Escape

This morning, as I leafed through my writing notebook in search of enough blank pages to record an interview, I came across this statement, alone on the paper (but for some kid scribbles):

In moments like these, I plan my escape.
Martin, in his getaway boat

I'm not quite sure what was going on the day I wrote that--an exhale in the midst of an endless grey wintry week, perhaps? Another incident involving children howling, crayons and walls?

As my friend said today after we hauled four children through Walmart, "Some days I just feeling like applying for a new job." Yup. Don't we all, some days, no matter what we're doing.

And. . .speaking of Walmart, I ventured into some unchartered territory today: the men's restroom. Bea split and made a beeline for the restrooms, inexplicably veering around a corner into the land of urinals and big fellas not-fully-clothed. I had no choice but to follow--my first instinct was to close both my eyes, just in case, but I realized in a split second that I could not, so I compromised, closed one eye, and grabbed her by her hot pink hood, sputtering, "Sorry!" at the same time. As I held her around the waist on the way to the car through the dreary parking lot, I laughed out loud. All in all, it was a much finer experience than running after Merry and Elspeth while I was heavily pregnant with Bea--also in Walmart. There's something about that place in particular--I don't go often but when I do, the gods punish me.

Now I've started to chastise myself a bit for feeling momentarily overwhelmed, thinking of all the women who have done much harder jobs than I--most every single one through history, as a matter of fact. My dear Grandma I. fed her family of six before working a night shift, and then she arrived home in time to feed her children breakfast before sending them off to school. She did this for twenty years. And I? Here I am at the computer as Bea sleeps, with a small handful of tasks waiting for me if I feel like doing them. So buck up, me. Stop complaining.

I've got a short story to tackle yet again, written in a slightly different voice than the one I'm accustomed to--for a while I felt like I was wearing clothes too big for me, suspenders that kept falling off my shoulders--but I think it's coming around. Last night I sat down, determined not to be outdone, and plowed through for an hour or so until I finished the first rewrite. And now there's yet another. And another. And another. Which calls for that many, or more, cups of tea. And a cup of tea is a small escape.

Isn't life, escape plans and all, grand?

FYI, folks, just got three short pieces of fiction published at Prick of the Spindle.
:) You can read them by clicking on that pink link up there.

And the OR column this week is my favorite so far, about this wonderful man who lives down the street from us (click on the Observer Reporter link, at right for more). I only wish I could have included all that he told me "off the record." At one point, in true Kim Cockroft bungler-style, I confirmed his wife's name: "So your wife's name is Margaret, right?" He looked humorously horrified and said, "Goodness, don't print that. She'll think I've been running around on her." (His wife's name is Nancy.)

It's a good thing I was taking notes for that interview, because after I'd taped the whole thing with my nifty new recorder, it went off independently; embarrassed at the sound of our voices, I panicked, pressed as many buttons as possible, and subsequently erased the entire thing. Machines stink. Pens rock.

Hot Blasts of Autumn

Bea and I spent the morning walking through the parks that span two of our favorite places--the library and Waynesburg University. Starting across the street at Bowlbly Library (a converted mansion with a resident library cat), we crossed into the greens of College Park and made our way across a little footbridge (stopping to check for trolls), up and around the gazebo, past the tiny pond edged with cattails. We finally edged around the fountain (full but not flowing) and up the steep path that leads to one of the ugliest buildings at the University--a big concrete block constructed in the dark ages of architecture: yellowy windows, no features at all, massive and blank on all sides. The Humanities building. Inside its unyielding walls works one of the most beautiful people ever molded, and from his glass jar we picked an orange lollipop.

It is quite warm again today--high 80's--but a wind gusts every now and then, the leaves drift across the grass, and the hills have begun to turn yellow. Merry's huge pumpkin out in the pool garden is striated with deep jade and dark orange. Tomorrow the weather is supposed to finally give up and become autumnal. High of 68 is what I hear. Now, that's something to celebrate!

I'm about to put an enormous bottle of white wine in the refrigerator. We will pop the cork, eat some Supersweet cherry tomatoes, and toast the real end of summer.

