Somehow, in the space of a week, I have gone from the kind of person who always has the necessities of a day in the city in her bag (bandaids, waterbottle, google map app, subway coloring book) to the kind of person who is always ready to go fishing. The poles live in the back of our car, the bait is in the fridge, but if we are already out, we know all the places where a little tub of worms can be picked up in a pinch. There are towels back there too, along with a bottle of water for drinking and another for catching tadpoles or minnows, and knitting, naturally, in my bag.
And so, in between meetings with mortgage brokers and real estate agents, looking at houses, visiting schools and new jobs, we pop out to the lake to run around, to wade in the shallows, to knit on the banks and to fish.
Briton, who has a hard time focusing on much for more than a few minutes, can fish for hours and hours (and hours) and Evelyn, who will fish off and on, will putter around in the grass picking flowers or stand nose to the water watching the pond life for as long as her brother will fish.
Despite the fact that we are still busy getting settled, it is a slow kind of business, to mirror the slow kind of pace here. And that means long afternoons that stretch into the evenings doing nothing but watching the bobber bob, waiting for the beaver to troll across the pond and slap his tail at the canoers and chase tadpoles from one shady spot to another.
