Embracing the Present

Children have neither past nor future; they enjoy the present, which very few of us do. --La Bruyere: Les Caracteres

Be a Good Little Monkey and TRY TO STAY OUT OF MISCHIEF

Things I thought I would never type into my Googler:

Brussel Sprout Recipes
White frothy bugs on strawberries
Remove Crayon from Computer Screen

Look, we don't have much of value in our house. When guilt presses about 'having too much stuff' we play the house-burning game: "So the house burns down while we're gone. So what? What do we really lose?" I think of our family heirloom quilts, our photos maybe, and perhaps all the dried herbs, spices, and freezer full of apple treats I've slaved over for the winter. Maybe our good pots and my Wustoff knife. Our TV is super dinky; our books can be replaced; our furniture has mostly been collected at the side of the road or from thrift stores (ditto for our clothes--not from the roadside, but from Goodwill!).

The only things we have doled out a good amount of money for (as far as our standards go) is our blue Subaru and my computer, and maybe our used piano. You may remember that Merry covered our blue Subaru's hood with scratches fairly recently, pretending it was a team of Laura Ingall's horses. That left the used piano and the computer.

This morning Martin jumped out of bed at 4:30 in the morning in order to accompany his group of freshmen to DC's Holocaust museum. It's a long day, and he won't return until near midnight tonight. This left me in a bit of a bind since the girls have been ill lately and my night class falls tonight. My first plans for childcare fell through and so I finagled things so one of my students will take the first hour and I'll arrive late, after putting the little one to bed and receiving good friend Sally to sit with the girls.

There is one problem about the little ones. Merry is a dream child despite small bouts with eye-rolling. Elspeth is a real joy, but she is half monkey. Truly; I kid you not. I assume this monkey gene comes from my side of the family.

Yesterday we were spending a relatively quiet sick day at home when we heard great crashes from the piano. Martin said, "We've got a little Stravinsky on our hands!"

"I prefer a little Chopin," I countered, and then I went in to enjoy the sweet spectacle of my smallest child flexing her little fingers on our upright Yamaha. What I found was Elspeth, grasping the top of the piano and trouncing with her little feet up and down the old black and whites.

We took precautions, such as closing the key cover, but Elspeth is not to be so easily deterred. This morning I turned my head from writing comments on an essay to find that she had climbed the piano like a flight of stairs and was practically perched on the tippy top, where she knocked off the African drum and what-not on top.

Please note I include only her wildest escapades. There are many, many others not listed here that keeps me on my hands and knees not in prayer but in tidy-up.

I scrapped my comments for that moment and proceeded to a much-needed shower. Now, I do not often indulge myself in showers, a fact that my friends probably mourn. Many days finding me gritting my teeth, swiping my hair into a braid, and continuing as before. But today was a shower day, and I really needed one.

It was a lovely bathe, and Elspeth was curiously quiet and content the entire duration. Which leads me to this:

"When children stand quiet, they have done some ill" (George Herbert: Jacula Prudentum).

Hair wrapped in towel, I found my little monkey-child kneeling on my desk, crayon and pen clamped in tight fists, employing my LCD computer screen as an easel.

I need go no further except to advise that if you have a good little monkey who is alas, often very curious, the best remedy for a scribbled computer screen is to buff it, very slowly and patiently, and doubtlessly with a great deal of fear and trembling, with a soft cloth.

If you do not have any little monkeys, think, then, of all you miss, poor soul. How DO you employ time when there are no small daily disasters? I pity you, truly. Borrow my little Elspeth at some point and see the light of a truly exciting existence.

Wazoo's Flowers

Perhaps Wazoo Farm's flowers are at their best in late September. . .

A Good Spray of Worry Be-Gone

Last night, Nancy's three kids came over to watch Pinocchio with my girls. I popped popcorn and passed out organic lollipops and they had a wonderful time. Nancy and I quartered ourselves in the warm kitchen. The scents of simmering apples and Thai chicken lingered in the air. We sipped vanilla lattes while she stitched up napkins, I put away applesauce and folded laundry.

Pinocchio finally ended and Elspeth, hopped up on cane sugar, hopped straight into the sharp edge of my flip top desk, which I had just popped down to write Nancy a check for the squash she brought me from Farmer's Market. Elspeth bounced off the desk into a heap on the floor and after a second began wailing.