Elspea's Flights

Elspeth came back from a women's soccer game at the U full of news of Polima, who is her friend with red hair and blue eyes who lives in a white house with a black flag. And did you know that through our bedroom window, you can see not only the swing set calling Elspeth out to swing and the bright blue sky of morning, but you can see camels? Many of them, by the sound of it.

And last night Elspeth had a dream in which a throne became a wave the size of China that covered our house and all our belongings, including Merry's elephant. "After I dreamt that, I came into bed with you," she said. On first report, the wave also engulfed Elspea's Pink Bear, but that was a mistake. "I was actually holding pink bear," Elspeth clarified.

This is not to mention the reports of Elspeth's preschool teacher climbing through the roof (this was last year), the mountains of candy distributed freely at snacktime, or the horrendously scary stories some gentleman told all the children at recess.

I wish I could remember them all for you. But it's ten and my mind is trickling away. I wonder if Polima ever feels that way.

Egg Yolks

Is there anything more satisfying than the moment a taut cherry tomato POPS in your mouth?

Confession: I also love popping egg yolks in my mouth. I wait until nobody is watching and then I shovel in the entire yolk and. . .ah, bliss. This disgusts Martin. It may also disgust you. My friend Lindsay (see her blog, Light on the Ridge, in Calling Cards) just wrote a delightful piece about her family harvesting local eggs from a friend and her "girls." She's right about the difference between eggs straight from under a "girl" or an egg from a crate at market--the shells are beautiful, the yolks bright as suns. We get our eggs from our good friend Mike, who also sells pork from his "boys--" the main reason, for certain, that I am not a vegetarian. Ohhhhh, man, are his pigs deeeelicious. Even our vegetarian family breaks down and shovels in mouthful of Mike's pork or goes for a bite of his thick-cut, peppered bacon. Here's a chicken pic in return for yours, Linds.
I LOVE food. It is one of the most dear things of this life.

What is more glorious: the first golden cherry tomato of summer (or red, if you prefer), or the initial crunch of autumn's first apple, say a really good, hard Gala or the almost bitter Arkansas Black? It's almost time for a trip to one of our local orchards. This year, the kids and I are going picking for a change.

Oh, man, I am tired out tonight. I feel as though I can't quite keep the momentum going. You guessed it. Girl's Night. A walk through an uncommonly warm afternoon, spaghetti, broccoli delivered into our mouths by our fingers. Merry was shirtless and Elspeth was in her underwear. Try to figure that one out.

The girls did well, dressing themselves and each other for bed, tidying up, and obeying without too much fuss. And I am still exhausted. The powers that be forecast temperatures in the high 80s for the rest of the week. In Lindsay's blog, she's all get-upped in this darling woolen hat. I may just have to break out the girls' shorts again. It's been scorching these past months. Will somebody please remind me to water the yellowing plants on my front porch? I've given up on the hanging geranium. I'm not attentive enough. The romance is over.

Martin Loses Locks. . . AND. . . Merry Encounters Tabloids

WHO IS MARTIN AND WHO IS EZRA POUND (from Wikipedia)?



MARTIN GETS ALL CUT UP
This man cuts me up. I mean, I cut this man up, or his hair at least. I had to eat a lot of gummy letters to get through this particular hair cut. Martin began the evening by showing me a ridiculous--but informative--video on YouTube of a gorgeous woman with dark hair cutting the locks of "her man." I think Martin figured I would have received an excellent education because he confidently set up our salon in the kitchen, complete with "Arrested Development" on the lap-top. I shook open the gummy candy and turned on the razor.
BEFORE
Three episodes later. Martin and I have had an argument (consisting of his doubts being vocalized insistently that I was NOT following the video instruction)--I won because I had the clippers and the scissors. The clippers pretty much jumped up the back of his neck and sheared him like a sheep. I put those away in a hurry, my distrust of machines proven yet again. And then I set to, clipping close to the scalp, eating gummy candies, and trying not to say, "Whoops" out loud.
AFTER
Here's "My Man," lookin good, like I knew he would. Like a British folk rock star.
_________________________________________
On the way home from a friend's house this afternoon, Merry said, "Mommy can you turn [the music] down? I have something very important to tell you."

