“SQUAWKING GULPS—AS IF A SALT MARSH WERE GIVEN A VOICE”. Our Christmas ritual is approaching, the one in which I read aloud Pearl Buck’s book CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE MORNING, and we see how far I can get before tearing up.
Sometime this summer I referred to my “tearing up” in response to a sentimental moment, and Annalisa said—fondly—that a better description was: “Squawking gulps—as if a salt marsh were given a voice”.
Annalisa doesn’t recall what she said, but I wrote it down to post on it on Christmas Eve.
It’s a good example of the wit that I am surrounded by.