The Shadows of Summer

Taking in this last week. The swings and the sun. The smells of food wafting in from the screen door, cooking on an open flame. Shirtless, shoeless babes. The first-light-of-day tip of their hats from morning glories and evening embrace of wide open moonflowers. Canopied wagon rides. Requests for one more run through the sprinklers, one more dip in the kiddie pool. Bare arms and sun-kissed shoulders. Frogs clinging to the window screens. Geese walking through the field. The tomatoes still clinging on. The garden's edges still marigold bright. Taking the afternoons one sunbeam, one trip down the slide at a time, before we are left with only memories. The shadows of summer.

Back Home and Back to School

Last weekend we took a little drive to Evansville to attend my youngest cousin's wedding. In my rush to get everything packed and everyone safely tucked into their car seats (and remember the gift, unlike the last wedding I attended), I forgot my camera. Which means, I failed to capture a little tiny dancer whirling around in her fancy dress or chasing my cousin and his beautiful daughter, Finley the Flower Girl.

What I did catch were some moments from later in our long weekend: Jason teaching Audrey how to make an easy breakfast he picked up from my mother and my makeshift "clothesline" for drying Audrey's backpack to prepare for another school year.

Of course, now looking at these photos, I can't help but notice how they summarize the weekend: a few moments to slow down in each others company enjoying the simple goodnesses around us and preparing for the new season and phase to come.

The Mind/Body Disconnect

Some have eyes bigger than their stomachs. I am no stranger to that group. However, walking around the house today, finding the beginnings of projects tucked away in every corner, I've discovered I have a different problem. Apparently, my mind works faster than my hands. I come up with new ideas faster than I can do the work to complete my old ones. So just what has been keeping my hands busy and my corners piled up this week?

I believe it's our fourth fort this week. Audrey has her own use for corners.

The Dishes of Late Summer

If the end of August had a signature color, it would be red. Tomato red. It seeps from the outdoors in: to the counters, the freezer, the pans, the plates. Yes, most definitely the plates. This week our plates have been full and our palate has been red, taking our cues from the garden. We tried our hand at planting carrots this year. I couldn't help but unearth a handful to see if they were ready for the table. A fistful of carrots and countertop of tomatoes led to Carrot-Tomato Soup. (A bit of warning: if you're hoping for a soup that tastes more like tomatoes and less like carrots, slim down the number of carrots you throw in the stockpot).

Yesterday, I found a home for a teacup and a half of cherry tomatoes when I adapted Cooking Light's Pasta with Fresh Tomato-Basil Sauce. Those tomatoes got cozy with a tablespoon of olive oil, some garlic, and salt on medium heat. A few bubbly minutes later, they were tossed with fettuccine noodles AND chicken and prosciutto tortelloni (well, because, why not?), fresh basil, pepper, and Parmesan cheese. It was good. Down to the leftovers, so I'm told.

Tonight, it's risotto. I might just have to toss in the half a dozen Roma tomatoes sitting on our counter. Those little scarlet wonders are just begging me to.

So, I Lied...

Or, maybe I didn't. Technically, this isn't another post about Florida. It's a post about a sweet little stop in Clanton, Alabama - just off the 205 exit of I-65 - a place called Durbin Farms.


We discovered this roadside store (and so much more) on our Florida trip last year, and made a mental note to remember to make several future detours there on our drives home. Durbin Farms is a farmers market of sorts with juicy peaches, canned jams and other goods, and farm fresh vegetables. But, around every corner they tuck a little more. You can find trinkets and baby socks. Inside is a restaurant and outside, a few tables and chairs under tall shade trees. We've used the grassy area behind the tables to walk our dog and stretch the legs of a restless child.

This year, I did a little grocery shopping before heading back onto the highway, piling a couple sacks of beans, potatoes, and peaches on top of our luggage.

Did I mention the homemade ice cream (or bakery display case of other desserts)? It's just the thing to get you through that first long section of road that separates you from home.

