Showing posts with label summer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label summer. Show all posts
Thursday, July 31, 2008
WHAT? THE END OF SUMMER? WELL, THEN, TIME FOR NEW CLOTHES
School starts early here--August 18. All I want to say is WHAT ARE THEY THINKING?
How cute is this? Don't you just love plaid and those cute little diamonds?
These are pin-stripped long shorts and a sucker. The pin-stripes don't show but these are darling, they go with the diamond vest and shirt.
Hollywood with her new clothes and a sucker. This girl only wants to wears skirts. Even in the winter. She is Miss Skirt.
Another skirt with a red sweater vest and white shirt. Rabbit ears optional.
Mary Poppins with a white eyelet skirt. Watermelon sucker behind back.
I'm not sure what to call this pose but it's very grown up.
Oh, and the suckers? An essential part of going to Heaps. It's a rule, I'm pretty sure.
Kids need a full summer to get rid of the school cooties. They need to have dog days, sweltering days, when they finally can't stand it another minute and they run through the sprinkler, fully clothed--or as fully clothed as a kid is, in the summer. They need to have enough time to lie on the grass, being so bored that they finally look at the clouds and see castles and cows with the heads of chickens and warriors wearing hula hoops.
Having back-to-school sales on the 4th of July is just wrong. The 4th of July should be in the first half of summer with days and days of saying, "I'm bored," until the kids decide to run a lemonade stand, or dig a hole to China in the back yard and discover a dinosaur instead, or construct a tree house in a tree too puny to hold them, maybe with a quick trip to the emergency room thrown in for good measure.
If you let a kid have enough summer they get itchy to go back to school, they hunt through kitchen drawers for pencils which they sharpen just to sniff the aphrodisiac back-to-school smell. They rub old erasers until all the old is rubbed off and then they write on scrap paper just so they can erase what they wrote.
But this year school is reaching its fingers right into the grass cutting, begging-for-Popsicles, can-we-go-swimming days of summer. School shouldn't start until after Labor Day. By then everyone is ready, including the teachers who actually had time to take their kids on vacation.
So, anyway, today The Yoga Empress and her two charming girls, Mary Poppins and Hollywood took me to lunch at Heaps. It was delicious. After lunch we had a mini-fashion show in the parking lot. As long as the girls have to go back to school they are going to look good.
How cute is this? Don't you just love plaid and those cute little diamonds?These are pin-stripped long shorts and a sucker. The pin-stripes don't show but these are darling, they go with the diamond vest and shirt.Hollywood with her new clothes and a sucker. This girl only wants to wears skirts. Even in the winter. She is Miss Skirt.Another skirt with a red sweater vest and white shirt. Rabbit ears optional.Mary Poppins with a white eyelet skirt. Watermelon sucker behind back.I'm not sure what to call this pose but it's very grown up.Oh, and the suckers? An essential part of going to Heaps. It's a rule, I'm pretty sure.
So, as long as summer is whizzing by I'm glad I got the chance to spend an hour with some of my favorite people in one of my favorite restaurants in one of my favorite seasons, summer, which seems to be too short.
Friday, July 11, 2008
BATHING IN A BUCKET
Lord Bumhampton climbed up on my lap. I nuzzled his little neck, he smelled of summer. Sometimes I’d lick my children’s arms just to smell the rich summer fragrance. It made them laugh, to see, and feel their mother licking their arms.
“I should take him in and give him a bath,” I said.
Mom didn’t say anything.
“I really should,” I said, halfheartedly.
“You know,” she said in a quiet voice, swinging the lawn swing with a slow rhythm, “there’s nothing says he has to bathe in the house. When I was a kid we bathed in a tin tub. Even a bucket would do.”
“I’ll be right back,” I said.
I set the bucket of warm water on the patio and tried to persuade my boy that bathing in a bucket was going to be fun. He wasn’t buying it. Getting naked in the back yard was out of his two-year-old comfort zone.
I swirled my hand in the water. He did too and soon he was splashing and laughing. He hardly noticed as I stripped his clothes off. When they were in a pile he stepped into the bucket and stood still while I soaped a washcloth and washed his plumb tummy, his arms and legs. I soaped the summer smell off his neck, then scooped water and let it cascade over his head. Water ran down his summer-browned arms and dripped off his fingers. I soaped his round little bottom and he laughed. Mom smiled.
