COMING HOME

Home again, very late, full-to-brimming with visiting and family and little moments shared, diced out into segments of time and togetherness, with one, and two, and all as a great mosaic of the time we were away, flying by like the pages of those first movie-machines, in symbol of time passing and fleeting moments.

My eyes are full of laughing round baby and crape myrtle and the long lush mountain vistas and the familiar, dear smile of Chris' Mom, twinkling her gentle way into all the hearts within her gaze.

And my heart's full of the heft of that little boy, round and rosy, with his enchanting green eyes and charming conversation and way of winding his small self into your thoughts as if he'd never NOT been there. He has the most endearing little way of giving a little snort of breath between yelps when the bottle's empty or the nipple's withdrawn, and we've all been copying it and giggling like idiots all weekend. I'm sure it will become a silly gesture in the family album of many silly moments and memories, uniquely his and unforgettable.

And the travel---stops at a couple of our favorite places, a few bring-homes which no trip is complete without, like fresh peanuts for boiling and a big wedge of Hoop Cheese, orangely rich, full of as much distinctly Old Southern flavor and as famous in its way as the boasted fromage arrays of la belle France.

We're unpacking today, getting to rights all the carry-bags---an unbelievable number for two people for two days, but the cooking was for anywhere from ten to twenty, and the snacks/toys/ games/books for three who could not join us this time, and so were returned home, with the incentive of a meeting-trip in TN in September for an important birthday.

And so, from the depths of that huge car trunk to this disarrayed den to the proper putting-aways and launderings and foldings and setting-to-rights, I'll have a busy day ahead, for I've frittered away the pre-noon with coffee and catching up. We arrived home after midnight, and so are slow to get into pace this morning.

Much, much more to relate---simple family things and little observations from the soft dandelion fluff of that dear head I kissed as we left his Mom's sweet company, to the huge golden swans-as-finials on a simple country gate observed in passing,

moire non,

rachel

TAKING OFF

We're hitting the road in a minute---WAY down to the coast, to meet that new GRANDSON and see lots of family. I cooked all day yesterday so I won't have to do too much once we get there, and Sam's supplies of paper products are badly depleted, as well.

Caro and Company will carry on in our absence, keeping the ship afloat and on course, and we'll see you back here on Sunday!!

Thank you all for everything. Everybody have a SAFE and happy weekend!

rachel

LEMONADE STAND

Shades of Summer, tastes of Childhood, Memories of Times Ago---tangy with citrus, sweet with clouds of sugar swirled into a tornado of flavors, seasoned with the times and places and people who share the simple, wonderful, cooling drink.

And today, my friend Maggie wrote of her youngest daughter's wish for a Lemonade Stand---staple of childhood entrepreneurs, small wage earners, eager young businesspeople in their first flush of independent commerce. Little ones try out their hands at preparing, at serving, at making change, at the polite exchanges which accompany small and great transactions, and then learn a bit more of their places in things. They pour a cup, set it out to the customer, take their coin in exchange, smile a Thank You.

And some things, too old for five or six, or even fifteen or sixteen---those things engender a wish to help and to do good and to make things better. Great things are sought and expected by a little child, fending off loss, dancing in the light with a spoon, a jug, some cups. Great things beyond her ken are accomplished, echoing past her imagination.

Today's post on Maggie's blog is a perfect example of her capture of emotions, of life, of things everyday and extraordinary. She writes with a scalpel-hand, cleaving away all the extraneous stone from the sculpture of her words, and what is left is shining, clean, perfect---standing smooth and tall as Michelangelo's marble.

Maggie is of the age to be my daughter, but she's who I'd like to be when I grow up.

http://okayfinedammit.com/2010/07/the-lemonade-stand-in-memory-of-chris-funk/

Lemonade will never taste the same again.

HAPPY FOURTH!

We wish a Happy and Safe Fourth to You ALL!

