, but close enough that little ears can hear the call for dinner even from their magical worlds far away.  A hammock is strung between two trees not far from the patio and when you lie there you can drift into daydream with the sound of the wind in the leaves.  There is serenity in the evening breeze at the dream house.

The couch cushions are often rearranged, in our dream house, into tents or castles or even shields.  Pillows become swords and blankets are reimagined as capes, dresses, and even sleds.  Giggles fill our home as My Mr. drags little souls around the scarred wooden floors on their quilted bob-sleds.

There is always music.  Always.  Whether it's My Mr. gaily playing a rag-time Fur Elise, or little fingers plinking at the keys in a music only they can understand, or a classic Mo-Town mix playing through the house speakers, or lullabies whispered to a little one, there is always music.  As often as there is music there is dancing.  Little toes on the tips of My Mr.'s shoes, boogying to our favorite tunes, practicing for a recital, or just to express wordless emotions. 

We dream often of our future home and the life we have ahead of us.  Perhaps it's not so much a dream of the structure we'll build from wood, nails, and brick but a dream of the home we'll create for each other and the ones we love.

kaJo

Hands

I will not claim to know a great many things.  No, my knowledge is very limited.  However, in spite of those limitations there are a few things that I know and a few things that manage to slip their way past my straining brain, past the forgetfulness, past the youth to become lodged forever in my tiny little bucket of knowledge.  And, really, this process is a hard one.  So many things come to me ready to be savored and treasured and stowed away, and yet so many fall through the cracks and are forgotten.  A million tiny things happen every day, things that I would love to hold close for the rest of my life, but in a moment or two they have already slipped and faded.

Those lost things are why I appreciate my hands so much, I think.  You see, I'm not terrible careful with my hands, I should be, but I'm not.  My busy fingers and small wrists are covered in scars and the backs of my hands shine with the glossy glint of past adventures.  My hands tell stories.  They remind me of things I would have forgotten long ago without them; like a pale, blue day all bundled up from the cold and watching my reflection in the huge windows of our back porch while the gnarled trees swayed with the bitter wind.  One reminds me of a night spent racing around a garden with my sister, this was followed by a hushed trip to the bathroom and a quick, ill-fitting bandage to try and save my pride.  There is one for a poor choice on a bike trail, one for a day of archery, two were gained while tearing lights off of a tree.
My hands are my story.  They are torn and battered, they sometimes ache, but when I look at them I can remember things that I would have lost, otherwise.

I like to think that my scars reflect more than just memories.  Maybe, somehow, the tattered look of my hands is His way of reminding me that this world hurts for a while, but good things come.  Maybe it's His way of reminding me that He didn't put me here to get out clean and unscathed, He put me here to love for Him and to fight for Him and those both can leave scars.  My savior was a warrior who loved me enough to take the scars I'd give Him and still hold on.  So, when I look at my hands, when I see the scars this world has left on me, I pray that He will grant me the strength to hold on like He did, to love like He did.

kaJo

No Robots Here!

I like to think of myself as a creatures of many hobbies and next to no habits.

My aversion to the word "habit" is not necessarily because I think that habits are a bad thing, but rather that when I find myself falling into a habit I somehow stop feeling human.  Somewhere deep inside my mind is this fear, I suppose, that if I allow habits to stack up like the projects in my room eventually every day will just be a habit!  And when the whole day is a habit what's left to explore?

Then there's the whole problem of how difficult some habits are to break.  I mean, just think!  If one habit starts and then another stacks on top of that one, by the time you realize that you're day is literally just going through the motion of a million habits you're too busy trying to keep up with them all that you can't stop to make sure they're even necessary!
Now, I won't argue that creatures of habit can't get things done.  In fact, I believe quite the contrary.  Those of our human race who stick firmly to their "daily routine" are often the most productive.  I admit that about them, but I cannot conform.  You see, even with the promise of productivity and the comfort of being able to get up and know pretty well what the layout of your day is like...I just can't give up the chaos of living without habits.

