The thing about all of this, about all of us, about you as well as us or I, is that we think we have too much going on in our focused dust-stuffed corners of the world to give any more.
My mom has written four acclaimed books about Moose River. She has (and believe me, she welcomed but did not expect to) done millions of things with her thoughts and their written output...
She has made at least hundreds of people notice and think about Moose River; she made a girl in a picture from the 1930s show up here, alive, cool and in control of the uncontrollable.
She makes men in sports cars say, "I'm your stalker!" by ways of greetings before they ask her the way to the Old Stone House. Which she does. And they go, and take snapshots through the dusty windows and pass them on to her and tell her things like, YOU'RE RIGHT! HERE'S A PICTURE!
(They are always great pictures; only great moments would cause them, so they'd have to be.)
Here's where whatever keeps Moose River afloat in anyone's (living or dead) mind trembles or stutters, because here's where I say I think this part of it's my job.
So, in lieu of work stories or sleep, here's a picture of a chipmunk. A Wilson, for sure.
