Turning onto the main drag we look for a place to park without great success. Cars accessorized with different states’ plates, packed full of travelers gear, line both sides of the narrow lane. Just as we reach the street’s far west end, we find a small space to slide our car into.
We step up onto the crumbling concrete sidewalk, his hand opened wide, inviting my own. Grabbing it, we walk the familiar path eastward. The sky, donning its morning slate cardigan hovers above us. Salted air skims our skin; I drag it in deeply, filling my lungs with its pleasantly peaceful scent.
Trinket, tchotchke, souvenir shops with windows filled wave for our attention, but our eyes dial in our target up the small incline. One step in front of the other, stepping aside for groups walking back down – some returning to their cars, some to the bluffs, some to take their cooped up pup for a walk – like a folk dance, native to this small spec of a town.
Without a word exchanged, we step into the first of our routine stops. Pretty jewelry, nice paintings, some woodwork we stop to examine and the fat cat that’s always in the back gets a chin scratch.
Cross the street, up the white stairs, local artists’ work and one to chat with as we find a perfectly personal present to tuck away.
A few doors down, canvases steal our breath – our eyes fooled, rather than paint we see strokes of light. Jokes about the necessity of kids’ college funds routinely punctuate the visit. And with one last look we return to the crumbling sidewalk.
Pausing for a seafood lunch with a view we can see now that the coastal sky has shed her morning cardigan. We chat, we eat, we agree that nothing we’ve seen sparks us both, yet. Paying the overpriced tourist trap bill we readily signed up for, we walk up a block off the main drag. No sidewalks, just road. There are a handful more stops to make to make the day’s gallery walk complete.
We leisurely stroll back to the car. Not a painting in hand, but the hours’ zen color washed across us. It’s a favorite hue, bookmarked for our annual visit. Carrying it with us, one town north, we step into the next color waiting to paint our day, staining our memories…hopefully, permanently.
2012 has put The Creative back in the driver's seat - but, so far that has been via journaling; (different for me) scrapbooking; inking, painting, doodling in my art journal; trying new GFCF recipes; and lots of photo editing.
The Creative, however, had not joined me in the word pool until I found a little { Magic } in a Ronald Dahl quote, earlier this week. So, I'm tickled pink to finally be responding to a Write on Edge prompt this year!
The prompt is to write a piece, fiction or creative non-fiction, 400 words or less, sparked by "Flavor." Whether that be a taste, spice, or the quality or character found in something is up to us.
The prompt is to write a piece, fiction or creative non-fiction, 400 words or less, sparked by "Flavor." Whether that be a taste, spice, or the quality or character found in something is up to us.
This began as a fictional piece, but it's so colored by memory it definitely falls into the creative non-fiction category. Can you feel the flavor of the memory?
