From Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale

People disappear when they die. Their voices, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living mempry of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continut to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humour, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.

--Diane Setterfield



Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Other 4th of July

Jaedyn and Dad were playing and she got the hang of doing an 'airplane' for the first time.
She got all fancied up for the party.

Just before we left we saw this and realized why she has been so fussy and eating nothing the past week. Poor baby. We doctored it up with a fancy red light Mom and Aunty Emm use on their horses' injuries and it cleared right up (gone) before we left fore home that night.

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