Floaty Dirt

“I’m the son of Nicholas Cage and Marie Presley,” said the owner of the record shop Dave and I stopped in on our way to the Washington coast. That the place was filled to the brim from the smoke of a freshly put-out cigarette made me grateful to have a mask on.

In between rifling through stacks of vinyl, the man pointed to a photo of Jimi Hendrix on the wall. The glare from the protective glass made it difficult for me to see it. “I’m friends with the family. Did music together. You won’t get something like that online.”

He talked non-stop, a salesman by trade I supposed. As he rambled out the costs of the memorabilia and name-dropped a mile a minute my head spun.

We bought three records in total, and as I stepped outside I turned to Dave, my mouth gaping open instinctively from the surprise of the stop. Then, for close to thirty minutes I tried to validate the nans man’s tales on google. But that’s a rabbit hole of time I won’t be getting back.

We went on a short walk in the rain and cold and I pointed out moss and ferns to Evelyn. She did a good job of repeating the words back and did an even better job of stomping through all the puddles.

I love trying to describe things to a toddler. Like dust. How do you explain dust using minimal words? Well, this is how I did it; floaty dirt. Dust is floaty dirt.

If you haven’t seen the documentary “Winter On Fire,” please do. It’s about the people of Ukraine’s fight for freedom, and the lengths the government goes to stop them. It happened seven years ago, and I think provides a bit of context for what’s going on currently.

Anyway, I need to get to bed. I have an upset toddler next to me that won’t sleep in her bed, so stopping the click-clacking of keys is a must.

Goodnight y’all.

Love, Jaclynn

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