A Running Collection

 Amelia takes flower stalks and fills them with cornmeal. Wraps and twists and configures. She takes walnuts and makes dye and strips of cloth and paper plates take the color and hang out to dry. She collects a downed pigeon and proudly displays the gorgeous feathers. Of course she collected them.  William rides tractors, horses, four wheelers, scooters, and swings. He is completely soaked into the day. He has stories and plans and food to eat to refuel. He takes lessons and learns and is determined to keep up.  George Wilder was gifted his grandfather's hat. He didn't take it off. He flew kites with it, he rode bikes with it, he wanted it on and he wanted to play. Such sweetness in Georgia at the farm.

 Busy as bees as the bees busy themselves with late summer pollen from all the blooming weeds. George and the children have created a system of composting to amend the soil in the gardens. The temperature rises and turns the grass clippings and pea hulls to rich dark soil.  And Amelia records the birds migrating. They settle in the trees and flutter above the grasses eating the bugs. She finds caterpillars and moths. Large caterpillars. The Imperial Moth comes from the one below.  We pull the carpet from Amelia's room and expose gorgeous pine wood floors. Instant beauty.  The beauty we find the artwork of Diego Valasquez. He loved to paint every day life, kitchen scenes, scenes from Bible stories from a visionary angle. He has the same props in the paintings. Amelia gets tickled when she finds another kitchen utensil he's painted in a different light, a different angle, a new use. They bring in a pile of veggies and eggs and paint their own still life. ...

 We had a most delightful visit at the farm in July. It was a glorious sweet breezy day. The children's imaginations run wild at old tree house, piles of logs, and of course, the tractors.

Labor Day with cousins at Lot 9. It's a little spot of heaven on the North Tyger River. My parents build a cabin overlooking an old mill dam. It's a favorite spot for us to gather and play and I think meeting for Labor Day might be the beginning of a tradition. I can't think of a better way to say "Hello" to September and celebrate cousin Matthew's birthday. Mud, water, sand, boats, floats, food, more mud and water and sand and boats and floats and food. Endless games, fishing. Lots of fishing. Lots of blonde heads moving and bouncing and bounding and talking and giggling. They play until the sleep and sleep until the play. Even though we live a half day's drive apart and visits are spare, the children don't skip a beat. I'm completely at rest watching this play and I love to tell William, "Uncle Micah is my brother. We grew up together. We played together when we were little like you." Having Micah as a brother is one of the treasures ...

August. It’s an odd place for a new start. The air is thick with old heat. Gardens are tired, people are tired, dogs are tired. There’s heat everywhere and sweat. Beads of sweat almost always. But it’s August, so little tiny fingers and hands wave goodbye and blow kisses and load buses and classrooms. Awkwardly tall and embarrassingly sort teenagers lumber into high schools to begin or continue or end their education --hopeful or sad or dismayed. Long hair, lovely outfits, and over confidence tumble out of loaded cars and meet their future square on at campuses far and wide. There are practices again, sign-ups, schedules, classes, rehersals, games, plays, performances. It all starts up in the heat, in the scorching sun. There are lotteries to get in and money shelled out for uniforms and fees and tuitions and books.  August arrives   -- earlier alarm clocks, heavier traffic, longer days and sleepless nights.   We are giddy with excitement ov...