Well, let me tell you: I am a no-worry, hands-off kind of parent, and a good thing, too, because Elspeth is a Class A bruiser. I can't count the times she has bashed into things, and she survives all the hair-raising encounters, including the time she fell down my parent's stairwell with an open pair of adult scissors in hand. But last night, Elspeth's crash worried me, because of the sharpness of the desk edge and the fact that I believed it had poked the soft part of her temple by her eye. She evidenced no dizziness or disorientation and I told myself, after she fell soundly and quickly to sleep, and after I read Dr. Sears online, that I probably had nothing to worry over.

But the stillness of the house entered my own chest, and I was a bit afraid. Every parent knows this echoing sort of stillness inside, when you are suddenly and unexpectedly worried over a child. When Merry was born, anxieties were new and constant enough, but with Elspeth I have barely pursued the tense, holding-my-breath and "listening-for-breathing" periods at night.

I believe my own fatigue and Martin's absence (berating his rhyming poetry students) contributed to my anxiety. A startling sense of all that normally seems permanent, to be taken for granted, assumed, suddenly was shaken by a simple but rough bump on the head. My sense of calm, of dailiness, felt shaken.

But of course there was nothing to worry over. After checking on the girls, I fell into a deep sleep and this morning Elspeth was cheerful and engaged in just as much mischief as ever, tipping over vases and what-not. If anything, small encounters with worry--small, and hopefully not unreasonable or wallowing--do make me treasure my children all the more. My Nana was a terrible worrier and her shadow often lingers in my mind as a warning NOT to worry, to trust, to relax and let go. But how hard is that? For every day there is a letting go, a release of what I sense I must hold onto more tightly every minute. But the grasping and the squeezing is a mistake, and makes me smaller inside. I hope for safety and a simple life full of beauty and goodness, but whatever comes to me is a gift, and whatever is taken from me was not mine to begin with.

But when the house is empty and my child has been hurt, this wisdom becomes hard to find through clouds of fear. Peace to you, my child, peace that your mother often struggles to receive. Can parents give gifts they often need most themselves? I do hope so; otherwise, I will have very little to give my girls.

Defeated Again by a Simple Machine

A week or so later, and three bushels of apples still remain on my back porch. Between Martin's classes, my class, the children, doctor's appointments, etc., there just hasn't been the time.

Today, however, still wearing my robe and sans shower, I decided to tackle the apple peeler contraption my good friend Tonya lent me. Tonya's history rivals Laura Pioneer's. She raised and slaughtered her own chickens, cracked the black walnuts her parents had already pulverized with the car wheels, worked long hours in huge gardens, and today still manages a garden, a neat-as-a-pin house, and her job, children, and preserves. She had the compassion to lend me her super-duper simple apple/potato peeler, and today, after a doing silent battle with my shadow-self that doubts my ability to work simple machines, I unpacked what should have been a great time-saver.

I fiddled with the thing for a while. I even read the directions and studied the diagram. I unscrewed bolts and rescrewed them. I stuck a poor MacIntosh onto the three-tipped coring blade. I futilely turned the handle to no avail. The peeler merely massaged the skin of my apple. Finally, in exasperation, I set it aside. Yes, I admit: I have been defeated by yet another simple machine.

I do have something to show for my morning. I peeled three apples by hand, and I finally shucked the sweating bag of corn that has been slumping in a bag on my back porch, soaking up the day's sun. I braved the cheesy smell that the molding corn leaves omitted, removed the fat worms and rot, and parboiled the rest, ready for freezing. I read Elspeth a few books and Merry and I finally changed the sheets on the bed. And two days ago, instead of preparing for my night class, I finally hacked down sheaves of basil, mountained it on my table, and hung it with twine. Our sun room is beginning to near Monk Cadfael's work room in appearance, and the smell is lovely.

Oh, and Sally, another friend and friendly arborist, pointed to our Locust tree and said, "That's a black walnut."

"No!" I reassured her. "That's a locust."

"Are you SURE?" she asked. "Look at the green pods."

"Those are conkers," I reassured her again. I know this from watching Kipper the Dog.

A period followed where we waded through the high grass to study the green pods, while Sally mildly mocked my use of the word "conker" and generally insisted on the black walnut idea.

Well, I'll be jiggered, as they say.

Martin looked up the black walnut that night, and a perfect pictorial description popped up on our screen. The tree at the bottom of the hill, and my inspiration tree that grows outside my office window--they are indeed black walnut trees. I'll be a hen's niece. I feel like a cad, as if I have been calling a good friend by the wrong name for a good year without knowing it.

