Life and Death in Suburbia

Our bird squatter, Miss Havisham, is gone:

Her nest was on the porch, with three broken eggs spilled near it.  She flew in, fluttered, flew out; she did not understand.  The nest was nothing like other bird nests I have seen — just a soft concoction of fluff from cottonwoods, straw, bits of string.  I am surprised it lasted as long as it did, as precariously perched as it was on the pillar.  She hung out for a couple more hours, sometimes on the porch roof, more often on our Charlie Brown tree, and then she was gone.

The Question of the Day

On Facebook (where else?), from one of The Teenager’s “friends”:

Where can I get a pedicure and simultaneously use wi-fi in this town?

Where, indeed?

As it turned out, it was not hard at all to find a salon where one could stay connected while a total stranger worked on one’s toe nails . . .   I am sure Henry James would have had something elegantly derisive to say about such a situation — had he only lived another hundred years or so.    How much does a pedicure cost, anyway?

Probably nowhere as much as this:

This beautiful 12 inch tile is by Polly Whitcomb, and is one of the last pieces from her La Sala Pottery studio in Ribera, New Mexico.  Polly Whitcomb has moved back to Vermont, and the Santa Fe gallery on Canyon Road that featured her work, Clay+Stone, is in the process of closing  its doors.  It had become a ritual for me:  tea and dessert at The Teahouse, then across the parking lot to what was originally the Canyon Road Pottery before it became Clay+Stone Gallery, then later a short stroll down the hill to Deborah Gold Gallery to see my favorite oil impressionist . . . .  Clay for life, marble for immortality: over the years I have collected bits of both from the same gallery.  And now,  I wish Josh and Stacey the best in their next big adventure.