Maybe I'm crazy -- something I wonder about quite often, -- but I love the little bit of insanity that comes with exploring each day as its own new entity.  To get up and not have a clue what each day will hold, aside from the running around campus to classes and such, is a thrill that I can't give up for the sake of knowing I'll get everything I need done by a reasonable time so that I can get a full night of sleep.  No, thank you!  I don't want to feel like a robot, I want to see each and every part of each day as a new adventure waiting for me to jump in and chase it.  I want to explore and wander and fail and learn from it all!

I'll take my sleep deprived mornings-after, sipping my tea and staring into space.  I'll take the sudden panic of remembering I have an appointment across town in five minutes or the days where I shower far too late in the day and so wake up with crazy-hair.  I'll take the lazy mornings and the cluttered room, the random happenings and the pleasant surprises, the adventures and chaos that comes with a life without habit.

kaJo

Okay, I have to admit that I do have one habit that I keep pretty consistently: I have a cup of tea every morning; however, I make an effort to switch that up sometimes by using different mugs, choosing different teas, adding cream or not...;)

Have a beautiful day, everyone!

New Day

     It never ceases to amaze me how in just the few hours of a day one can be tossed and jostled in a vast sea of rolling emotions.
     Suppose you wake up angry.  No reason, just initially frustrated with the day for having roused you at all.  You're irritable at your alarm for rolling you out of bed and nudging you to the bathroom to try and pull some rhyme and reason into your mess of hair and sleepy face.  Perhaps the bitterness wears off as you sip your tea and gather your keys, or as you stroll across campus, or as you sit quietly in class taking notes.  Anyway, somewhere along the line, amid the many trips up and down staircases, you discover you're no longer angry, just embarrassed.
     You're a child playing a game you don't quite understand.  Quietly you toy with the pieces, harmlessly wondering what significance they play in the scheme of things.   And when you're corrected in your attempts, it doesn't matter how kind words, you feel sheepish.  Shyly you put the pieces back and tuck your little hands under your legs to keep them from wandering.
     Maybe on the way home from classes it's the tune of your favorite song that brightens you, or the smell of cupcakes in the kitchen, or the furry smile of your best friend who's oh-so-glad you're home.  You shrug off a morning of sulking, still feeling the tingle of anger and the sting of foolishness, and make a real effort to give today a chance.  During the chaos of homework, family, chores, facebook, and general life, you manage to find laughter hiding away in little nooks and crannies and the evening is pleasant, happy even.
     And as you tuck everything away for the night, crawl under the covers, and sigh because you've survived another day, you feel peace.  Maybe it's not the most overwhelming or prominent of the emotions still fluttering around in you somewhere, but it's there.  Calm, quiet, peace.  Today has only lasted as long as it has lasted and tomorrow is new and bright and beautiful.

"Great is His faithfulness; His mercies are new every morning."

kaJo

Rain

There are mornings where the world is simply different.  It happens suddenly and usually under the mysterious shade of night.  There is a pause and a gentle shift, and then things are...different.
The best time to spot the changes is just as the sun rolls its sleepy head 'round and stretches long, slender arms over the earth.  Here, in the gentle stirring of morning, just before the world awakes, can one see this mysterious shift.
There is a glint on every blade of grass that the sun twirls in her thin fingers around.  The fields of grass glitter like priceless crystal carpets as each shining droplet reflects the light of its many neighbors.
Around the fields the trees have somehow gone dark and bright.  Their trunks have gone black, deep, and mysterious while the leaves have become vibrant and glistening. The woods is full of a trickling whisper, it is then that one should be very still and watch because the trees begin to dance.  With the wind as their music, they roll slowly round and round like strange waves of a high green sea.  Then each tree stretches its tangled wings of branches and shakes the last drops of rain from its feather-like leaves.
In the stillness that follows one can hear the rushing of the newly flooded streams that have surged from their beds onto mossy green banks to grasp at the soft green tufts with eager fingers.  The lush pillows of moss blush a vibrant green from the attention of their new admirers.
And all around mushrooms have burst from the silky soil to scatter the forest floor with such an array of colors that one could think they had come upon the the remains of a shattered rainbow.
For a moment, the world is shifted to a place of crystal carpets, dancing trees, blushing moss, and shattered rainbows...for a moment.  And then the world wakes, and begins to spin, and fades to normalcy.

