26 miles across the sea
It's well into the month following the one where I waved goodbye to my island, but the blog must go on. As my lifestyle does not (yet?) afford wandering to scenic outposts on a monthly basis, we'll have to wander back into the travel archives. I knew we would when I set up this pesky thing--the little bits of places I've collected are buzzing to be let out of the jar. While wintering in the middle of the ocean, I read two books. One was Whose Names Are Unknown , by Sonora Babb, which my husband bought me after he learned from Ken Burns' dustbowl documentary that it was the pre-curser to (and less cloying version of) The Grapes of Wrath . I know if I spent any significant time in a Midwest outpost, even if it wasn't blighted by cataclysmic drought while I was there, I would still be itching to move west. Even though the California that the dust-bowlers found was a better place only in theory, boy that theory was persistent, remains pervasive, and has goaded me ...