When he was rinsed off I bundled him in a towel. Mom dried his hair with a corner of it and then wrapped the towel around him, tucking the end in so he could walk around. We called him our little Tongan.
I dumped the water on the grass. He poked at the wet grass with a stick and then came to get dressed. He climbed on my lap and snuggled down.
The stars came out; there were more stars then, city lights were fewer. Lord Bumhampton fell asleep.
We swung in the dark for a long time--Mother, daughter and grandson, his breath warmed my breast. He sighed in his sleep. Mom and I smiled in the dark and talked softly.
It was a night made of magic. Thin magic. Warm-toast kind of magic. I didn’t know it then, but it was also the future’s I-wish-I-could-go-back-in-time kind of magic. We stayed on the swing long after the stars filled the sky with specks of light and the crickets courted.
We were three generations. Maybe we were watched over by unseen generations, the ones who had gone before and those unborn, waiting to come, maybe one of those unborn was Lord Bumhampton's little sister, Her Excellency of Mousehole. I like to think that’s true. Maybe Lord Bumhampton's future children were there too, there might have been many generations, stretching in the distance on both ends, and the three of us, in the middle, swinging together, held together, by silken family threads, one summer night, so long ago.
“I should take him in and give him a bath,” I said.
Mom didn’t say anything.
“I really should,” I said, halfheartedly.
“You know,” she said in a quiet voice, swinging the lawn swing with a slow rhythm, “there’s nothing says he has to bathe in the house. When I was a kid we bathed in a tin tub. Even a bucket would do.”
“I’ll be right back,” I said.
I set the bucket of warm water on the patio and tried to persuade my boy that bathing in a bucket was going to be fun. He wasn’t buying it. Getting naked in the back yard was out of his two-year-old comfort zone.
I swirled my hand in the water. He did too and soon he was splashing and laughing. He hardly noticed as I stripped his clothes off. When they were in a pile he stepped into the bucket and stood still while I soaped a washcloth and washed his plumb tummy, his arms and legs. I soaped the summer smell off his neck, then scooped water and let it cascade over his head. Water ran down his summer-browned arms and dripped off his fingers. I soaped his round little bottom and he laughed. Mom smiled.
When he was rinsed off I bundled him in a towel. Mom dried his hair with a corner of it and then wrapped the towel around him, tucking the end in so he could walk around. We called him our little Tongan.
I dumped the water on the grass. He poked at the wet grass with a stick and then came to get dressed. He climbed on my lap and snuggled down.
The stars came out; there were more stars then, city lights were fewer. Lord Bumhampton fell asleep.
We swung in the dark for a long time--Mother, daughter and grandson, his breath warmed my breast. He sighed in his sleep. Mom and I smiled in the dark and talked softly.
It was a night made of magic. Thin magic. Warm-toast kind of magic. I didn’t know it then, but it was also the future’s I-wish-I-could-go-back-in-time kind of magic. We stayed on the swing long after the stars filled the sky with specks of light and the crickets courted.
We were three generations. Maybe we were watched over by unseen generations, the ones who had gone before and those unborn, waiting to come, maybe one of those unborn was Lord Bumhampton's little sister, Her Excellency of Mousehole. I like to think that’s true. Maybe Lord Bumhampton's future children were there too, there might have been many generations, stretching in the distance on both ends, and the three of us, in the middle, swinging together, held together, by silken family threads, one summer night, so long ago.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
LISTENING TO THE HOLY GHOST
I’d tried to like sewing for eleven years. I thought all women should sew and cook and clean. I had the cooking part down—one out of three, not bad for an overwhelmed mom of three.
So, when the thought came to me, “Go check on Gilmore Girl,” I immediately left the sewing project—that had been picked-out as often as it had been sewn—and stood on the front porch. The little band of neighborhood children was crossing the road, single-file—oldest to youngest. My girl was the last in line. There was a big gap between her and “Twitchy”—not his real name but not far from his real name—she was the youngest by two years.
