Bell Towers

Hello y’all!

This is Ginger writing from somewhere in Illinois!  And heck!  It sure does feel good to be settin’ in the shade surrounded by the sound of church bells.  I have a mind to climb up in the bell tower and just… swing!  Why, I remember when I was just a little girl living on a island off the coast of Norway—and I would walk up through them heathery hills, past the pixie dens and  ‘possum palaces (back then opossums weren’t in gangs—nor did they get in street fights with pit bulls), all the way up to the bell tower… and I’d either climb up on the old rot-coated, mossy bricks, or catch a lift up with a swarm of seabirds.

From the top I could see all the way to Iceland, though occasionally large flocks of narwhals would do their best to block the view.  Well, I’d just clamber up on the the bell and start soft shoeing, you know; tap dancing and beat boxing and free styling and pretty soon the whole sky would be full of atonal dissonance.  It was super fly.  Really, it was.

Now, I must say, I just don’t get why Sebastian doesn’t like church bells… Sure his recollections may not be as sweet as mine, but I’d bet he’s played in a band with some vagrant raccoons or at least whistled with stink badgers a few times in his youth.  A little out of tune bell noise should be like music to his ears after that kind of thing.

Anyway, I gotta shuffle off…  We’re bound for Iowa this morning, and oops (!), it isn’t morning any more.  My, how time flies when you’re thinking of your childhood in the mythical state of Jefferson.  Well, I’ll be checkin’ in later, but on our other blog.

Talk to you soon! (ttyl!),

Ginger