GARDEN GLIMPSES

First of quite a few days when our Little One will be away, and it’s oddly silent in the house, save for the hum of the A/C and the cheery little chuckle as the ice machine does his frosty work. The patio is shielded on all sides by overgrown shrubbery and grapevines, the house and the two garages, so I and my First Cup make my way out in my long sleepshirt, as the birds continue their own day-greetings. A long, loving-the-cool-of-the-morning stretch beneath the BIGGGG tree, and a look around the dawn-damp lawn. Chris’ tomato forest is flourishing.
(Do click for better viewing)

There are relics from our lives, from our travels, from the other places we’ve lived: A churn which has held its quota of Grace Church Pickles in their 21-day-steep, a moss-covered grindstone, rocks we’ve picked up on roadsides and creekbeds, and a dear old friend---Miss Effie, who began her life as a gaudy decoration on the lawn of a rental house, and who was tossed into the rent-a-dumpster by the cleaning crew readying the house for sale. They’d left her legs stuck into the Oxalis bed, so she's in eternal nurture mode, sitting on her nest. We've brought her with us through three houses, and she's been sitting gracefully beneath the big tree these many years. Occasionally we’re surprised and delighted by the gift of a few pale pastel eggs which appear beneath her plump little proud swell, and are glad she’s a part of the family.

The sun’s still way over the buildings and trees, and as I sit down in one of the big green chairs, setting my coffee on the arm and leaning back, the sight of our tallest tree never ceases to awe and amaze me. She’s a sixty-footer or so, and the GrandChildren call her the “kissing tree,” for the three big trunks, surely once three small shoots making their lifetime-way from the ground, are closely grown, two of them fused over the decades for about ten feet, and the center one puckered into a big smooch onto the third, which seems to stand stolidly enduring the embrace like a standoffish aunt guarding her coiffure.

It’s a chapel of sorts, this sheltering tree, with its own spirituality and meaning, and it was one of the main reasons we bought this house; the sounds through the limbs and leaves, the dapply shade as the wind moves through, the five squirrel-nests, barely visible in Summer, which welcome the small creatures for their rest in the cold times. And the shade has a special cool to it; just stepping beneath the great height casts a cooling shadow like the welcome chill of riding through shade in late afternoon with the windows down.

Across the way toward the bigger garage is a little vignette that I treasure---a clutch of daisies, set into the ground from their gift-pot when they’d run their course, and now yards wide, with their accompanying white petunias in their own pots---all white and green.

About ten years ago, a teensy grapevine made its tentative way from behind the one hosta plant which came with the house, twining thready little tendrils up against the siding. I gave it a little trellis, then as it grew larger the next year, we brought home a big metal wine-rack, left rusting outside a grocery store. It’s in the shape of a bunch of grapes, with each grape a hollowed shell for resting the bottles.

Grapevine climbed, she did, covering the shape, grabbing the gutters, seeking the wires, and made a neat outline around the side door, unused for years. You can see the grape trellis and the original hosta beneath, so glad of the sheltering shade.

Now she covers two humps of the big garage, and has made her way across wires perhaps twenty feet in both directions---one toward the house, and the other branch heading for the back garden.

Rounding that corner, you have a view of the Morning Vista, past the red, white and blue petunias and the small gazing ball which glows at night, across the wide swath of ivy creeping its feet and yards into the lawn, and out to the big old yard bell in the distant shade, and the free-standing gate into the arbor.

The herb beds on the left are so lushly growing, and making welcome such a covering of grass---the month-long rain since we planted all the flower seeds seems to have drowned all but the hardiest of the plants---only the glads are standing proud and tall, and the garlic chives seem to be thriving---perhaps it's their blade-shape so akin to the grass which helps them slice their way into being when the tender little dicots and micro-seeds gave up the battle.

There’s the always-welcoming little sitting area, for a gardeny cup of tea, and I’ll imagine that you're joining me---I’ll brush a leaf from the chair, float a billowy cloth upon the table, set out the pink-flowered cups beneath the Tree Cup Tree, and we’ll have a chat out there in the GREEN.