MountainMornings

The children have arrived. They bring enthusiasm with them and youth. Our adult children are happy, in love with this island almost as much as we are; with its hills, beaches and rainbows. 

The Rocker was about five when he first tagged along on this journey. I remember him talking to a parrot in a cafe, and kindly accepting the offer of a boogie board from a stranger on the beach. He bounced around in the back of a Mini Moke, until he could steer his own scooter into town. 

At first we thought there was nothing here for him to “do.” Twenty odd years ago, there was no entertainment, no TV, no video games, no mini golf! But before we knew this would be good for our family, we became unplugged here. And we talked. 

People still ask us what we “do” all day long, we simply smile. 

We read books. We play backgammon. And we still swim every day. And we try to read the French daily newspaper. His French teacher would be so proud. Ms Cait, our other daughter, has been practicing her French language skills. There is the food of course. 

But we miss the Bride and her family. Their schedule didn’t allow a vacation in March. I’m hoping the big Nashville freeze is melting away the winter. That crocus are lurking beneath the ice. 

Spring is on the horizon. 



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When I was very young I used to dream that I could fly. Almost every night I’d soar beneath the stars on the ceiling of Grand Central Station. When these dreams stopped, I missed that feeling of freedom. Now I think it’s odd that my preteen dreamself was actually trapped in a train station. 

35,000 feet above the earth, Bob and I shared earbuds to watch the movie Birdman on an iPad. It wasn’t always easy to hear the dialogue in one ear with flight attendants serving drinks, but we managed. Michael Keaton played a washed up actor (or maybe a celebrity) performing in a play on Broadway. A play within a play. 

We loved the movie except for one thing. The drums were disconcerting. Every time Keaton, who was famous for playing Birdman a Hollywood super hero, heard that little voice in his head, we’d get the drum roll. Alright already, we get it. He’s a tortured soul, looking for redemption, most likely psychotic since he thinks he can still fly. 

Like his famous former self. Like my early life in dreams. Flying is how Bob relaxes. He will most likely be certified again to land on this little spit of a runway. Turn left at Pain du Sucre, climb a little between two mountains, then dive like a pelican for the airport. It’s tricky business. 

The doves are back cooing at me, they want their croissant. And yesterday we found a turtle in our bathroom. If I could pick my own super power it would have to be flying. 



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