Planting

It's 4:37 on a gorgeous Thursday afternoon.

The sky is blue, and there's a soft breeze in the leaves above me. 

I'm sitting on the deck by some newly-potted geraniums listening to "Either Way," a song off Chris Stapleton's new album.

It's a doozy and I love it.

Slays me every time.

(Kind of really like "Broken Halos" too. Maybe like a lot.)

Suddenly my yard is looking full-blown summer.

My trees have leafed out and I'm running the sprinkler.

(Don't you love that familiar tick-tick-tick-tick sound as the water sprays across the yard? I do.)

Last night I was outside as it was beginning to get dark, watering my tomato and pepper plants 

and the mounds of corn I planted along the fence.

I stood on the periphery of the garden, 

soaking future rows of beets, carrots, and beans, hoping that the water will make those seeds burst underground and show their green faces up above soon.

Standing there, I remembered doing that same thing, 

years ago, at home. 

After trips to the greenhouse with my dad,

I sometimes stood on the periphery of that garden showering water--back and forth--over rows of seeds we'd put in the ground. And don't even get me started on the nostalgia I have when it comes to geraniums.

Over the last 9 days, we've been in the dirt a lot.

We've been to greenhouses picking out flowers and vegetables.

The girls and I worked to weed the garden plot and my neighbor tilled it for us.

We've filled pots with flowers and tucked plants into the soil, all the while looking forward to the color of summer and the ways she tastes when you pick and eat fresh.

These rituals bring peace to my life -- a rhythm, and quiet, and simplicity amid all the noise.

There's just something about a porch that has pots spilling with flowers and green, 

vines heavy with vegetables that become food on the table, 

and dirty fingers and a sweaty body from tending the earth.

By the Spoonful

In other news, this Little Miss has taken to eating homemade raspberry jam, plain, by the spoonful.

I love it.

But really, what's not to love?

Raspberries are beautiful.

Bright red.  Tangy and tart.  Sweet.  Soft.

Juicy.  Delicious.

Reminds me a whole heap of my father, who loved raspberries.

And, incidentally, loved jam.

Bread was really just an excuse for jam.  
The ratio was pretty much a spoonful of jam for every bite of bread. 
(Actually, a few years back, I discovered that his father, my sweet Grandpa, also eats it the same way.  It cracked me up.) 

Once, as a small person, my grandmother found my dad going to town on the counter, eating jam from the jar.
His response?
"What, mom?  It's my medicine."

So yeah.
Generational thing, I guess.

Her Poppi would be so proud.

Thinking About My Mother

(My mom with all of her children -- five lucky girls.)

Yesterday was Mothers Day.

I was sick and spent most of the afternoon in bed.

But I was greeted in the morning by cards from each of the children and Mr. C.

He thanked me for the complete investment I make and the work that I do.

But the thing I've thought about ever since I read his card was this phrase:

"Your version of motherhood is what we celebrate today.  The way that you do it and the way that you make our family feel." (emphasis added)

I guess I appreciated the stamp of approval on the way that I choose to do it, because each of us mothers so differently.  And, often, I think every one I know doesn't always measure up to the mother they wish they were. 

I found myself thinking about my mother yesterday, about the things I feel I specifically learned from her example.

To do my best.

To be honest -- in my decisions, in how I feel, in my interactions with others.  Don't cut corners.

When you clean, do it right.  (I remember her Saturday morning checking off the chores.)

Be fair.

To be courageous and true to yourself.

To not be afraid of other people or other ideas, but rather, to see the beauty in them.

Be frugal.  Evaluate needs and wants, and don't spend money recklessly.

Books are a lovely, magical, wonderful, warm place.  An escape.  Old friends.  Ideas and knowledge and improving yourself are worthwhile.

She gave us lots of room to be children and be imaginative.  When I sometimes start to feel guilty that I maybe should have been more involved with my children on any one day, I remember this about my mother.  

She's a good listening ear.

She'll cry with you when you're sad.

She celebrates the triumphs.

My mother is a classy woman,  but without pretense and certainly not showy.  I love these things about her so much.  The older I get, the more I appreciate her, and the more I see myself in her.  I love the generation of mothers that I've come from -- the legacy of mothering from other hands and other times and other homes.