Kate

Another Favorite Thing

So, in the midst of a pile of homework and projects and my friend's upcoming wedding, when I'm running on the last drops of energy (a coffee, a couple diet cokes, some breakfast tea) it's nice to sit and reset my rushing brain at the piano.  It's nice to hammer out a few songs, close my eyes and listen to the sweet notes dancing out a melody, and then hear the quick clicks of my puppy's paws as he comes running into the living room to hop into a chair and watch me play.  He comes every time, faithfully.  He curls up on the cushions and swings his big head over the arm so that he can watch me and then he just sits.  It doesn't matter how long I play, he stays and watches and listens, and it always, faithfully, makes me smile.

Kate

Wandering

It seems that just as my youngest sister has a certain reputation for being in comprehensibly hard on her shoes I have a similar knack for my shoes meeting horribly disastrous ends, usually unbeknownst to me.
As far as my sister goes, I would say that it could not be entirely blamed on her, given the fact that for years she was mostly wearing hand-me-downs from Sabry or me.  These shoes would end up on her feet, usually still in relatively good condition, and be barely hanging on to their last threads of life within a few months.  However, considering that she overtook my shoe size several years ago and then flew past Sabry within the past year and a half, it seems that had those shoes in her childhood been brand new the results would've been much the same.  I'm not sure what she does to her shoes...but, then, I'm not sure what happens to mine either.
As I said, my shoes are doomed from the moment I pulled them out of the box.  It doesn't matter how hard I try to keep them in pristine condition, they always meet with horrible ends.  Almost all of my shoes have scuffs and scrapes, cuts and scars and I can't tell you where most of them came from.  Most of my shoes look more like they went into battle than just to the supermarket.
One summer I had a beautiful pair of blue leather ballet flats that I wore with almost everything, despite how they hurt my feet.  I took excellent care of them, always making sure to stuff them gently away in my closet when I was done with them for the day, but it was in vain.  The poor blue leather shoes died sometime last summer.  Their last days were spent withered, misshapen, and caked in a bright red mud that I'm sure I never wore them near.
Currently, my favorite pair of shoes is an old pair of green Toms.  These poor things have not died yet, but that's just because I won't let them.  They really met their end the day that they were peacefully minding their own business on the stairs and were suddenly out in the yard having their soles ripped out. Since then they've huddled in my closet, only to be worn when I am most desperate for them and even so they've managed to have their soles torn out a second time as well as develop two great holes where my toe is.  And yet, I still find things to wear them with because I simply refuse to acknowledge their defeat.
Almost none of my shoes have any sort of memories etched into their scars, most of them just appear out of nowhere while I'm dragging my feet with my head far away in the clouds.  But some of them have memories that jump out at me from those scars whenever I glance down at my feet.  I occasionally find myself trying to sort out how it all happens.  Sometimes I even decide that the scraps and scuffs are just "part of the job."  My shoes are there to protect my feet from getting roughed up so they're really just getting they signed up for, though this never makes me feel much better.
Sometimes I decide that these are just the remains of another life my shoes are living where they really are great heroes going off to battle and coming home with lots of stories that I'll never hear...and this usually just makes me feel foolish.
But usually, I just settle for deciding that all the scuffs and scars and scrapes and things are just the result of my active mind, who is really the one running off on adventures as I wander from class to class and not my shoes.

Kate

Time

 What a funny thing time is. It has a mind all its own.  

Never caring what you might think, it plods along at just the wrong speed.

If you must wait, time slows to a crawl, ticking by as slowly as it can. 

If you're having the time of your life, time races past you in the blink of an eye. 

You hardly have time to realize the full wonder of the moment when it's suddenly a day, a week, a year later and you're standing there in your memories wondering how you got there.

Even stranger still is how time changes over, well, time.

