A Running Collection

Summer cozy.  Soaking rain made for catching frogs and filling cups  To empty right away. Tomatoes piled and lined  swollen and bursting must be used right now! Tomato sandwiches and Fresh salsa for lunch. The quiet afternoon and Old Yeller. The woven tale of a boy and his dog  And growing up on a farm -- Back then fills the living room and George brings me Fresh cider with a twist of lemon.   Fluffy playmates -- the most well behaved students wedding attendants, music lesson attendees.  Play with clay. Listen to music. Loving summer.

William. Walks and runs and dances and tip toes and grunts and squeals and mimics. William wants to know "This?" "That?" "This?"  He wants to wear nothing. He wants to bathe in the sink in the tub in the hose in the wagon. He brushes his teeth with everyone's tooth brush. We've lost a lot of tooth brushes lately and we find them in rooms, in shoes, under a squash plant, in the car. He wants to play with George Wilder and then he wants George Wilder to leave him alone or give up his toy that he just took up to give up his toy for William. He wants to eat pickles and pesto and raw green beans. William can say outside. He is proud. He didn't know how to react to figuring out how to say it. He just wiggled and giggled and shook his curls all around. He knows he has curls. He carries heavy things. He draws with permanent marker (I don't know how he finds them) on important things and with chalk on unimportant things. ...

Amelia dreams big. She thinks that projects should make up the ebb and flow of the day.  She makes lists of her plans. I can't keep up.  Candles were on the list. Finally, we had the supplies gathered, a day at home, and a sleeping William. This was crucial.  We started with my memory of a day long ago as a half pint at a festival celebrating antiquity with hot wax, a string and some dipping procedures that I'm sure were scientific, but this seemed fairly easy to replicate 25 years later.  Wax was ready. Strings were ready. The memory wasn't working. Thanks to google, we were able to begin again. George Wilder got the hang of it immediately. He was settled on his stool having a blast. Colored crayons turned the wax lovely shades of yellow, green, and purple. He giggled as a funny pear shaped candle formed on his string. Dip in wax, dip in water. Dip in wax, dip in water. Lots of wax on stove on all pots on stool on floor. Amelia's wasn't ...

We were walking in the cool of the day. It lasts for a brief moment. And in a flash, the beans tower high above our heads. Big beans hang lonely -- unreachable. They will be the ones we save and dry for next year. The squashes -- bright green and shades of yellow -- swell before we can snap dinner from the vine.    We beg the tomatoes to turn red and collect yet another bunch of cucumbers for pickling. The garden. We walk along and watch and wait and collect. Such peace and contentment and confidence. We can’t get enough of it. Tomatoes at every meal. Then we notice the worms. The shredded tomato leaves and bored holes in the fruit. Down on hands and knees, we start plucking and squashing and smushing and shouting, “Here’s another!” Our garden stroll is over. The heat rises and the peaceful walk turns into an emergency debugging project. We are avoiding pesticides. Even if we think it would be good to save the tomatoes with a few speckles of 7 Dust, we can’t...