Men are a mystery

A few weeks ago, Spouse and I packed up the Subaru and my grandmother and went to visit my mother and her husband (StepTom) in lovely slower, lower Delaware.

StepTom is, among other things, an accomplished poet.  He came across a community of men-folk who have kind of a clubhouse out at the end of a dirt road in a working marina. There, he found a spot to get away from it all and write in isolation. This… this… destination is owned by a guy called Captain Speed (I will confirm the name), a pyromaniacal octogenarian – a man’s man who has the biggest shack in the marina, blows up the occasional anvil, and rents out smaller shacks and other structures to interested parties. His hospitality is legendary.

Here is StepTom locking up his half-a-shack (he shares it with the marina office) after giving us the tour.

It’s a pretty cool place full of old broken down trucks and construction equipment, and unlimited opportunities to contract tetanus. The items that make up the landscape are also quite beautiful in sometimes surprising ways.

And some things there have been reorganized into new forms.

I can see why StepTom wanted to be a part of it.

All of which is to say that I haven’t been home before dark for a few days and haven’t had the opportunity to produce an updated photo of the rings.