(Background: she and her friend, Cat, had gone to Walmart together earlier this afternoon.)

Merry began to explain: "Cat and I were looking at a magazine at the store, and it had a picture of President Obama on it."

"Really?"

"Yes, and it said Obama wants a baby, but Mitchell does not.

"I think her name is Michelle, honey."

"And then it had a bubble with an arrow on it that pointed to Obama's finger and the bubble said, NO WEDDING RING."

Martin and I were beginning to grin but Merry was grave.

"It said, Mitchell and Obama have a TERRIBLE FIGHT! They looked very serious. The picture said, NO WEDDING RING." Later Merry said, "Cat said they're divorced. Or they're about to be."

Merry, welcome to the beautiful, scintillating world of tabloids at check-out lines, where the world is full of endless possibilities and opportunities for gossip.

In Moments Like

If I were a comic strip character, I'd say "ARG!" just about now. Today, after church and two soccer games, Elspeth dipped into the tupperware of rice and, presumably, ran across the kitchen with it into the dining room. And someone drew on the wood floors with chalk. The kids watched TV this afternoon and threw their cheese-stick wrappers on the floor. My pretty brown leather shoes now officially pinch my toes. And in an effort to enjoy the evening, we went on a walk that actually stressed me out MORE--children ran amok toward roads (Bea hasn't quite learned yet), Merry insisted on riding a scooter over the cracked sidewalks, and I pushed a big, empty stroller and shouted: Stop right there! Stop!!!

In moments like these. That phrase takes me back to 6th grade, Nairobi, Kenya, our school on a hill surrounded by coffee bushes. The UN compound was within walking distance down a smoothly paved, quiet road. My first year there under enormous spreading trees. Mr. O's classroom. He and his wife had painted his desk in zebra stripes. I remember him as a tall man with hairy nostrils and a high, nasal voice who distrusted me, accused me of cheating, and then made me pray with him in the back of the classroom. He mocked my way of writing cursive "Ls" by demonstrating on the chalk board for the class. His favorite word was audacity, as in, You have the audacity to come in here and. . .I must give him thanks for one thing, though: under his tutelage I learned once and for all that A LOT is two words, not one. Oh, thank you, Mr. O. Good work.

Not uncommonly, our class sang praise songs in the morning. Carla D. was by far the holiest of all the girls: she would actually lift her hands in the air, palms up, and sing In moments like these, I lift up my hands. . . I can see her now with her blond Dutch bob and that unbelievably cute, lopsided grin. She could pray well, too, and she always had a following of devoted boys. I--Kimberly Long with the incorrect L--boasted badly cut bangs and acne. I'd also not yet learned that wearing a bra (a BIG deal in sixth grade, mind you) under a white cotton shirt could expose me to ridicule.

In moments like these. In such times as now, when I realize that my life is full of bits of chaos, good things, frustrating minutes and hours and a fuller measure of love than I deserve--in fifteen minute increments when I've been encouraged to take a time-out--I can begin to breathe again. There is the sound of crying from downstairs, but there's also the sound of birds singing as they fly across a darkening sky outside my window.

So I gather my skirts, lift them above the mire of my own issues, and slog on until I get to some dry, grassy ground. Here I go. Bedtime for the children. Teeth to be brushed, stories read, nightgowns donned. Then, QUIET.

FYI, jolly Sunday people, here's a link to my newest column in the paper.

Working From Home--ha, ha--Working in the Home?--Working not on the home but in the home

Good souls, all. I am actively ignoring tasks: three baskets of laundry, one turned over, guts spilled across the floor; wet sheets in the washer; pizza dough for dinner unmixed and unformed. My desk is a disaster--pages of a short story in a kafuffle with notes to myself about poetry and a column, all marked up, waiting correction; the CLMP blue book, cover bent, bristling with make-do bookmarks, and folders overlapping Merry's spelling words and Elspeth's pictures. And this is only the room I can see at this moment, from one angle. My life feels similarly scattered: appointments I must make, phone calls and e-mails to compose, prayers to write for church, and a million pieces of minutiae. And then this funny sort of bungling through writing--currently I have poems, columns, creative nonfiction, and a short story in progress (with the kid's stuff simmering on the back burner). I am in the midst of two books, one great novel by David James Duncan and one travel book by William Least Heat-Moon, and I've got three or four waiting.

