One little Indian.

John Derian brought a finely-shaped brown box to dinner at our house the other night. What was in it? The get-up for one little Indian girl. Marguerite fits the part perfectly. Even though she is French in oh-so-many ways, she looks like a real, true, Native American girl.



We took the costumed girl out into the streets of the Big Apple.





There, she found a big thing to ride.



Next, we entered a magical park, where silvery droplets hung.







And Marc sat and entertained on a bench.





And then the little Indian was so tired...

Gender in the making.

She was eyeing the doll too, Marguerite.

Magical.

Prancing under the tree, I found a princess making magic.

Two brothers.

Two beautiful brothers of mine. Marc is in NYC, let's celebrate.

By the fountain.

"Curb hug"

Xavier just sent this photo to me at work and it made me stop thinking about work entirely.

Quite a feat at the moment. Thanks, babe.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

"The wonder is that we can see these trees and not wonder more."

In the park.

New York really suits Marguerite. Central Park specifically.

Mademoiselle Marguerite.

Xavier went to Paris this week to bring back the very best part:



We are delighted she is here...



Marguerite is now a proficient writer. She can write her name, but often finds that it is a bit too long and ends up looking like

ITE
MARGUER

when she gets to the bottom and end of a page.



Today was, apparently, Jolina's birthday (we had no idea). She turned 2. Xavier's only comment: "Ça fait trois ans que Jolina a deux ans." (She's been 2 years old for 3 years now).

We went home --->

---to see Paul this weekend. Paul just finished a 2-year Spanish speaking Mormon mission in Miami. Paul is the bomb. I think he found being home pretty strange after all that time soaking up Latin culture. Paul is famous for finding space in his lexicon for phrases like 'whole wheat monkey's jockstrap.' We missed him a lot.



My parents live close to the base of Mount Rainier (on purpose) because they love to hike so much. So that is what we did.










My mama.




Mels, the Johnson who doesn't love to hike, cooked us all the most delectable Sunday soup.


And little Abby brought cousins we love, a cherished Aunt and Uncle and all sorts of merriment with her.

High in the Washington mountains...

...where the leaves are giving burlesque performances...





...Johnsons like to bike.



This is my father's dominant activity now that he has taken up retirement.



Stephen steadies himself, getting ready to keep up.



Bedda squints up at the mountain pass in front of her.



And then they ride.






The finished result.