Which, by the way, I seem to do at regular intervals at my night class, to the blank, somewhat injured responses of my students. I think I lost most of their confidence when I called emphatically called a chap "Joe," when there has never, and will never be, anyone named Joe in my classroom.

Defeated by machines and names. Well, it could be worse, after all.

And now I need a shower and then on to apple peeling, the old fashioned way.

Pots of Applesauce

For girl's night tonight (Martin's night class evening), Merry chose to watch part of Little Women. I sat next to her, tired out from my apple-baking marathon. Today at the Farmer's Market, I purchased four bushels of MacIntosh apples. My regular apple lady, who usually has truck loads of multiple varieties all autumn, had to dig to find a couple bags of Gala, a variety I prefer for eating. First my favorite local apple growers were hit with an untimely freeze, then with a frost and finally with hail. While I worried briefly about my own apple-baking/saucing supply for winter, they must worry about how they will pay bills. A life of a farmer, as a friend pointed out, is not any easy one. But the friendly woman across the table smiled as usual. Her face is beautiful and I can only surmise its textures reflect the orchard she loves and tends, etched as it is with laugh lines, warmed and tanned by the sun.

Elspeth begged loudly for an apple. I loaded heaving bags of blushing red and green apples into her stroller and she and Merry bit happily into Galas, with the crisp crunch! that only marks fresh autumn apples.

This afternoon, encouraged along by NPR (until I got sick of NPR voices) and a long conversation with my sister, I peeled, cored, and chopped the first bushel, and then I baked a quadruple recipe of my favorite Dutch apple bread, which tastes far more like cake than any boring old bread. I use a recipe from More With Less, but I doctor it with half oil, half whole wheat pastry flour, extra cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves, exta apples, and a healthy coating of cinnamon sugar. It makes a creamy, buttery batter that you feel like eating even before it lands in the oven.

Martin took the girls to the park, dropped them hastily in the door, and took off. By this time apple bread covered the stove top, and Elspeth managed to crumble a piece all over the downstairs rooms. Just in time to save Elspeth from bedtime (she was overjoyed and proceeded to wreak mischief, turning on my coffee maker, dumping water out of a pail and over her feet, and demanding a lollipop), a good friend arrived at the door. Her little girl clambered up our front stairs with a gallon of homemade apple cider. Evidently her grandfather had recently found a few old apple trees on their property; they had chopped the apples and cranked out frothy, dark cider.

My pot of browning apple pieces sat ready on the stove. Just before Little Women, I added some cider and cinnamon and left the apples to simmer. Soon the house filled with a deep, earthy scent. Due to my comatose state in front of the TV, I actually let the apples overboil just a tad, but the only harm that did was to create a smoother applesauce than I usually turn out. I mixed in some brown sugar and a little more cinnamon, and Merry and I shared a warm bowl of apple sauce--tangy and perfect as pie filling--just before bedtime.

Only three more bushels to go. Before I hit the other orchard, that is. I heard Little Green Apples actually mixes different varieties in the same bushel. Hoorah for autumn, for Pennsylvania and its apple orchards! Hoorah for Johnny Appleseed! Hoorah for big freezers!

Where Faith and Learning Intersect, by Merry

[I am dictating for Merry here, just before bedtime. For those of you who wonder about the intersection of faith and learning, a good example follows, complete with preface and conclusion. All by Merry:]

The story is so people can know they're going to heaven someday, but the story isn't really true. The story was kind of made up by a very good author that wrote it, and if you would like to write it down on your computer, you can do it if you want to. And you can teach this to your children. Even if your children don't know the song, you can teach them the story. PS. If you want to ever listen to this song, you can just come over for a show to my house so you can learn about the song more easily. . .and because the author told it in a very imaginative way.

[SONG FOLLOWS:]

Six and Seven went to heaven, all upon a summer's day!
When they got there, did they pray!
And they were overjoyed to see God in heaven,
And when they saw him they were so happy to pray.
And find the way
to go to heaven.
But no one knew where Six and Seven had gone to heaven,
But Two did know,
And Two did show,
When Two got there she said, Who are you?. . .
And Savior said, You three, what are you doing here for me?
And then Two said, We want to see the Savior.
And so Six and Two and Seven went back to their normal place
where they did live forever.
And they did die and went to heaven one day.

