It appears that today was a day to pay attention to living, not to taking time out to catalog the day's events with pictures. That is quickly becoming a lost skill. Perhaps I'm not the best spokesman for putting the camera down and living in the moment, considering I try to have some sort of photograph to catch a prospective reader's eye, and a new one each day at that. Yet even I believe we all ought to practice that vanishing art. I took only a single picture today, and I don't regret not taking more at all.
As my time here draws to a close, I spent quality time with the two women I've known longest in this town. This afternoon was reserved for a baby shower for my dear friend from the ladies charitable organization that was my main focus for years. She and I poured our souls into that group, and she stuck with it long after I burned out from illness and stress, when I took a backseat role after stepping down from leadership. I know how long she and her husband have been trying and praying for a child, and now that her baby boy is on the way, we all are celebrating with her. The shower was lovely, the decorations and gifts were thoughtful and creative. I can tell that the hostess and all of her friends know her well, and are as happy for her as I am. My only regret is the knowledge that I will be moved before I get to meet this special little man. As in the epilogue to Raising Arizona, I have to hope that somehow the little guy knows that there is an old hippie woman watching him from a distance, wishing only the best for him. Maybe some of my silly influence on his mother will find its way to him. My legacy, of sorts.
The evening revolved around the first couple we really bonded with upon our arrival in this town, plus our favorite cowboy, and my Kentucky Derby themed dinner party. We have so little time left to be together before we move. I'm in denial, not ready to believe that our Bonfire family is about to be ripped apart. I want to scream and cry and kidnap them all, force them to move with us. We can all just find a commune somewhere, right? Grow our own vegetables, build our own houses. Between us we have all the mad skills we need: carpentry, welding, wiring, auto mechanics, gardening, cooking, brewing... Hell, we could pick up animal husbandry and beekeeping if it meant we could prosper and thrive. But no, some fire-loving woman refuses to move where it is cold. She doesn't want to be reduced to a short growing season or greenhouse gardening. It hurts my heart to leave the people who mean so much to me. I don't know what I'll do if they can't visit me once in a while. Surely I can find some way to compel them to make the drive. Give me some time. I'll think of something.
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