Last weekend--our second in a row at home!--I finally moved the last of the firewood from the parking area where it was dumped in April to the place where HH stacked it.  I had cleared four or five feet back from the edge of the pile when I discovered this:

 

It's a milkweed plant. As chlorophyll deprived as it was, it had managed to grow in the middle of the log pile.

I'll cherish this image as a metaphor for many, many things, from what it takes to be a writer to why some children can grow up in the worst of circumstances and still somehow thrive and excel.

The latter thought is inspired by two stories.

  I haven't finished it yet, but my heart has been so touched by this 15-year-old who is trying to do the right thing. Coe Booth has his voice nailed and her description of Tyrell's life--homeless in the Bronx--pulls no punches as it takes you inside Tyrell's world.

The other inspiration is this feature in the Colby alumni magazine that arrived yesterday. Jeronimo Maradiaga is my hero, he really is, because he acknowledges the pain of falling between two cultures, even as he recognizes his achievement. He's got a lot in common with another young adult I know, whose working-class parents refuse to contribute anything toward her college education, but who is determined to get that college education because she knows what she wants to do with it (and believe me, she has the skills). 

I also admire Maradiaga because he is reaching out to others, gathering their stories, and letting them be heard.

Tenacity. It's what turns potential into reality.

Last weekend I went back to one of the places that shaped my life




and I reconnected



With friends from those days and with people I've come to know better through reunions. It may look like there weren't too many of the class of '79 on hand, but in true "we're gonna do it our way" fashion, we drifted in through the weekend, from something like 25 on Friday night, to at least twice that number by Saturday's dinner.

In between, we paraded



and ate lobster (which I was too busy eating to photograph). Love those Colby lobster bakes!

We slept in twin beds in the "new dorms" where I lived sophomore year

 The rooms had those lovely views into the woods even then.

And I walked down memory lane:



This is where I was sitting at the end of spring semester my freshman year, waiting for my father to pick me up. My future husband came over to say goodbye and I think that was the first clue I had that we were more than casual acquaintances.

More than thirty years later, here he is

  (in his Class of '78 shirt).

I didn't take photos of two of the other people who shaped my life (too busy talking again), but they know who they are.

I did take a shot of this important marker:
 It's from the hearth of Elijah Parish Lovejoy's birthplace in Albion, Maine. Lovejoy was a Colby grad and a journalist, martyred for his belief in freedom of the press in Illinois in the 19th century. Even when my desire to write was half-formed, every time I passed it on my way across campus, this rock reminded me how important freedom of speech is.

By Sunday afternoon, after a visit to the art museum, it was time to sail for home.



with refreshed memories and souvenirs

 (That's a mule, people! Uh-huh.)