Cats and Dolls, only decidedly not on Broadway

Sometimes I want to feel anonymous. I live in the country;

I enjoy my serving of solitude with a side of going to town or at least going on the internet.

But sometimes I want to know someone's reading. Anyone?

In some of my pictures you can tell where we live

but most often I crop them just so to obscure our location.

Cropping is the only photo editing I know how to do.

Beyond my picket in the top photo you can glimpse ... the (in)famous underground house and the dear little red school. There's Chester Cheese, whom I have been trying without success to rename "Charles Dickens," on his way to visit the forest behind the school. I hear there're mice in them there woods.

And if you'll go with me for a moment of melancholy?

There's my baby's last year of little girlhood, right there,

with a view of the church that's also across the road.

We live in the middle of nowhere and the middle of everything.

We play tea parties with our dolls.

We obsess about that twisted post on the garden fence more than is healthy.

Chester still won't answer to "Charles."

Nor "Dickens." He thinks, in fact, he's camo cat among the fallen cherry branches.

Some daffodils still remain and the weeds flourish.

And Salvador's learning to drive. As all ten-month babies do.

Was your weekend wonderful? Do you have any tips on renaming a cat?

Or possibly on the subject of rural socialization problems among homeschooling mothers?

Hmm, now there's a subject for further consideration....