So right now, I am forging ahead, not into the frigid waters of obligations, but through the warm, salty sea of my own private lagoon: first a cup of tea, then writing. As a friend of mine said this noon about the lunch dishes, "We'll let the Help get this--" of course there is no help except the kind that comes at the end of the day in a form of a partner arriving home or in the plea to the Greater Power: Somebody HELP ME, though God does not do dishes or fold laundry.

When home and work is the same place, it's best to be able to shove all the duties of one to the side for a few hours--it's the only way, really, and though I never imagined I'd be able to work in such a sty, I can. It's like I open a door into A Room of One's Own--not a physical place as yet but a good mental place. And everyone needs one of those, yes?

Happy weekend, everyone. Go and do something lovely. Multiply your best idea of happy hour and spend many of them the next two days with precious people you love, without working about your to-do lists. I'll try to do the same. We'll meet on Monday and see how well we did. Deal?

One More Random Picture, Last One

I have to switch gears after feeling besmattered and besmirtched by that message on the dump truck. So here is a dragon for you. I don't know why. But it's not a dump truck.

Another Random Picture

So we were stuck behind this truck for miles, crawling up a hill. We had ample time to study the message: SHOW ME YOUR PUPPIES. However, we were unable, in the end, to come up with any conclusions.

My first thoughts, after the initial surprise and ensuing muddle, was of Cruella de Ville and her cry for a spotted coat; but now I have this sneaking feeling that the intent was a bit more smarmy. If this is the case, though, why is the command written in in such goofy, cartoonish print?

Finally, after a year, a woman at preschool pickup concluded one of my more puzzling wonders--her bumper sticker that read: LOUD PIPES SAVE LIVES. Well, my goodness, if I wasn't snookered for a while. Yesterday, on the lawn of the Catholic Church, she and her perfect tan paused to explain. It turns out she and her husband rode Harleys once upon a time, and the louder the pipes on such a vehicle, the better you're heard. Theoretically, anyway. She said it actually made little difference and presumably they almost got killed anyway. The other bumper sticker on her SUV--the one about rounding 2nd base--I understood without prompting, though she generously offered a hint about that one, something to do with going back to high school. No problem. I got the bases down. See those three girls of mine? I understand.

Come on, guys. Illuminate me. SHOW ME YOUR INSIGHTS. Solve one of the more pressing mysteries of my life. Let me sleep at night once more.

Random Picture, Random News

This picture made me grin when I stumbled across it today. Martin, face cloaked in chops, standing on the corner of Winslow, Arizona. From that song comes one of my favorite pieces of advice of all time: DON'T LET THE SOUND OF YOUR OWN WHEELS DRIVE YOU CRAZY.

So should I be concerned about the crashing, breaking sounds echoing up the stairs from the kitchen were Elspeth is currently skipping her nap? Is that the sound of my own wheels, or the sound of someone else's wheels that should not drive me crazy? For the record, I'd love to be standing, right now, on the corner of Winslow, Arizona. Or maybe be the fine girl in the Ford.

Speaking of which,

Wrinkles. Elspeth pointed to a particularly deep furrow in my brow and asked, "How do you do that, Mommy?"

Oh, here's Merry with a message:

Did you know that Elspeth and Ben have pulled out noodles, beans, honey. . . .

Is it a mess?

In the sunroom, not too bad, but the kitchen is a TOTAL DISASTER.

Take it easy. . .take it easy. . .

Hello, darlings all.
A little news to share: this girl's in the paper! I ALWAYS follow my mother's advice--you should, too, if you've got a rockin' jolly mama like I do--and asked the local paper if I could write a column for them. So now I'm a Sunday columnist! Yahoo! Follow a link here if you're interested--and please don't make fun of my picture. The smile is a little forced, but I'm not used to head shots, even with the extremely talented photo-taker (my friend Sal). Okay, make fun of the picture. Go for it.

J-E-L-L-O, etc.

