Home at Last

 In one of our classes at UAA, Prof. Sherry Simpson explained what she learned about writing (and life) from Jackie Chan. She showed clips of his movies and read excerpts of interviews with him. One lesson was, "write your own narrative." In other words, pick the story of your life the way you want it to be, and do that. Which sounds a lot like one of our town's old founding fathers, Danish seaman and author Hjlamar Rutzebeck, who observed, "we are what we want to be, mostly." Well, this week, I mostly want to do chores. I've visited baby Caroline, cooked nice family dinners, weeded the garden (and pulled up the shooting arugula) tied up the tomatoes, weed-whacked the paths to the beach and the neighbor's, gone fishing, (caught five sockeye on Sunday) and have salmon ready for the smoke house today. The vet was in town yesterday so I took the old dogs, and they are now on pills for incontinence and arthritis and Forte needs a diet. ("Good luck with that" Chip said, as he watched Forte steal a chunk of my brined salmon from the drying rack.) We are gearing up for the Hospice booth at the Southeast Alaska State Fair here this weekend (Pies to Die For). If I have a ripe tomato by tomorrow I'll enter it in the produce competition. My mother-in-law arrived last night, so she'll help with the  baking and the booth. Caroline will be over today, too. I told Tom I'd write Duly Noted next week for the paper and I have a little homework still from school to finish. All that, and the sun is shining and yesterday morning on our bike ride we saw a big, dark chocolate brown bear at one mile. In my garden is a sign that a friend made when I came back from the nursing home five years ago, it says, "Home at Last." I am, and sure glad of it. 

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