Thirty nine three hundred and sixty five
Yesterday was my birthday. I'm 39 years old. I decided to write every day for a year.
Since my birthday is also American Hangover & Sifting Through the Ashes, Oh My God We Spent How Much Money to Blow It All Up Day, my birthday proper is usually pretty mellow. We slept late, had a lovely grilled gruyère at Greenbank Farm, a truly magical place, then a quick adventure to explore Ebey's Landing. I spent half the time wondering what a blockhouse was, but thought I'd try to figure it out on my own before asking the helpful and enthusiastic volunteers at the park info table.
Of course, as understanding dawned on me I found myself once again coated in the oily, uncomfortable patina of benefitting from the ill-gotten gains of European Imperialism that infuses almost everything about this island, from its name (Whidbey) to the name of the calming bay on which I gaze even now (Useless Bay, so named because it is shallow and sandy, which make it useless to the cargo ships and sailors that appropriated this place not that long ago. I love it's uselessness, which makes it awesome for swimming and clamming). So perhaps a more fitting title would be American Hangover & Thieves' and/or Buyer's Remorse Depending on Which Papers You Read Day.
Anyway, we ended with a fine meal at our favorite Whidbey Island bistro, Prima. When we got home the power was out (again! That's the third time in six weeks. If this is what it's like in the fat of summer, it's a good thing we're prepared for camping conditions most of the time), so instead of writing we drank prosecco on the porch until it got too dark to read.
Since my birthday is also American Hangover & Sifting Through the Ashes, Oh My God We Spent How Much Money to Blow It All Up Day, my birthday proper is usually pretty mellow. We slept late, had a lovely grilled gruyère at Greenbank Farm, a truly magical place, then a quick adventure to explore Ebey's Landing. I spent half the time wondering what a blockhouse was, but thought I'd try to figure it out on my own before asking the helpful and enthusiastic volunteers at the park info table.
Of course, as understanding dawned on me I found myself once again coated in the oily, uncomfortable patina of benefitting from the ill-gotten gains of European Imperialism that infuses almost everything about this island, from its name (Whidbey) to the name of the calming bay on which I gaze even now (Useless Bay, so named because it is shallow and sandy, which make it useless to the cargo ships and sailors that appropriated this place not that long ago. I love it's uselessness, which makes it awesome for swimming and clamming). So perhaps a more fitting title would be American Hangover & Thieves' and/or Buyer's Remorse Depending on Which Papers You Read Day.
Anyway, we ended with a fine meal at our favorite Whidbey Island bistro, Prima. When we got home the power was out (again! That's the third time in six weeks. If this is what it's like in the fat of summer, it's a good thing we're prepared for camping conditions most of the time), so instead of writing we drank prosecco on the porch until it got too dark to read.