Must Be Late Summer

It must be late summer and almost fall.

We are eating from the garden.

(Picture peek-a-boo p.s.: If you haven't read The Penderwicks, it's a must. So, so good. We just read it together and absolutely _loved_ it.)

The black-eyed-Susans are blooming in the backyard.

Monsoon-like weather is coming to a close with its deep indigo clouds that roll in just about every afternoon.

I went to the first football game last Saturday, and made a peach pie with fresh peaches from the orchard the night before.

School has started again, with big changes in our house. (#hardbutgood)

And...the canning has begun.

Jamming and canning, to be precise.

Two weeks ago found the girls and I in the kitchen one night.

I was washing fresh raspberries and dumping them into a container where the girls were crushing them.

Mia was busy mixing the pectin mix with the berries, filling jars, and labeling them.

Benj came up in the middle of it and exclaimed, 

"I love when there's cooking going on in the kitchen at night!"

(My sentiments exactly, actually. There's something about the quiet of night time, an open back door with fresh air (or not), background tunes or just listening to crickets, and spending time together. It takes me to some fond places in my childhood and many, many conversations in the kitchen, late at night, with my dad. It's kind of strange, really, to be the parent now, and not the child.

What happened? How did it all go so fast?)

Benj pulled out a bowl, filled it with salsa, grabbed some chips, and ate while reading Calvin & Hobbes while the girls and I worked. 

Oh, and photo bombed.

And this week? 

When Claire and I dropped off the kids at school on Monday morning, we came home and watered the pots outside and cleaned up the kitchen.

But afterward, we went out to the garden because I knew we had tons of tomatoes in that happy mess of green.

We didn't even pick the vines clean, and this is what we came away with.

Had to get those done, too.

 So yeah...the kitchen has been a hot, steamy, sticky place this week as we've bottled quarts that we'll pull out for spaghetti sauce and soups during the rest of the year. 

They're getting older, and it's fun to be side by side, doing whatever.

Like last night. 

The kitchen was warm, more quarts of tomatoes were processing, 

made dinner, made cookie dough, 

had friends stop by unexpectedly and we ended up out on the deck as it got windy and started to rain.

It. was. lovely.

We ended up piling them in our car to drive them home, listening to the Indigo Girls. 

And when we got home? Those two girls and I went for a run.

It was raining, thundering, and lightning was occasionally torching the sky.

But we ran, even Claire, with her (comparatively) shorter legs.
She kept right up.

We talked and laughed and ran as it got dark.

The best.

Tomorrow is September 1st. 

I'm going to put fall on my mantle this weekend:

owls, nuts, a little glass pumpkin from Cape Cod that was a gift from my dad, golden yellow and orange ginkgo leaves, coppers and golds and browns, a sparkly black spider and small little witch hat to offer a Halloween tease.

And?

I'm gonna make a wreath for my front door out of dried putka pods, and then I think? I'll hang it with burlap ribbon.

Welcome to my favorite time of year.

(I've already been burning a cider candle, melting apple jack wax squares to fill my kitchen with that apple cinnamon smell, and I can tell the heat is on the brink of retreat.
All good things.)

Summer Night Wonder

You take perfect when you can get it,

and I caught it and held on tight tonight.

We went for a walk at dusk.

The western sky was gorgeous: pink and golden and dappled, and there was a breeze.

My oldest son has been loving on me lately, and tonight he grabbed my hand when we started to walk and he didn't let go.

I looked at Claire's cute outfit and watched her cute little bum as she walked in typical determined fashion in front of us.

Mia wore the shirt she made recently and sparkly shoes.

The boys were barefoot.

We were sharing some of our favorite memories, and we ran through a whole stretch of sprinklers a few blocks from our house.

(See the sprinkles of water on my shirt and Claire's?)

And then.

We walked a half mile to the river and the boys were commenting on how much lower the water is compared to in the spring. 

All of us walked over to see, and Isaiah and I saw it at the same time.

A beaver!

We've lived 5 blocks from the river for almost 8 years, and I honestly couldn't tell you how many times we've walked this exact stretch of road. 

But we've never seen a beaver before!

We watched him paddle around in the water and Claire, upon seeing him, exclaimed, 

"Oh my gosh, he's gigantic!" 

He settled in on the opposite bank with a stick. And even over the water we could hear him chewing it as we watched him, facing us, holding it in his hands, nibbling away. 

We stood there for a long time 

in complete wonder, admiring.

(Curses! that I couldn't get a good shot of him.)