Twitchy’s dad, Macho Man was leaving for work and had stopped to talk to his child. By the time my girl got to the front of his car Macho Man was finished talking to his boy. He patted Twitchy on the head.
Let me back-step a minute and tell you about Macho Man. He was a teenager masquerading as an adult. He brought a boom box outside every Saturday and we all listened to The Beach Boys as he did his outside chores—people a block away enjoyed it as much as we did. When he drove into the cul-de-sac it was high speed—it didn’t matter that the neighborhood was filled with children—he didn’t exactly screech, accompanied by a cloud of dust, into his driveway, but almost. When he left the cul-de-sac he floored the gas pedal.
I stood on the porch, horrified. There wasn’t time to get to Gilmore Girl. I felt Macho Man get ready to slam his foot on the gas pedal. There is no other way to explain it. I simply felt it. Her life depended on me.
“STOP!” I yelled.
Macho Man looked up to see what was the matter with me. In three or four seconds Gilmore Girl toddled far enough that she cleared the front of his car and in another two seconds he saw her movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to look at her.
He said something to me, in a laughing sort of way. I don’t know what it was. I was beyond hearing. He said something again but by then there was no one else in the world but my little girl. I walked over, scooped her up and buried my face in her neck. The smell of my little summer child was like nothing I can describe. I have loved the smell of summer skin ever since. It is like a gift, straight from Heaven.
As was the message: “Go check on Gilmore Girl.”
So, when the thought came to me, “Go check on Gilmore Girl,” I immediately left the sewing project—that had been picked-out as often as it had been sewn—and stood on the front porch. The little band of neighborhood children was crossing the road, single-file—oldest to youngest. My girl was the last in line. There was a big gap between her and “Twitchy”—not his real name but not far from his real name—she was the youngest by two years.
Twitchy’s dad, Macho Man was leaving for work and had stopped to talk to his child. By the time my girl got to the front of his car Macho Man was finished talking to his boy. He patted Twitchy on the head.
Let me back-step a minute and tell you about Macho Man. He was a teenager masquerading as an adult. He brought a boom box outside every Saturday and we all listened to The Beach Boys as he did his outside chores—people a block away enjoyed it as much as we did. When he drove into the cul-de-sac it was high speed—it didn’t matter that the neighborhood was filled with children—he didn’t exactly screech, accompanied by a cloud of dust, into his driveway, but almost. When he left the cul-de-sac he floored the gas pedal.
I stood on the porch, horrified. There wasn’t time to get to Gilmore Girl. I felt Macho Man get ready to slam his foot on the gas pedal. There is no other way to explain it. I simply felt it. Her life depended on me.
“STOP!” I yelled.
Macho Man looked up to see what was the matter with me. In three or four seconds Gilmore Girl toddled far enough that she cleared the front of his car and in another two seconds he saw her movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to look at her.
He said something to me, in a laughing sort of way. I don’t know what it was. I was beyond hearing. He said something again but by then there was no one else in the world but my little girl. I walked over, scooped her up and buried my face in her neck. The smell of my little summer child was like nothing I can describe. I have loved the smell of summer skin ever since. It is like a gift, straight from Heaven.
As was the message: “Go check on Gilmore Girl.”
Sunday, April 13, 2008
SUMMER IS COMING
This was last summer's redneck kiddie pool at our house. Curly Sue, mugging for the camera.
Here's how she looks now, more grown up. The flower crown was made at her other Grandma's house, yesterday. The other grandma is the one who does all things wonderful with these two little girls. I fill a plastic tub with water and call it good. I'm so glad they have a grandma who fusses and does fun things with them.
This is Tuesday one year ago. The weather forecast calls for one day in the 80's this week. Of course it also calls for one night in the high 20's. Maybe on that "80" day it will be warm enough to fill a tub with water and hope some children show up.
This is Tuesday now. Notice the macaroni necklace which was made at the other grandma's house. I tell you that woman is a marvel. Aunt Megan is a wonder too, she teaches Curly Sue all manner of astonishing things. I am always amazed.
Curly Sue with a Turkey Lip.
And without. I can hardly wait to see what interests these two little people will find outside this summer. Do you think they will still be interested in a plastic tub filled with water? I hope so.
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