The Powhatan Antique Power Show

We were mostly without Internet, this week, and I missed you. I turned toward Carson McCullers, again, in my loneliness, surely as I turn always toward Andre Dubus for regret. Both of them help only in the way listening to sad songs or rubbing sore gums helps, but better than nothing; I'll always take it.

I wasn't blogging, but I was living.

Last Saturday, we spent the day at the Powhatan Antique Power Show. It's a big deal, here, year after year; without trying, we ran into a big chunk of our small group. The girls rode horses; rode in barrel cars; played in corn kernels; ate fair-type food.

The sweet woman who painted the girls' faces is the same one who painted Cade's ten years ago. (He was with us, by the way, but only until he spotted his curly-headed friend; then he was gone.)

I took a ton of photos. I couldn't help wanting to freeze the moment; everything about it felt so right to me: running into neighbors and friends; marveling at Charleigh's newfound bravery on horseback; feeling the sun beat down on my neck; singing along to some band's "Are You Washed in the Blood?"

I was thinking the other day: I don't reckon I've ever lived anywhere as long as I've lived here. Funny how I came to land here (my ex-husband's job). Funny how I've come to stay here (joint-custodial arrangement). But this place must be as good as--if not better than--any other, and I love how, even as things change, so many things, here, stay just the same. Sometimes I almost feel folded in, tucked in, as though at last I belong.

Cade, TEN YEARS AGO, at the Power Show