And then, we walked home, resolving to drop in at his house tomorrow for another look. 

Claire requested we hit the sprinklers another time and we did.

The sky was stunning, and my son grabbed my hand again and held it all the way home.

Summer, I am loving you.

A Perfect Day

You know, once in a while, you're granted a perfect day.  

And I guess there are different perfects.  Sometimes it's the perfect where you want to shout in joy.

Other times, it is as though you are wrapped in peace, in quiet gratitude, joy and awareness.

Such was Sunday.

The morning dawned with sunshine.

We got to church, and I found my heart full -- from reflections, from the text of the music, from the beauty of faith, from sharing with people I love and the community I feel there.

I came home and shared a precious moment with one of my sons -- one of those moments you hold close in your heart, and all you can feel is gratitude and peace and joy and faith, brimming, and budding.  We both sat in the school room in tears.

After making scratch spaghetti sauce, I sat on the deck in the sunshine and eventually, about 5:00, we headed to the cemetery to walk.  It was quiet, the sun's lengthening shadows stretching across the lawns, shining brightly on some gravestones and casting shadows elsewhere.  

And it was there.

I walked along, watching Benji kick a ball all the way around the mile loop, alternately throwing it up into the air.  Sometimes it came my way and I kicked it and he'd go running.  

I watched Isaiah, swinging the arrow that he found up the canyon the other day, walking up on ledges, singing and making noises to himself.

I watched Mia push the stroller, regardless of whether Claire was in it.  She'd get in briefly, but then get out to stroll again, holding my hand, and I held her for a brief spell, too.  

I was caught up in the beauty of it -- of the quiet, the evening, the way everyone was just enjoying time together, and it was so peaceful.  I don't know how else to articulate it.

I guess I felt aware of time.

The beauty of that glorious hour.

And as I walked with them, 

it felt quiet in my heart.

And I keep looking at this photo that we asked someone to take of us and feeling happy:

these two boys who are fast gaining on me, and soon I'll be the one that's shorter, 

these boys that now offer me glimpses of the men they're going to become.

And it's crazy.  And also awesome.

I don't know how else to say it except that I can sense their masculinity.

And then there's the small one, ever the ham.  Her zest for life is contagious, and this photo of her is absolutely perfect.  

It's her.  

100%.

And on my left, there's this beautiful girl.  

I keep looking at her smile here -- so genuine and full.

She's such a beautiful person.

We came home and had warm spaghetti and then read The Lord of the Rings (we're on the third and final book -- almost there!).  

After I'd finished cleaning up, this kid came upstairs and sat down next to me on the couch.  We admired his toothless mouth, 

 and then cracked ourselves up (literally bursting out loud laughing) as we took funny selfies.

 And after they were in bed, I got to talk with an old friend, read, and write for a bit.

My house was quiet, candles and low lights and beautiful music.

Life is a series of things you tuck away in your heart,

and I'm grateful for these little bits and pieces I'm collecting. 

One Little Evening

Sometimes I like to capture just a little slice of an evening when things went right, when I got into my happy place.

And sometimes I like to do it because, one day, these will no longer be my days.  

I won't be cooking and cleaning for lots of little mouths and the needs won't be so incessant.

There will come a time when my house will be quiet.

And even tho I sometimes scream inside for a break, I wouldn't trade this for anything.

And so, if I offer just a teeny peek, it gives me a snapshot of my life to relish.

Like the other evening.

Wanna come along?

I'll take you there.

It's late on a Monday afternoon.

(Truth be told, I knew what I'd be doing that afternoon the night before when I couldn't fall asleep until 4:00 a.m. and was up a little after 6:30.  When I was lying awake in my bed, I figured out what I was making for dinner.  Yes.  That happened.  I think about food often.  I dream about it, too.  Ha!  Not sure what it says, but there you have it.)

Earlier in the day I had made bread dough and stuck it on the table for the next few hours.

Come 5:00ish this is what my kitchen looked like, late afternoon sunlight spilling in (it's one of my favorite things). 

Kids were off playing.

I made a favorite salad dressing.

Went outside and filled my apron with freshly picked tomatoes and basil leaves.

About this time, my gal came home and I had the pleasure of watching these two on the couch reading together while I kept making food.

I rolled out dough.

Drizzled it with olive oil and fresh crushed garlic.

Spread it all over with bare hands.

Sprinkled liberally with cheese and sliced those fresh garden tomatoes on the top, followed by chopped fresh basil and put it in the oven to bake.

