|Etta James and I inside in the late afternoon|
I’ve reached a point in my figure-it-out construction style, where I need to saw limbs for pieces to fit. This has irritated an old rotator cuff issue, and like me, the hut has developed a stoop to her back.
|Miss Hut with her sloping back|
|The Mother Hole|
Located just four miles from the burial place of my Civil War ancestors, the hole fit my full body standing up. I dug, descended, and resurrected back out on a hand-made ladder. I created a cylinder of marble-lined emptiness that was “full of fullness”, to ask my mother about the nature of death.