on walking home in the rain as slowly as possible
I’ve been shooting a lot this week but there hasn’t been enough discretionary computer time to move image files over to Lightroom since the boys and I are on our own (their mama is in New York City for work) and evenings when I’m pooped I’ve been absorbed reading a history of the construction of the first U.S. transcontinental railroad (between bowls of ice cream) so I thought I’d share a couple pictures from our neighborhood bridge. We’re technically not IN Montlake at all, our house is down (up) the road on a happily forgotten outpost of Capitol Hill, but this is the bridge we use most often to cross the Ship Canal, hence its designation as our bridge.
Last week was the annual opening day of boating season, that revered occasion when the Montlake Bridge is closed to auto traffic for spirited rowing competition and thereafter the grand boat parade is held whereupon commoners snicker with glee as butthead yacht clubbers cruise by looking ridiculously natty and bourgeois in their nautical club duds. The real treat (for boys and girls, and grown-up ones) is the cluster of crusty little steamboat dinghies which scare babies with their whistles and then finally (the start and) the end of the parade when harbor patrol and the fire department mist the crowd with their fire boats, sending plumes of water arcing hundreds of feet in the air. This year Oliver fell asleep in the backpack carrier on the way home so we split off from the others and took an extra long detour through the woods in the Arboretum before finding our way back to the house. Huge raindrops splattered Oliver’s forehead and squished tired cheeks but he was dressed in three layers and snored like a motorboat trolling about. He finally awoke later on the front steps and we sat together under the shelter of the porch for awhile and admired the heavy rain and glistening purple jewels of wisteria hanging down all around us.
Oliver continues to request Kraftwerk over and over and tonight I think I finally honed my robot dance to perfection the last few minutes of Neon Lights as we washed the dishes. I’m a good robot dancer as I’m a big galoot and naturally stiff and inflexible, not showing fluid joint movement. Still, you have to give me my due and I think you would if you could see it for yourself.