There is no way to catch you up. We've had 6 events since we last blogged about our time on the road and each one has been different in terms of tone and timing and space. We've been at a pie shop, a painter's studio, an art gallery, and 3 libraries. We've met so many kind, generous people and have helped hundreds of them make tiny books. We've had deep conversations, brief time with dear friends, dips in glacial swimming holes, good food, hearty laughter, and the gift of a wider community building everywhere we go. My son joined us for 10 days and I don't have the words to describe how good it felt to share our work with him and spend miles and miles with nothing between us but wind and sun.
But I'd like to tell you about yesterday at the Ojai Library. It was hot. Really hot. Across the street some trees were being trimmed and the sawdust from the wood chipper was swirling in the air when we arrived at the library, the debris nearly choking us. But the parking lot had been completely cleared and the librarian greeted us with a squeal and ran around the desk to welcome all of us in. Sherry and Christine were traveling with us, making it feel like a party.
People began to trickle in and we jumped into bookmaking and showing off the collection. The excitement built. A family from Chicago came in and their son excitedly began folding paper and typing on the typewriter. Leslie and her daughter arrived with huge joyful hugs. Kellen delighted in a tiny book called "Jokes. Yay!"
Across the library a group of children were clearly studying. Later, I found out that it was an ESL group who comes to the library every summer day to practice their reading skills. I felt a strange disconnect between their studiousness and our raucous fun just thirty feet away. One of their pre-school aged siblings sat at our table cutting bits of paper. When I asked if she wanted to make a tiny book, she shook her head "no." Her mother shyly watched me teach someone else the accordion fold and mimicked my folding movements. When we got to the last step she held up her prototype and asked if I could instruct her on the final creases, a wide smile breaking open when I marveled at the way she had simply observed and learned. Seconds later her demure daughter wanted to make a tiny book, too.
Eventually the ESL program ended and one of the women working with them brought two young boys over and asked if we could teach them to make books. Then 2 girls. Then 2 more. Then 3. Then a couple more. Suddenly the entire group had joined us and several of their mothers, as well. More people came in and the room was buzzing with fantastic friendly energy. All hands were on deck. Sherry, Christine, Travis, and Evlyn all jumped in to help show people how to make books. I felt like corking a bottle of champagne.
Christine captured this photo just after our event ended. Outside of the caravan in the quieted dusty parking lot, our overt joy feels contagious. The word lucky suddenly doesn't seem immense enough. Damn lucky.
I'd like to tell you about kindness. Kathy's gift of cut paper accompanying our stash in the trailer, and the oohs and aahs of workshop participants since who have made covers for their tiny books with it. Jonathan's welcome and Miles' magic tricks and Amy D.'s iced tea and chicken pot pie and Luna's eagerness and Flora's generous offer of time and space. I'd like to tell you about the ranch in Redmond and Okie Scrabble with Pixie and Skye and Cinnamon and the delight and ease of it all. I'd like to tell you about swimming with Ivy, and how saying goodbye made my heart pinchier than I'd expected. I'd like to tell you about how hot Sacramento was and how the bottles of chilled water that Barbara gave us were just the tip of the iceberg of joy. I'd like to tell you about how hard Evlyn worked and how easy she made it look. And the marvel of The Brickhouse Gallery and everything it stands for. I'd like to tell you about entering California and the flood of memories it brought back. And the uncomplicated beauty of Mt. Shasta and the more complicated beauty of the lake beneath it. I'd like to tell you about 27 Powers and seeing Laurie and Stef again and how everything fit so neatly into itself, like the perfect, secret pocket. I'd like to tell you about P and K-town and their friends at the library and the stack of tiny books that piled steadily to the heavens. I'd like to tell you about Sherry's squeal of joy and behind the scenes and Madonna Inn at 10:30 p.m. and how sweet the truffles were. I'd like to tell you about long drives and road snacks and gas-station coffee and chile-lime Doritos and handfuls of almonds from the front seat. I'd like to tell you about the Pacific Coast Highway and that otherworldly fog and Christine's marriage of intelligence and laughter that ups my own bar. I'd like to tell you about bacon costumes and re-envisioning Wonder Woman and sage in the front yard and a hummingbird alighting, ever so briefly, on a branch. And the cresting of dolphins to my right as we barreled along at 65 miles an hour. But how I saw them nevertheless. I saw them all.