We all gathered for dinner around that table.

There is always constant talking at the table, but this night I tried to have a focused discussion for family night about Sunday vs. Sabbath, and how (and why) this was instituted for our blessing.  I got to tell them why I love Sundays, and why we do what we do on that day.

Afterward, we gathered at the piano to sing the Little Miss' favorite hymn, a Christmas one, which we sing every week.  I think the kids get tired of it, but I love it.  It makes me warm just watching her sing her heart out to "Gloria in excelsis deo."

The boys and I ended up singing, several times, a round of "For Health and Strength," and it was the first time we successfully pulled off a round together where they were able to carry their own part. That was another little moment for me.

And in the middle of all of this, one of them spied this guy on the window screen outside.

So...that led to praying mantis admiring in the backyard as the sun was getting lower in the sky.

It felt like a quiet end-of-summer blessing.

Thinking about it now I want to hold it for just a second: my four kids, barefoot, fascination on their faces, everyone gathered round, night coming on.

We came back in and started a movie in my room. 

I nursed my baby and then she stopped and wanted to watch, too.  

That was repeated, but eventually on one of the subsequent tries, she finally crashed.

I put her in bed and went upstairs to scoop ice cream for the older kids.

And while they finished the movie, I cleaned up my messy kitchen, grateful for those small, few hours where things seemed to align and I felt gratitude and peace and purpose.

I need those moments of reminder and renewal, pretty much on the daily.

There's a quote I have on my fridge. 

I can still remember where I saw it.  I had gone in to drop off some documents at an office building.  I think? this is where I found it.

Anyway, these words were on the wall and I had to write them down, and then they came to rest on my fridge.

"It's hard work, but there's happiness in it."

It's meaningful work.

Purposeful work.

Yes.

That pretty much sums up what I feel about it. 

Nursings

Confession: I still nurse my baby, who really is no longer a baby. 

I'm actually feeling ready to cross the threshold, but she won't be happy about it and so I've lingered.  And honestly, there's always a part of me that's always been sad when I've stopped nursing one of my babies.  It is saying goodbye to something I love -- to tiny little hands and snuggling in and a warm little body wrapped up around yours, fast asleep.

She wants to nurse, buuuuut.  She also regularly smears lipstick all over her lips, talks with some sass, surprises me with her understanding, contributions, personality, wit, and charm. 

She sings songs to herself, is the smallest chief (but maybe the loudest), is self assured, confident, opinionated, and relatively uninhibited.  I get a kick just sitting back and watching her, find myself exasperated by her at times, and she frequently has me in stitches.

Like last night.  

She got home from being with her dad and came downstairs and into my room to find me.  She started this biting-my-arm game that had happened earlier and we were making this 

face at each other and busting up laughing.  I couldn't help but feel like I could just eat her and her cuteness all up.

Then, fast forward a few minutes later.

Teeth are brushed.  We gathered and said prayer.  Tuck my boys in, and my gal.  

Came back with the small one to my room to change her diaper and start the process of putting her to sleep.

She's on the floor in her diaper.  As I change her, she's touching her chest and telling me that she has nipples.  And then that I have nipples.

I tell her that we all have nipples.  

We kind of have a repeat of sorts.  

She has nipples.  Check.  

And then I say, "And I have nipples," to which she fired right back, 

"No! You have NURSINGS!"

Made me crack right up.  

And then I snuggled her up and just looked at that cute little bundle in my arms and felt grateful that, tho she is getting big, I can still hold her, ALL of her, in my arms.

For now. 

Favorite Places

 Lately, at night, when the house is quiet, I frequently find myself out here.  

A long-time friend and I spent the better part of June refinishing the deck---sanding for hours, laughing a lot, and then staining it one night, racing against the light.  Then, we hung new deck lights.

It's my new escape place.

Last week I sat out there talking late with my mom one night, both of us wrapped up in blankets during a fantastic windstorm.  We talked above the wind running through the huge trees and laughed, too.  She said a one liner that had me in stitches.  It felt good to laugh like that.

A couple of nights later, a friend of mine wanted to talk, and she and I stayed out there til almost 1:00.  We talked about life and some struggles with her son and his wife, about trying to recognize your best efforts, about being kind to yourself.

I frequently sit out there and play guitar, and have done that with friends too.

Sometimes we're out there talking.  

Sometimes the sprinkler is going in the background.

The kids and I have loved reading out there, and ice cream cones.

