Last week on social media, I compared the impending Papal visit to awaiting landfall during hurricane season. Much like the media coverage of a tropical storm in the Gulf, the lead up to the pope’s arrival in the U.S. was overblown. And yet, Exile battened down the hatches and boarded up all the windows, just in time for a weak Tropical Storm Francis to blow through. Continue reading
I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the Pope is coming to town. I’ve been joking that awaiting his arrival is like waiting for landfall during hurricane season, which has led me to sing this rocking Cowboy Mouth song over and over to myself and innocent bystanders:
Because of this:
I can’t stop singing this. Only, I just know the first couple of lines, and it always segues into a hymn that I can’t quite place, making me a blast to be around.
It feels like just yesterday that I was trying to figure out how to fill up eleven weeks of summer vacation. (The answer is camp, cheap camp, free camp, grandparent camp, cousins at the beach camp, hanging with neighborhood kids, and camp iPad.)
He is NINE. Let that sink in a moment. Remember this?
Feel free to hum a little Tracey Lawrence. I know I am.
It’s been quiet around here for quite some time now. Facebook has absorbed a lot of the photos I used to post, which I’m hoping to change.
I’ve also been thinking a lot lately about the way I’ve referred to this place in the past, likening living in the northeast to being in exile. I’ve been here for 12 years, and increasingly I feel less exiled than expatriated. We visit the south regularly, and it’s oh so easy to slip back into the accent and the rhythms… but when we return to the north, I feel like I’m home. I’m hoping to have some more to say on that front – I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what makes a place home, in part due to watching a friend adjust to a major move overseas. So, you know, stuff’s brewing. Like a good chicory coffee. Or a crawfish boil. (Okay, not a really great simile, but it gives me an excuse to post this):