[pause]

Oh, I have another thing for the author's note. This is so you can learn your numbers by counting by sevens. You can look at it in your book and count along if you want to. You can even look at it on blog. But make sure to remember this song!

Woman Glimpses Autumn, More in Love Than Ever

The windows are open to the breezes, and the breezes are cool and light, and full of the promise of fall. I feel like a bird who has been released from under a stone. While some dread the weather turning as a bleak foreshadowing to winter, I have never been so grateful for the tint of yellow in the trees outside my window, for the rain that crushed the humidity and sent heavy heat away to some other corner of America. Good riddance!

I decided to let all that would go to seed in the garden, hoping that the birds will gather their own harvest. The sunflowers are heavy and bent with seeds. I've the let the kale go, hoping that just in time the weather will turn and its bitter leaves will sweeten.

I feel the promise of clean air, blankets on beds, big pots of cinnamoned applesauce simmering. Already I turned out gallons of grape juice and freezer jelly from the concord miracles our friends shared with us. The hot grape juice tasted for all the world like mulling cider, and suddenly we are all alight with the excitement of autumn.

The Real Thing

Mmmm. CRAVING Pad Thai. What would I give for a big hot bowl of steaming Pad Thai? My first born? The deed to my house? Our blue Subaru? Don't tempt me, man.

Our dear friends dropped off a bag of purple grapes at our front door this morning, freshly plucked from a friend's arbor. They are beautiful, variegated blue and lavender, green as spring grass and blue as a deep summer patch of sea. The slick innards of the grape explode in my mouth, followed by an eruption of intense flavor, and suddenly all the imitation grape flavor I have ever experienced is a distant shadow.

(This morning I plucked a red tomato and breathed in an almost-perfect white rose.)

* * * *

In a pathetic attempt to fill my intense Pad Thai-shaped-hole, I succumbed to weakness and actually bought a Real Thai box at discount. I never do rash things like this, so I was careful to scan the ingredients before I paid my 1.50. The box sat on my counter, tempting me, until finally today I gave in. Have you labored over Pad Thai, browning egg, carefully setting it aside, working then through a long list of ingredients, ending by feverishly stirring curling noodles as the sweat pours from your brow?

I had my own Real Pad Thai, in its rectangular plastic container (fork included), in three minutes. I panicked briefly over the missing vacuum-packed peanut packet (had I thrown it out with the sealed dehydrated vegetable packet???) for a moment, but all was saved and I sprinkled the pale nut bits over my reddish noodles. It smelled delicious, and I was hungry enough to gobble it quickly as I read the somewhat myopic, self-indulgent account of Alice Steinbach's jaunt to find lemon curd in the Cotswalds.

After lunch, I lingered with my pile of non recyclable trash, an odd aftertaste, and a greasy container. The verdict? Not good. I popped a few grapes and drank two glasses of milk to free myself from the Real Thai taste, though I could not completely rid myself of regret as I filled the garbage can with the proof of my instant lunch. Just goes to show, there's nothing like the real thing, baby. No matter how much you want Pad Thai, you can't have it in three minutes.

* * * *

Yesterday Merry attended school at the home of said grape-friends above. She enjoyed it immensely and I enjoyed a trip to Big Lots and then to the grocery. Beyond the pleasure of the flat of organic canned tomatoes and promising Real Thai meal I bought at steep discount in the brightly lit aisles of Big Lots (accompanied by the half-pleasure, half-pain screams of Elspeth, who insisted on chucking her shoe into the aisle), I lingered in parking spaces with the air conditioning on while Elspeth and I drank in the voice of Luciano Pavarotti, booming out arias and taking us up, up, up, away from the parking lot of Giant Eagle in Greene County, away on the pure strains of Ave Maria.

To bear such a voice within your ribs! The sheer responsibility of it! (Though my father tried to convince us that it was him singing on the tape, not Placido Domingo, no astounding operatic voices have occurred in our family history).

My earliest experience of Pavarotti began with my uncle Ken's trip out to Kenya. I must have been 13 or so, living in a whitewashed maisonette in the middle of the dirty, bustling city of Nairobi with its bumpy back roads and stunning flowers that grew everywhere--bougainvillea on garbage piles, morning glories on our thorny hedges! Uncle Ken, clad in safari hat and equipped with camera, came bearing an unbelievable Christmas gift for us: a CD player (rare in that year!) and a whole collection of CDs. Among the gleaming discs were Bette Middler, which I listened to repeatedly, and Pavarotti and Friends. I gloried in this opera for the plebeian, in the unbelievable soaring strains of three male voices, vocal cords opened to the heights of mountain winds and speeding trains and endless blue ocean!