Or, like last night, when I escaped to the back lawn with a couple of blankets and a pillow and lay there.  Eventually I pulled the plugs on the lights, and lay there in the dark.  I was feeling really low, and I had some questions for God as I wiped tears from my eyes.  

And then, it was punctuated with some encouraging texts from a friend, and some texts that were timely because they made me laugh out loud.   

I don't think you need a lot to be happy.

I don't need a big house or lots of money or lots of things.

I need beautiful, peaceful places.

Time for quiet.

People I love.

Ideas.

Music.

And maybe some good food.

Late Night Note

I'm making my way through the last season of Parenthood.

Man...I love that show. I've laughed and I've cried throughout the whole series.

Love it enough that I bought the whole entire thing.

I watched a couple episodes last night, one of them being the episode where Zeek has open heart surgery.  Something about it triggered a memory about my dad when he was sick, one I hadn't thought about for a while.  

After midnight, I decided I was going to hit the hay.

I came upstairs to do a few things I always do before turning in.  

I walked through my house in the quiet and then went downstairs, pulled out the leather bound book by my bed, and wrote a few lines to my dad:

Was watching something tonight that took me back to the night you came home from Cape Cod and a friend brought you home and I was waiting at the house for you.  I came out to the car and you were waiting for me, leaning on the passenger door.  I put your arm around my shoulder and we slowly made our way up the back walk, the backyard lit from the little yellow light on the west side of the garage. It's crazy, Dad...it all happened so fast and I couldn't believe we were on that speeding train.  Made me remember how tender and difficult and unbelievable all of that was.  

I went outside tonight to turn out deck lights and twinkle lights in the yard on the garden shed.  When I came in and walked through the house, making sure doors and windows were locked, I looked around at the things in my entryway and front room -- the pictures on the walls, the china hutch, the things -- and so much of it -- almost all of it has sentimental value, ties me to my parents and grandparents.  You are all here, in my front room, in my heart, in my life.  I feel so aware that so much of me is you, that the love you all gave to me is my strength today.  I carry all of you with me.  I've got pictures of both sets of grandparents and the print Ellen did of the house, stuff you brought back from various travels, a brass pitcher of Grandma Vera's, a gift from Sarah, the china hutch, filled with Grandma's china and candles, the clock that was in the living room all growing up, the painting I chose from Dan Moss, years ago, the picture of my hands clasped with Mom and Grandma Vera's that symbolizes my motherhood to me.  It's all very humbling and beautiful to realize how many lives make up your life.  I remember that our family home was full of photographs of family long gone, but not gone.  I feel so aware of that now.  They're not gone.  They're still as much a part of you as they were when they were physically here.  I'm so grateful for that.  So very grateful.  

I love you, Dad. 

xoxo

Some Days Are Like That

Remember that line at the very end of Alexander and The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day?

Alexander finishes the book by saying: "My mom says some days are like that.  Even in Australia."

Ringing a bell?

Well.

Let me tell you about last night.

It was late. I had an energy crash after supper and laid down on the couch for about 30.

It was while laying there that I decided I was going to clean up my kitchen and then mow the lawn and get that out of the way before projected rainstorms for today.

While I was mowing, I was watching the girls riding their bikes up and down the driveway.  The boys were in and out, goofing around.  It was really breezy out.  The sky was littered with clouds, occasional blue peeking in and mixing with yellows and reds as dusk came on.  I watched the way that feathery light kissed the mountains on the east side of the valley.

On one particular pass with the mower, I found myself thinking about how lucky I am, how lucky I feel inside.

Filled me right up, to the very tip top, with gratitude.

But it got better.

I came in and showered, changed the Little Miss and got her ready for bed, and nursed her to sleep.

It was after 10:00 when I told the older kids to grab their pillows and blankets.

We went outside, spread big blankets on the deck, and lay down under blankets and on pillows.  I scooped them up chocolate and vanilla ice cream and stuck an Oreo in the top.  They ate ice cream while I read, with light coming out from the kitchen windows.  It was super windy, and the huge trees in the backyard were delightful to listen to, the loud rustling a continuous backdrop.  Gorgeous, really.

After reading, we burrowed under the blankets, pushed our heads together, and proceeded to take family selfie after family selfie, completely cracking ourselves up.  I started to sing them silly camp songs and more laughter ensued.  After that, we just laid there in the dark for a few minutes, talking and looking at the sky, trying to find stars behind that blanket of clouds.

It was perfect.

And I felt like pinching myself.  Even now, I still do.

Some days are like that, but in such a good way.