On a macro level, there is a big global change going on. Change happens on the micro level, too. Who is this stress-crafting woman, awake before light to swim in a frigid dawn, sewing as the midwinter afternoon darkens, crocheting by moonlight?
My people came down from the mountains, brittle ghosts armed with blades and hacksaws. They were big eared, small-footed and had red-knuckled hands. They carried no expectations. The men were tough and canny, ready with violence, religiously upright, but secret drunks.
Back in January, pre-pandemic, my dear friend Fred Armstrong traveled across the Salish Sea to visit us for a weekend. Along with his sister Terry, and bountiful good humour, he brought me some sourdough starter.