I'm not a big jello person. But when my mother was here, the girls grabbed a box off of the grocery shelf with such hope that I didn't say no. Later, after we mixed the bright green powder into boiling water, I even talked over my mother's explanation of gelatin to save them from the Big Jello Truth, the one that has stopped me from putting the jiggly stuff in my mouth for years. MADE OUT OF CRUSHED ANIMAL BONES. That did it for me, my friends. All those 1950's jello molds, all the old dusty cookbooks with gorgeous fruit-marshmallow-jello creations in the shape of bunnies and buildings--none of these have a place in my house. But jello makes innocent kids happy, and I'm all for encouraging a little bliss now and then.

So. . .this is what I emptied into the sink tonight: a mass of smashed emerald-colored jello mixed with smushed tomatoes and raspberries--the delicious concoction of Elspeth dearest who smuggled a jello cup upstairs where she began mixing a little of this and a little of that on her dresser, dumping a bit into a fabric block mixed with other non-food objects, like a bead necklace. At bedtime I also found a fork, a patty-pan of supersweet cherry tomatoes harvested from the garden, and a small collection of rocks. Did I mention that I spent a precious bit of my weekend cleaning the girls' room, a job that brings astonishment and disgust even to this most experienced and hardened parent?

Also, Bea had procured a pen and scribbled on a wall, a two-year old's masterpiece that may have looked like something to her but appears chaotic, blue, scribbly, to the rest of us. This futile attempt at tidying a room ends in the sort of frustration that brings me to emote thusly against my better judgement:

IF YOU GIRLS DON'T START PICKING UP I'M GOING TO THROW ALL THIS STUFF AWAY!
IF YOU WANT TO LIVE LIKE ANIMALS (insert empty threat here).
MOMMY HAS BETTER THINGS TO DO WITH HER TIME THAN CLEAN UP PIG-STIES!
ETC. (CREATE YOUR OWN THREAT HERE--IT'S FUN AND PRODUCTIVE).

Truth is, part of my frustration comes from deep within--a suspicion that, this very afternoon, life has become slippery and out of control. This is due to our lawn, which is totally and completely disgraceful, choked with ragweed; our front steps, which seem to be crumbling; a list of unfinished tasks that I don't want to face. Instead I stretch myself out beside Elspeth at naptime. This little devil of mine presses her mouth to my cheek and says: "Mommy, I fell in love with you. I'm never going to leave you." And I stroke her back as she falls asleep, watch her breath become deep and even, and I think, She'll never remember this moment when she promised me she'd never leave. She'll leave, and she'll be happy, and I'll miss her.

And it's all right. All the rest of it--the jello, the silly things that clutter my life and make me lose my temper--those things are peripheral to this core of precious, simple love, these few moments afforded to me by a generous and gracious hand, this love that blinds me, hews me in two, fills me with such gratitude.

Quick note: Here's a shameless bit of self promotion: I'm such a goober (that's not the shameless part--here it comes:) I just found out that if you go to Cold Mountain Review's website (there's a shameless link on the bottom right hand under "Scribblings") and click on my name, you can see my entire essay there! Woohoo! It took me quite a while to figure this out. Goober. Me. That sounds like a mild oath: "Goober me, boys, I've got the treasure!" By jove, mates all, I figured out the link!

Happinesses

I've nothing in particular to share with you good people tonight. Perhaps I could take the wisps of pink that hung low in the sky, roll them up like ribbons, and present them to you--you could trim your hat with sunset tomorrow, tie up some late zinnias, wrap it around your wrist--your pulse would pump under this evening's prenight colors.

My mother is off on a pwane as Bea says. What a good mother she is, and not only because she helps me in a myriad of ways. She is an avid reader, a brilliant conversationalist, a word-smith extraordinaire, and she tends to give as a way of life. She's always got her fork and knife poised to devour a new idea or our new stories or poems. And Martin articulated something about her that I hadn't really put my finger on yet: One great thing about your mother, he said, Is she really believes in love between spouses, and she does everything in her power to celebrate that. He pointed to my mother's parents, who lost love early in their marriage, and then to my mother and father's marriage, which has been marked by dynamic, nurturing, and at times, giddy love.