I remember as a child my birthday was always forever away.  A year seemed unimaginable in my young mind.  I knew it somehow always came again but trying to think of all the things I would have to see and do and explore and learn before my next birthday was more than I could dream of.  Even days seemed like such vast amounts of time.  Oh, the promises each day held then, and still now sometimes.

And yet, as I've grown, I've come to realize that each year is shorter than the last.  Yes, it is always a steady 365 days, but the days get all funny sometimes.  Every day, every week, every year is now a smaller portion when compared to the rest of my life.  Now, I sometimes feel that I've hardly opened my eyes to the new day when I'm already crawling back into bed. 

As Christmas rolls back around I'm finding myself face to face with memories from last year. Sometimes the memories seem so near, so ready to be recalled, to be picked up and treasured again, that they can't have happened a whole year ago.  And yet, here I am again, picking out paper and watching our house slowly turn towards Christmas.  

I find myself wondering about the coming year, what new memories will be made, which ones made this year will find there way back into my thoughts as I walk to class, or work on a project, or set up our Christmas tree.  And I look forward to it.  To another year of gathering up memories and storing them away to think of again as the years roll by.  

Kate

Thankful

Happy Thanksgiving week!!!!

I love Thanksgiving, probably not half as much as Kate, but I still love it!
All the family together, the delicious meals, the games and movies, and just the wonderful time we have together!  We have a really close family, like we're all best friends. We do everything together and love being around each other. Which is why Thanksgiving is so special!

So, this Thanksgiving what I am thankful for is: My wonderful awesome family, my really amazingly funny friends, my cats, my sweet tea (I'm obsessed with it) (I'm not kidding), my car, my art classes, my voice lessons, but really, I'm just grateful that I have the chance to live, and the option to do whatever I want with my life. I mean, there are so many things out there to do! And I haven't even gotten started yet!
I haven't decided where I want to go to college, or where I want to live, or what I want to be. But, it's so nice to know that i have so many options! And I have amazing parents that will support me and help me make the right choices in life. I'm so thankful for everything I have. And I pray that someday I'll be able to do what God wants me to do.


Sorry.  I didn't mean to go on so long and stuff...

What are you thankful for this Thanksgiving?


Happy Holidays!

Sabe

Some days

Some days are beautiful for no particular reason.  There's a calm about them, I guess.  A peace.  A stillness.  The world seems hushed and drowsy. 
It's a lovely day for a nap.

kaJo

Hide Away...

     I have pretty much always said that I do not like the heat.  I'm a cold weather gal all the way.  True, I have been known to enjoy days lounging around the poolside in the relentless heat but give me the option and I will always choose cold.  There is not much that I love better than to don a sweater dress, stockings, and boots -- along with the must have gloves, scarf, and hat -- and go tromping through campus in the fluttering snow.  Or to be able to shamelessly drink a whole pot of hot tea with breakfast just to warm myself from the inside out.  Or to wake up in a cozy sleeping bag with the tip of my nose and the edges of my cheeks feeling frosty while outside the tent I can hear the world waking as I snuggle deeper into my sanctuary of dreams and warmth.
     It is during these dog-days of summer that the heat feels oppressive.  It weighs in on the very walls of our house and feels as if it's impeding on the windows and doors, waiting for a chance to race into the precious  bit of coolness we have.  Even the pool offers no promise of relief from the overwhelming heat.  My flowers and plants, though hearty and large, have grown wild, chaotic under the looming rays of sun.  I can scarcely stand to race out for a snatch of basil or cucumber, or to water, or shade them during even the most mild part of the day.  The process of simply stepping out of the house is almost unbearable.  The heat meets me like a wall when I step through the doorway and into its clutches.  It steals my breath and weighs on my lungs like a steamy cloth.
     Even when night falls and the sun hides its face everything remains scorched and wilted, awaiting its return.  And so, I stay hidden in the depths of my home, busily working away at my crafts and dreading the heat that seems to be watching me through every window.  Here I'll stay, dreaming and waiting for the cool kiss of fall and the crisp breath of the coming winter.