All I know is that motherhood has been the great privilege of my life, and I feel profoundly grateful for my own mother, and other women who have been exemplars and role models for me.

Truly, it's a wonderful work.

Visiting the Greenhouse

I grew up going to the greenhouses with my dad to buy flowers.

And again, to buy vegetables.

I loved going: rows and rows of flowers, trees and shrubs.  Pulling a little red wagon down the skinny aisle between greenhouses lined with peonies and poppies and other perennials.  I loved peeping in each one to find flowers, vegetables, green plants -- and still do.  It brings with it the warm feeling of familiarity.  I loved working with my dad: mowing the lawn, planting the garden, working in the earth. Sometimes after a morning's work on a Saturday, we'd head down the street to the local drive-in where my mom got her daily refills of Diet Pepsi and he'd buy us a cheeseburger, fry and shake.  Or a grape soda.

Whatever my fancy was.

It's funny how you turn around and you have the little people running around.  I find myself wondering when it all happened, when those mornings with my father slipped away and I grew up and got my own yard.

Yesterday the children and I went with my dad to shop for flowers.

We go every year.

It's something I link so strongly with my father, time with him, tending and planting and looking for beauty.

I heart my dad.

He bought flowers for my birthday and let me choose out what I wanted.  

The children each wanted flowers of their favorite colors, too, and he let them each pick something out to go in the yard.

Isaiah walked with me, pushing my cart.

Dad had the other two.

He bought stuff for his yard; I had a cart for mine.

We admired their huge tomato plants and he got some to put in at his house so he'd have some early harvesting.

We talked about buying red, yellow, orange and green pepper plants soon and splitting the packs up between us so we could have some of each.

We came home and planted the purchases, trying to beat the storm that was coming, dark clouds overhead.

Tending earth links me to lovely memories.

I hope my children will have these same associations, and remember time with me there.

That they'll love the earth, and making their homes beautiful with signs of growth and green and color.

And that they'll know it's a link to their mother and grandfather and great-grandmother and on and on.

I hope they see the witness of God and His creations in this quiet work.

It was windy and wet out last night and this morning there are blossoms and elm seedlings strewn everywhere outside.

But I stood inside, looking out the windows, admiring each newly planted pot, each bloom of color, the bright green and white stripe of a new hosta.

We Play Cards, and I'm So Excited...

I could write you a super long post about why I love my family.

Or why I love my sisters.

Or what's so hilarious about being with them, why I value it so much.

Or my grandparents, who I feel so blessed to know so well and have spent so much time with.

But this weekend, we will be having round two of something that almost runs in our blood.

A few months back we gathered for a Pinochle game at my Grandpa's.

Generations of die-hard card players, folks.

It's a part of our family, like air is to breathing.

We always do it when we're together.

On vacations or simply a quick hand after a family dinner.

Lots of stories about outbursts or truly dumb bidding moments, laughing hysterically over something (who knows what), football games on, cousins gathered, by the fire at the cabin years ago growing up.

These are some very good times, among some of my fondest memories.

Always some caffeine, popcorn, treats, and chocolate on hand.

Good laughs.

Thanks to Mom and Dad, for getting us involved in such fun, in linking us back thru generations.

There are sometimes tears from laughing so hard. 

(That happened last time.)

Sometimes a once-in-a-lifetime moment like getting 1500 trump.

(This also happened last time, as pictured below.)

I was the lucky gal's partner.

(Game won, instantly.  You play the game to 1500 points, which is reached right away if this happens.)

I've never had 1500 trump in my Pinochle playing years as yet, and this was her first time.

We shrieked and admired.

We literally cracked up, laughing so hard, over Christa making the surprised look, over and over, for everyone to take different camera shots.

(She'd go straight-faced and then burst into this surprised expression for the next flash -- which made us start laughing all over again.)

(Her laughing at herself, after all of her faking it, happy we were all so amused.  The initial moment was one of total freak out, tho.)

It was truly hilarious.

Then we had to gather on the couch and take a picture of all of us girls.

(Being goofy, because that's the sort of mood we were in after laughing for 10 minutes.)

It's really REALLY not a great picture of any of us, but forgive.

We love each other, and that's all that matters.

I'm looking forward to another round this weekend.

It's the best.