And in my older, slightly more weary day yesterday, shut up safely in the walls of our blue Suburu, among the litter of children and a flat of canned tomatoes and bags of boxed macaroni and cheese, as people backed out cars onto the dirty tarmac, Elspeth and I gloried in the otherworldly experience of a truly great voice. We thrilled with joy and longing, entered into the boundless world of beauty.

There's nothing, nothing like the real thing.

For Meredith

Meredith spent her childhood in a house that was always full of family. She never could find a place to herself, not in that house full of her grandmother and her mother and her red-headed sister. Her aunts lived in a row down Divine Street, and they and their husbands and her cousins were always around, smoking and making pots of roux and playing cards and laughing up a good thunderstorm, which was always welcome in that house where there was no air conditioning.

Meredith attended Catholic school there in New Orleans, and folded her hands every Sunday at mass (and ate a few powdered sugared beignets at Cafe du Monde). Her father died of a heart attack when she was still young. There are other deeply painful experiences in her life that she has told me about, and I have sat transfixed and watched her, this lovely woman who has lived through so much. And then she grew into a beauty with luminescent eyes and long waving brown hair, and finally Meredith left New Orleans, and that set her apart from the rest of her family, who surely wondered why she wanted to pack up and head to Houston. But she loved Houston, and she loved this man named Ken who looked like John Denver and wielded a mean camera out of helicopters.

She gave her two children what she had always wanted when she was a child: rooms of their own. I like to think of her decorating that first house, a space that belonged to her finally. But she never stopped sharing her space. She transformed their dining room into a bedroom and then, for all of her children's childhood, she cared for her own bed-ridden mother. I like to watch her talk about her mother. She is honest and frank about her own shortcomings, but I know how her long care for her ill mother gentled her children and made them wise. Her children learned compassion and tenderness from watching their mother care for their grandmother. For two years she cared for her father-in-law as well. The stories of those times are full of humor, and in good southern fashion she peppers the tales with knee-slapping guffaws. She still laughs this way at Ken's jokes, and I see by watching them how good love can last through many years. In this way she brought up my husband Martin, and in this way she cares for us now, for the folks at her church and for her four grandchildren.

I always gain weight at my mother-in-law's house. She is generous with her kitchen (only forbidding me once in a blue moon: "I mean it, now; I'm going to clean this up by myself") but nobody cooks up a pot of Louisiana beans and rice like she does. I can never hope to brown roux as perfectly and all I want for Christmas any year is a big helping of her unbelievable gumbo, chock-full of shrimp she deveins by hand for hours and crab meat and okra.

I know a few quirky things about my mother-in-law. (What daughter-in-law doesn't?) I know she closes down a restaurant because she eats much more slowly than she talks. I know well that she has watched every episode ever made of "Murder She Wrote." I well know her sayings: "Here's the deal. . ." and "Advice is free" and I have experienced her skilled hand and the way she teases when she plays cards.

I also know a few things about Meredith's dreams. I hope to see her tooling up the East Coast some day, her face alight in the blaze of fall. I don't know about filling that bunkhouse full of grandchildren, but I know four girls running around her house is pretty good for now.

And today, on her birthday, I would like to thank my mother-in-law for the way she has lived her life, and for the way she shares her stories with me as though I were her own flesh and blood. I'd like to congratulate her for her vigorous laughter and I bend my knee to her for bringing up such a good, rare man as her son. I want to thank her for her love for my children and the tenderness and affection she shows to her husband. For her hands that gentle at the sight of an elderly person, for her eyes that steel with love and courage at the mention of God, for her kisses and hugs and late night card games, for the way she has weathered each year, bad or good, with grace--thank you.

Mother of Mercy

A warm day today, with a warmer one predicted tomorrow. The airlessness in the house begins to press in on me around five or so--combined with the screams of the girls and the smells of supper. As we sang over dinner tonight, I felt jagged around the edges and none too relaxed.

And in the quiet that followed dinner, while Martin took the girls up to their bath and I scraped beans off the floor, I found a little room to think.

I've been thinking about Mother Theresa lately.

To millions her work still shines as the example of Christlike devotion. It brought her the Nobel Peace Prize and beatification by Pope John Paul. But once she began her work in India she never heard God's voice again. Nine years after she founded her mission in Calcutta she wrote, "What do I labour for? If there be no God -- there can be no soul -- if there is no Soul then Jesus -- You also are not true."