My mother is a big fan of Martin, and though I already tend to think he's the cat's meow, she makes sure I know he's no puny meow but a big roar of a man. I've always known she's a big fan of mine, and she is an advocate for continuing da love between Martin and me--she pushes us out the door for walks, presses a check into my hand and sends us out to dinner. She's a good sort, my mother. I'm a big fan of hers--can you tell? And continuing to admire your parents after thirty-something years is no small thing.

For some reason, I just remembered a senior writing class in college where a classmate of mine critiqued my essay on the basis of the speaker coming across as too happy (the speaker was me). That has been my problem for years now--I'm too dark on one end of the market and too happy for the other end (I just got three short pieces of fiction accepted at Prick of the Spindle so I must have struck the right balance for them, anyway). And I try to continue as a fairly happy person--much of this is due to my good, good life and much is due to my eternally optimistic personality--but I've also been learning to seize the happinesses that pass by me, enjoy them with as much relish as I can muster, and then--ideally--understand that my hands must stay open for them to pass. Bea on my bed tonight as we read books: a great happiness almost too lovely to bear--she's growing so quickly and someday she will be happiness for other people, not just her dear family.

I'm teetering on the dangerous edge of melancholy so I'll end by cataloguing these few but enormous joys: my mother, father, siblings, children, husband. A feather duvet, summer's last tomatoes, autumn in the air. The first apple of September; dear, dear friends, belly laughs. The creak of my front door, the sound of footsteps. What are your glorious happinesses tonight?

Did You See That Dog?

Martin's night class every Tuesday means Girl's Night at Wazoo Farm--we eat early, pack on the candy, and watch TV. Okay, so it's a bit of a cliche--maybe we four females should be playing Scrabble or conjugating French verbs or writing proposals for energy conservation. Instead we eat gobstoppers and watch claymation. Life is full of compromise. Girl's Night with candy today, Nobel Prize tomorrow.

Tonight we had an extra girl--my dear mama, who's been letting me write in the morning and goof off with Martin, picking grapes and taking walks JUST THE TWO OF US(we also gallivanted off to eat sushi, our favorite thing to do without the kids).

Tonight the four of us women walked downtown and ordered barbecue sandwiches. Get this, the barbecue restaurant has switched locations and thus upgraded from a roll of papertowels to cloth napkins; from a concrete floor to carpet; bright turquoise walls (cracking) to dark maroon and ornamental wallpaper. BAD changes for a family like mine, whose eating experience includes mac-n-cheese all over the floor, children batting each other with fries, and everybody squirting their own ketchup. The new stuffy digs made me a little nervous, even though the pulled pork was as good as ever. Elspeth wanted to snuggle my left arm as I ate and Bea kept grabbing a full cup of soda and leaning over the edge of her highchair so it seemed she'd fall out, face-first, into the small meadow of noodles she'd dropped all over the floor. Sigh. A trough would be easier.

After barbecue we fastened the kids in the car and sought a little unwinding time in the winding roads of our county. We enjoyed the hills, golden with late sunlight, an old stone house up the hill from an ancient red barn, a one-room schoolhouse on a corner under spreading trees. We enjoyed the children who were plugged in and could not do much more than hit each other, make up, pinch each other, make up--and etc. On the way home, almost to town, I spied three boys above the road on a ridge, standing under a lovely tree, bellies pressed to a white picket fence. As we drove by, I saw a chunky kid in a red T-shirt pull his hand back and hurl something at our car, his mouth open in rapt anticipation.

Two driveways down, I swung the Subaru into an empty parking lot and headed back for the red T-shirt kid. I felt the sort of righteous excitement that adults who usually do not believe they are really adults feel, mixed with the same giddy anticipation the kid might have felt when he chucked the projectile at our car. I was going to put the fear of God in this kid, I thought as our tires crunched over the gravel of the driveway.

I had to hand it to them. As I swung open my door and looked over the top of the car, they just stood there looking at me. I would have fled, ashamed and shaking, and dove under my bed. I would have been petrified if an adult came zooming back in their car to give me what-for.

"Were you all throwing things at my car?"

They shrugged a little but not in a sneaky way. Then two of them pointed at the kid with the short hair and the red T.

"He did it."

"You threw something at my car."