    kaJo

Rain, Rain

It's been raining all week here, but today was ridiculous! It rained so much in like random little spurts.
Like, it was quite possibly the hardest rain I have ever seen. But it was wonderful! I love rain so much, one of my favorite things is playing in the rain. I know that sounds cheesy and everything, but it's true. Today I haven't felt so well, so instead of playing in it, I took a really long nap on my comfortable bed, while listening to the rain. My room is upstairs in the far corner of the house with no windows. It's kinda creepy, but kinda nice at the same time. Haha. You can hear the rain so clearly up there, pelting the roof. It really is a beautiful sound. It's one of the reasons why I like that room. Anyways, today has been a nice day, aside from feeling under the weather. And now, I'm going to go play some Rock Band!

Tootles,

Dreamer

Full Heart

Do you know the feeling of a sweet embrace that causes your heart to swell to overflowing?

Have you felt the calm, peaceful, serenity of a wordless moment shared with one you love?

Have you spent an evening smiling, and joking, and laughing, and loving one another's company?

And what of a night under the stars, with the moon smiling softly down on giggling and quiet conversation? 

Do you know the joy of a meal shared with family and friends? 

Or a thrilling night of adventure, battling monsters and demons, through the silver-spun webs of a creative mind?

These are a few of my favorite things.

kaJo

Let's Go Fishing

     Ever since the very beginnings of spring this year I have been just dying to go fishing, after discovering last year, in late September, that I actually love to fish.  I had no previous experience, save when I was five or six and went with my grampa who only stays put for about ten minutes, even if the fish are biting and is irritable the whole time regardless.  But, alas, September is right at the tail end of fishing season and I only got three good days in before we had to pack everything up for the winter.
     So, now that summer has rolled around again and I can finally get back to the lake, it was just a matter of waiting for a day when the hundred degree weather would decide to take a break and I could actually step outside without melting.  Yesterday turned out to be that day.  It was quite perfect for fishing and Dreamer, Mom, TreeTrunks (our gramma), and I seized the opportunity to race out to the water and go fishing.
     We drove to our usual place but found it was quite crowded, still determined to fish, we carried all of our things down the long, rocky hill began to scout for a place to settle in for the day.

     We ended up hiking down the bank to a beautiful shady place away from all the noise of the other families there to enjoy the day and threw our lines in.  Apart from the fact that the fish seemed entirely uninterested in taking our bait, the afternoon was lovely.
     The strip of bank that we had chosen had a steep incline directly behind us and only about eighteen inches of shoreline for us to throw our towels down on and sit with our feet in the water.  This, however, is not reflected in the picture on the right because Starbear sat about ten to fifteen feet down from the rest of us where there was no shade but more bank to sit on.

      There was a beautiful breeze coming off the water that was just enough to keep the brunt of the heat from making you miserable.
     The Pup, of course, had to tag along, he never misses an opportunity to spend a day swimming in the lake.  He spent most of the day in the water and was utterly exhausted when we got in the car to head home.  Even today he seems to be prone to nothing more than following me into whatever room I happen to wander into and dozing off as soon as possible.  Right now he's sleeping comfortably on the couch behind me seeming quite content to spend the rest of his day there.
     He was a trooper yesterday, acting as quite the rescue dog for dozens of sticks.  I'm so proud of him. :)

Meanwhile everyone else enjoyed listening to the sound of the waves washing on the rocks and the significant lack of catching anything bigger than this:

     We eventually moved to another place where fish were much more obliging and spent the evening watching our bobbers dance lightly on the water.  Most of the worms managed to be stolen right off of our hooks, sometimes without moving the bobber at all, but we still came home with about six keepers.  I got the prize this trip for best catch seeing as I managed to catch a good sized bass with a pole that was mostly broken.  Unfortunately no one got a picture, somehow.
     Anyways, the summer's just beginning and we're planning on spending many of these wonderful days out enjoying the lake.  To all you fishers, good luck and happy fishing!

     ~kaJo