"Even the sisters around her had no idea of the length and the depth," Kolodiejchuk said.

. . . .

But while the faithful see her struggle as inspirational, some atheists are taking it as confirmation of their own rational doubts and proof that the faithless can display enormous benevolence.

"Of course nonbelievers all over the world display compassion," said Dan Barker of the Freedom From Religion Foundation. "She was forced to go through the motions and admitted her own hypocrisy."
--excerpt from ABC World News with Charles Gibson, August 24, 2007

I would like to see Mother Theresa's critics devote one hour of service to the poor the way Mother Theresa labored, and then maybe we'll give a minute to this pathetic, triumphant schlock.

In thinking about Mother Theresa and her choice to persevere in doing right and showing mercy, I realize how much I work for rewards, intrinsic (makes me feel good to think I am a good mother and a disciplined person) and for the quiet cup of tea, the chocolate, the Netflix at the end of the day. When my work goes unnoticed I make jolly well sure somebody notes it and verbally congratulates me.

I imagine all rewards stripped away and replaced with a ringing sort of emptiness. What would make me continue being tender and gentle with my children? I have a great deal of trouble tempering a stomach flu without impressing my notable suffering upon Martin and whomever will listen. I groan and measure my own misery deep inside, hoping for a quick end. When I am lonely, unless I am nursing self-pity, I look for a sure and swift way to stop my loneliness. When I am in pain I reach for Tylenol; when I am tired of the suffering of the world I flick off NPR and avoid CNN online. When my children are sick I pant for the hour they will be well. And I only work ceaselessly for those whom I love, and who love me in return.

So this news about Mother Theresa, these letters expressing her doubt and uncertainties--they take me from humility to a stunned silence. Sainthood undoubtedly will be granted. The kind of life Mother Theresa lived will be misunderstood by many, just as pain and suffering and compassion and mercy are misunderstood. I don't begin to grasp it all. I do know that Mother Theresa's letters do not raise doubts in me as to the existence of God; if anything, they are an overwhelming persuasion that God is real, beyond feeling or sentiment.

Late Lackadaisical Summer

In spring, everything--the depths of the grass, one jonnyjumpup opening its face to the sun--seemed like a miracle.


Late summer makes me lazy. I take so much for granted. By this time, the jonnyjumpups have faded and the zinnias are twirling like fabulously skirted dancers next to the delicate fireworks of the cosmos and the lacy caps of dill.


I let Elspeth pluck zinnia heads; in fact, I encourage anyone with a love of bright colors and the perfect cut flower to harvest the beauties. No amount of cutting seems to make an ounce of difference.



My neighbor gave me a plastic bag full of cosmos seeds some short three months ago. I patted them into the earth in late May or early June with a sort of grumpy doubt--the same doubt I secretly harbor about every seed I drop into the earth. When I returned from the beach in August, the cosmos had exploded. What a wonderful surprise to find it all orange! I find it makes a bit of a mess as a cut flower, while the zinnias retain their posture and petal patterns like silk flowers when cut.


Today, reading Elspeth Bear About Town, a wonderful sturdy boardbook about a quirky, colorful bear who lives in a sort of London town and frequents such towny places as the bakery, the market, the gym, SplashAlley pool, the theatre (on a rainy day), etc., strolling down towny streets and waving at other hip bears walking dogs, I felt suddenly struck by the full realization of the utter simplicity of our life. We grow flowers and vegetables (sloppily); we read books; we take naps; sometimes our only outing is into the garden. The mail carrier dropping the mail into our postbox is an occasion, as is the Thursday rumbling of the garbage truck and an occasional good storm. Today my major accomplishment was baking homemade yeast rolls and reading an endless stack of books to Elspeth.

For the tiniest second I thought perhaps Bear's town life offered the opportunities we miss. I could be strolling Elspeth through town to a cafe or taking Merry to swimming lessons. And then I looked around at the endless sea of books around us, and out of the sunroom windows at the garden, and I realized that there is good all around, and this simple existence, though it occasionally seems long on hot days, is chock-full of goodness and graciousness. And this simple life, this rhythm of childhood will pass as quickly as a picture book. Let it last! Let it last!

Like in the Olden Days (Sort Of)

Ohiopyle State Park, After a picnic of pb & cherry jam, carrot sticks and cookies, September 2