No attempt to deny the undeniable. As I began to explain the dangers of throwing things at cars, the kid talked over the top of me with happy enthusiasm.

"See that dog up there?" he said, pointing up the driveway. "It's a pure-bred Husky."

"I do see that dog up there." I felt I must not be pressing my point. "No throwing things at cars, okay?"

"He's a pure-bred Husky. You see that dog? He's white and he's got blue eyes--"

Now a group of adults had stirred out of the garage by the pure-bred Husky with blue eyes.

"They were throwing things at the car!" I yelled up the driveway. In a lower voice, I reassured the kid again. "Yes, I DO see the dog up there." The man in a white T-shirt strode down toward us.

"Which one?" he asked.

I pointed the red T-shirt kid out. Then I sized up the man and began to soft-pedal. "It's okay, though. Just wanted to make sure they were being safe."

I did not want to be responsible for a kid getting whaled on by an embarrassed dad. Dad said, "Up to the house, boy." Then he said, "We don't live here--we were just helping out some friends. He was throwing apples at cars a couple of days ago."

Mom and I both tried to smooth things over as much as possible. Oddly, I felt moved by the kid's lack of repentance--maybe I had overreacted to a regular kid-thing. Hadn't I, as a kid, spread cattail fluff in the highway and watched semis create snowflurries? Or maybe I gave into this funny suspicion, that it couldn't be ME making a fuss as I am still not quite an adult(I think I am, really, but I don't feel it). Or maybe this kid suckered us all. As I backed the Subaru out of the driveway, the adults up by the Husky waved to us in such a friendly way you might have thought we'd all just shared an apple pie and a pot of coffee.

What a dog. Did you see that dog? It's pure-bred Husky with blue eyes. You don't see that kind of dog every day.

Hippy Hoppy

This woman is still spry as a spring-chicken. (So that's where Martin gets his sense of shake-it!)

Personalize funny videos and birthday eCards at JibJab!

Happy Birthday, Grandma in Texas! It would have been nice if we could have convinced Beatrix to sing Come On, Sweet Pea properly, but by the time we turned on our camera she had dissolved into sillier attention-getting tactics. So here are the bits in honor of your birthday!

Weather Shifts

I believe the seasons are changing right now outside my window. At this instant storm clouds blow low across the the tops of the green hills; wind gusts through the ornamental plum. The cosmos are dipping their bright orange heads to black seed. The children, besweatered, pick the last of the raspberries.

We'll still have some weeks of fine tomatoes if the weather doesn't fall too low. Otherwise, as confirmed by our neighbors--the mother and daughter who live with a little white dog down the old brick road--we'll be slicing them in a pan and frying up some crispy green tomatoes. Martin intended to plant a whole crop of greens and sugarsnap peas, but he's back in his teaching mode and we'll be lucky if he mows the grass before I do.

I adore sweater weather, especially after the oppressive 90+ days we've endured so much of lately. Yesterday this time the temperature was climbing with a blazing sun in a clear sky but even last night when Mom and I walked to the ridge overlooking town, the weather was changing. The clouds were unbelievable: Renaissance clouds, Mom called them--great scoops of white cream, mounded thick and high, a thousand edges outlined in silver. When we tipped our heads back, loose buttercup-colored fluff trailed away, white wisps across blue.

I haven't seen clouds like this in many years. My mother reflected that my Nana, a painter, would have been beside herself with excitement at such a spectacle. Were I still a child, I would have pictured my Nana up in heaven with God, shaping those clouds with her hands and a sculptor's knife, tipping bottles of glitter and highlighting each golden curve with her fingertips. Looking down on us on that ridge in Pennsylvania, she would have blown them down over our heads, smiling at our open-mouthed wonder.

My Teacher's Pretty

News of Merry's first week at school:

My teacher's SO pretty.
My teacher lets us *chew gum*!
Not much more than that. But really, who could need or ask for more?
I folded to the pressure--Merry's bad memories of 'kids making fun of her plain backpack--and the night before school started, with a very bad attitude because--A. I hate crafting and B. I hate ironing--I affixed the butterfly transfers and pinned on the beads. No silly kids are gonna make fun of MY girl's backpack! (This parent also has her priorities straight.)