It’s that time of year again. We are packing coolers filled with fresh-yet-hardy vegetables (read cabbage, carrots, potatoes, turnips, other things that will not squish and rot en route, etc.) and setting out for the 36-hour trek to Coffee Point, Alaska.
Of course, we are not packing yet because we do not leave until tomorrow evening, and why would one start packing for a three-week sojourn to the world’s end until the day one leaves? The question is not rhetorical. The baffling wife behind my puzzled musing is Robbi, she who was raised by fishermen and potters and entrepreneurs. She who can sleep standing up in a rainstorm. She who will pack no cooler before its time. I admire this woman. But I do not share her constitution.
A few days from now, the scene will look like this.
Ok. That is a plain lie.
Someone will be holding a fish but that someone will be Robbi.
Since the advent of children in our lives, I have been reassigned to duties more befitting my (lack of) skill and (limited) tolerance for rubber pants. I am the proudly self-proclaimed tundra domestic, and roughly 4,500 miles from here, there is a whisk broom and a box of macaroni with my name on it.
Iggy, sensible elder stateswoman that she is, will be staying here to guard the barn and bark at anyone who comes knocking.
We will share a new batch of photos and stories upon our return.
And we will miss you all.