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Far across the broad Atlantic where the storms do rage severe
At the end of a difficult month, after a morning that started with the unbeatable back-to-back combination of MRI and dentist's appointment, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
derspatchel took me to Georges Island for the sea. I brought Doppel-Abbie. He brought Garak (on vacation). There are photographs of both, but I'll have to wait until Rob sends the Picasa link over to post them. We wandered around Fort Warren in the warm afternoon, brick barrel-vaulting and stairs spiraling down into granite, old artillery sites half-filled with rain like abandoned quarries; we stayed away from the nests of barn swallows, including the one with three fledged chicks loudly squeaking and the one we knew had to exist because the mother dive-bombed me out of a darkened doorway; and we sat for an hour on the seawall to the southeast of the island and watched the tide come in, over broken granite blocks and seaweed that lifted and stirred in the glass-swirl, the deep sun-dusted bottle-green of the sea. The air smelled of salt and summer grass, haying. Huge clouds stacked up like a blue-filtered photograph everywhere we turned in the sky. The ferry guide told the same ghost story both ways. We had dinner at Durgin-Park afterward, home of the best molasses Indian pudding.
At least July ended well. We worked for it.
derspatchel took me to Georges Island for the sea. I brought Doppel-Abbie. He brought Garak (on vacation). There are photographs of both, but I'll have to wait until Rob sends the Picasa link over to post them. We wandered around Fort Warren in the warm afternoon, brick barrel-vaulting and stairs spiraling down into granite, old artillery sites half-filled with rain like abandoned quarries; we stayed away from the nests of barn swallows, including the one with three fledged chicks loudly squeaking and the one we knew had to exist because the mother dive-bombed me out of a darkened doorway; and we sat for an hour on the seawall to the southeast of the island and watched the tide come in, over broken granite blocks and seaweed that lifted and stirred in the glass-swirl, the deep sun-dusted bottle-green of the sea. The air smelled of salt and summer grass, haying. Huge clouds stacked up like a blue-filtered photograph everywhere we turned in the sky. The ferry guide told the same ghost story both ways. We had dinner at Durgin-Park afterward, home of the best molasses Indian pudding.At least July ended well. We worked for it.
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I've made Indian pudding, but I don't have Durgin-Park's recipe. It is very cornmeal-sweet and molasses-dark; they serve it warm with ice cream. I'd probably just pour cream on the top, but I'm not complaining.
What was the ghost story?
A woman who came from Georgia to Massachusetts dressed as a man to break her husband out of jail at Fort Warren during the Civil War: the escape was discovered and in the ensuing firefight, she killed her husband instead of the commanding officer she had aimed for. Her last request was to be hanged in women's clothes, but as there were none to be found at the fort, she was given some black garment, a cloak, a robe; it is in this habit her ghost is supposed to appear. There was more to the story, and maybe
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