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From a Pulitzer Prize–winning writer comes an exuberant memoir of personal loss and longing, and finding connection on the remote Azorean islands of the Atlantic Ocean.
Reporter Diana Marcum is in crisis. A long-buried personal sadness is enfolding her—and her career is stalled—when she stumbles upon an unusual group of immigrants living in rural California. She follows them on their annual return to the remote Azorean islands in the Atlantic Ocean, where bulls run down village streets, volcanoes are active, and the people celebrate festas to ease their saudade, a longing so deep that the Portuguese word for it can’t be fully translated.
Years later, California is in a terrible drought, the wildfires seem to never end, and Diana finds herself still dreaming of those islands and the chuva—a rain so soft you don’t notice when it begins or ends.
With her troublesome Labrador retriever, Murphy, in tow, Diana returns to the islands of her dreams only to discover that there are still things she longs for—and one of them may be a most unexpected love.
225 pages, Kindle Edition
First published August 1, 2018
The humidity keeps the hills a rich green and means that a wildfire won’t burn, but it can be hard on pudding-headed sorts overly concerned with the texture of their hair. Like me. Redheads are vulnerable to such worries. We’re conditioned to believe that there’s only a few flyaway hairs’ difference between siren and Pippi Longstocking, Little Orphan Annie, or Witchiepoo.
It was like when I was a waitress in Palm Springs, California, which hosts a lot of kinky conventions. The restaurants would get a list of what groups were in town, and it was always interesting to note that the Mennonite Women’s Quilting Group was booked the same week as the Inland Empire Spankers or some such.
During the Rim Fire in California, a huge pyrocumulus cloud formed every afternoon. People in Groveland, a little (by California standards) town of six hundred, came out and stood in front of their clapboard houses and potted geraniums and watched as the firecloud grew higher than the Sierra Nevada. I would stand there awed, and without words I deeply understood that if it didn’t rain, the next fires could be even bigger, and if the rains did come and they were too hard or too much, those burned hillsides would wash away in floods. It was all so precarious--right on the edge of cataclysmic. But nearby were flowers in flower boxes and pines that had not burned and a lost dog that had returned home and a restaurant opening for dinner, and you could feel everyone in the street breathing sighs of gratitude that it was all still here. If even for just a little longer.