Dad, Gandalf, — yes, I know you hate it when I do that (I can’t help it, wise, bearded one) — don’t go yet. You’ve still got secrets to whisper in my ear, and I — well, I was stupid. I didn’t listen often enough. I yawned at stories. Left the room to play with my dolls. I never sang along with Down in the Valley, and sometimes, sometimes when I was all too rude, I asked you to stop because I thought I’d heard it too many times.

Dad, Merlin, sing it in my ear again. That one, or maybe the one about the monkey and the weasel and the carpenter’s bench because I promise I’ll screech in surprise at the end just like I did so many years ago.

Dad, Obi-wan, don’t go yet. I won’t even tease you about the robe we gave you that made you look like a Jedi (okay, too late for that), and you can sing all your favorite songs. The valley, the carpenter’s bench, and even the one about acres and acres of clams, alive alive-o.

Breathe. The day is wide as sand, but not beyond reach.

Felines have disrupted my work flow. They threaten me with trips to the zoo to meet their larger cousins.

Oh, Billy, Billy, Billy, don’t ever change.

Those other Idols, they’re just idle. They’ve got nothing on you. You don’t have to warble, sing five notes when you only need one, strain yourself with inappropriate covers of Celine Dion doing inappropriate covers of some other singer we’ve all only heard at one a.m., karaoke night, when no one’s paying attention and the KJ’s desperate.

Billy, you’re still the bomb. My main ’80s man. Well, except for those other guys, but we don’t have to talk about them. They never learned to work the camera like you, all flirt and sneer wrapped up in one.

Four years before the Charge, and on the other side of the continent, he built a fence. No one knew quite what it was supposed to keep out. The rabbits had their run of the place, and folks knew all too well what happens when you try and fence in a pig.

But, he built it anyway, sent it at right angles across the parade grounds, over the hills, through the gullies, and down toward Grandma’s Cove. Grandma used to look out at it — this was long before she was Grandma and back when she was washerwoman to the troops — and say he’d built the darn thing to keep the trees in line. The soldiers were never all that good at lining up, but those trees, by God, they were regimental.

(American Camp on San Juan Island, where George Pickett served before he became a general in the Civil War.)

The early morning sun turned the water to a golden mirror and I, with only black and white film at hand, turned the swamp into a scribble.

And after she set them free, they floated on a breeze to a far off land where all was good and buoyant, and nothing ever popped.

Having great time.
Sandcastle contest a blast.
Kite flying weather perfect.
Come soon.
Bring boat.

(Long Beach Peninsula, Washington.)

Time for a brief check in!

For those of you joining in for the first time, this is Blogathon 2007, and I’m blogging for the Electronic Frontier Foundation. But, since I do a terrible Jerry Lewis impersonation, I’ve chosen not to spend time writing about the cause, but rather just spend time doing art. After all, preserving our right to do art as we see fit is part of what the EFF’s all about.

To read more of what the EFF’s about (and follow some damned funny exploits to boot) drop by L’Enfant Plaza Metro Station. Proprietor Fuzzface is doing a bang-up job as EFF spokesman for this year’s Blogathon.

Now, if you’re new to Belly Timber, you might be asking yourself: Who the hell IS this crazy person and isn’t this supposed to be a food blog?

Well, truth is, we started as a food blog and now (because I’m a firm believer that niche blogging is so last year) we’re more of a whatever-we-damn-well-please blog. The “we,” I should note, includes the husband, the dog, two live cats, and one very persistent dead cat who insists on posting from beyond the grave.

Our old About page is here.

A few of our favorite past posts include:

The Christmas Cookies of Cthulhu

What’s for Pud: Figgy Dowdy (In which we cook Jack Aubrey’s favorite dessert.)

Piggy Goes to War (Which should further explain the two American Camp themed posts I’ve put up today.)

and

Mighty Cheese Warriors: An Historical Perspective (A glimpse into the future archives of the great nation of Gastroblogia.)

A huge thanks to all my sponsors (and there’s still time to join that happy crowd), and to everyone who’s stopped by and left comments so far. I’m going to attempt to catch up enough so that I can actually reply to comments, but I can’t guarantee I’ll ever get there. Seriously, if I get a spare moment, more than likely, I’m heading for the fridge. There’s a jar of peanut butter in there that’s threatening to rebel and feed itself to the dog if I don’t retrieve it this instant!

Look. I’m serious. You do not want to mess with me. See those waves back there? You think they’re just crashing against the shore because they’ve got nothing better to do? No. Those waves are trembling at my presence. So, I’m giving you one last chance. Set down your bag of trail mix and I will let you walk away.