||Hello! Rob LeBlanc, dit White, alias Captain Jason Redbeard here,
though perhaps that name might be changed to greybeard as I look into the
mirror. Join us, please. Pull up a chair by the potbellied stove
and listen to a yarn or two, then add your own tales to the "mix."
You're invited, you friends, writers, artists, poets and philosophers of the Universe --drop in and share your stories with us. You'll find there's always a friendly ear, eager for a new idea. Let us know how you're doing:. Send me a word or two at: firstname.lastname@example.org
Finding artifacts of yesterday:
chipped bathroom tiles and twisted bicycle wheels
Cast off parts of broken lives...
Fragments of Eternity among the piles
Of weary dolls-eyes and battered limbs.
Sometimes I salvaged what I could
But mostly there was nothing left behind
One thing or another climbed out of the pile
and escaped, for a while . . .
|Here at A Shop For Dreamers we hope you feel
"at home". Rest and relax. Please take off your shoes and pour yourself
a warm cup of tea -- Early Grey is always on the stove, or something stronger,
if you can find it. You're safe here among friends and relatives.
Think of the "etcheonda" as a village of sorts, having a central commons with rough hewn buildings and pathways leading into the hills. Our main street wanders a bit wavery, snake-like, down the center of our small town.
There are side roads with houses and shops, craftsfolk places where you can find a variety of services. In one place you might have your horse shod. There's an apothecary shop, a clockmaker, a tinsmith, a bookshop, craft-place, tea house, a magicians lodgings, a resident poet. There's a tavern over there, and lots of comfortable houses; some galleries too wherein live a variety of strange and interesting folks...
Down there, near the center of town is a comfortable, but plain lodging house. The LeBlanc Family Inn by name.
There's one road leading out of town, but immediately as you leave our village the road forks off into several directions with signs pointing to "A Gallery For Dreamers" and another road leading toward "The Lone Willow Farm."
The Gallery is a place much like Lord Dunsany's "Shop On GoBy Street"
where almost anything can be found on its cobwebbed shelves. You might
enjoy the adventures of two small girls as they try to outwit the witch
of the grandfather clock in "Time Enough For All."
Or by following the "Footprints of the Exiled"
you might wander in the direction of those Acadian exiles of yesterday,
to their history and genealogy. And yet there are many other trails branching
off like the arms of an old tree -- Yggdrasil perhaps -- the tree of life,
reaching far into the past of our ancestors, your own ancestors, or into
the future. You can find the way, your way. You have only to discover the
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