A Little Florida Foliage

Each time we make the drive to Florida, I find myself in awe of the settlers who came before the roads. And, each time, Jason remarks about the changes in the trees as we pass through the states: from full, leafy specimens in the Midwest to their lanky, long-limbed southern cousins whose bare trunks seem to stretch to the roof lines before their leaves catch up, until we graduate to the palms, magnolias, and fruit trees blossoming in the Florida sun. So, before we move on to other things tomorrow, one last glimpse back at some vacation photos and the trees that made us stop and take in their leaves (or their limes).

By the Sea

The sea's rumble acts as a set of blinders, drowning out everything but the view before me, centering my focus outward - beyond my chest-deep stance. In one of my first solid recollections of the ocean, I am standing chest-deep in the surf and rumble, holding tightly to the hands of my neighbor (whose family was traveling with us), facing her. I might be in middle school. I am acutely aware that she is anchoring me. That, should she let go, I might drift away. I feel like a grain of sand against wind. So small.

Some things change: the one once tethered to another becomes the anchor. Some things never do. Shoulders submerged at the turn of each wave, peering out into a boundless sea - the only sense of distance an unreliable line of sky - I am a grain of sand swept up in wind. So small. It is the sound - the deep rumble that, like the waves erasing tracks on shore, covers all else. It dares me to just look, to pick out the colors of water and sky. To just smell until the salt fills my nose. To just feel the water cooling me against the licks of the sun as the seaweed slips past my legs. To just daydream about the things I have not seen - the things I do not know. To let go of all other noise and enjoy being this small. In this moment. In this ocean. Drifting in the rumble.

This Week: Outside

We have found our way outdoors again and again this week: to stretch our arms and legs. Our motives have been many: play; distraction; a reprieve from a rainy morning; burning off energy while soaking up the sun's; and savoring these "empty" afternoons while they last. We opened our door, we stepped outside, and found the world at our feet. And fingertips. And we stretched. Our arms, our legs, our eyes, our minds.

Putting Things By

I've had an absent-minded lapse of days. They've gone a little something like this:

On Saturday, I managed to get my family lost twice (going to the church and going to the reception) en route to the wedding to which we were invited. (This is why it's best to assign someone else the role of reading written out directions. I tend to ignore the line that says which direction one should be driving from, choosing to call out street names - and improper turns - instead.) Both locations were less than fifteen minutes from my, ahem, house.

Once we arrived at the reception, I had to send my husband back home for the gift, which I had left sitting on the kitchen counter. (That evening I apologized to Jason for making what was already a busy day - we came home from the wedding to hang/fix blinds and paint - more exhausting. He said, it's okay. I thought it was funny. You know in Good Will Hunting where Robin Williams says that what he remembers about his dead wife is how she used to fart in her sleep? That that was the good stuff? You just gave me a memory, honey. Bless that man.)

On Monday, I was making record time in the grocery store, barreling through the aisles Supermarket Sweep-style with both children in tow, until I got to the checkout line where I realized I had forgotten my wallet. It was still in the diaper bag I used for the wedding, which might be a really good argument for me to limit myself to just one bag.

Those are the major offenses. Minor offenses have filled in the gaps: forgetting the library books were due until after the library had closed and almost letting the baby run out of clean diapers because I got interrupted on my way to put them in the wash and forgot that I had been doing it until I went to change his diaper and realized I had just one left.



You might say I'm a little out of sorts - or just really showing my true form this week. I can't seem to keep up with myself. And, now things are following suite. Tomatoes have been piling up on the counter for days. I had the best of intentions to find recipes in which to use them now, but when your brain hands you a week like the one I'm accumulating, well, sometimes the best thing to do is just put things on hold. So, here I am. Putting things by. Today I froze those tomatoes to use another day - in a black dress that I sometimes wear out with my husband or to church, because the laundry has been piling up as well and I'm down to my dress clothes. Sometimes, days are like that: a little bit fancy and messy at the same time. Just like those good, good memories.





*If you are interested in freezing tomatoes, I followed these instructions.

A Little Summer Sweetness

Yesterday, while Jason took Audrey to the playground to practice her Tarzan yell and monkey bar skills, Nathan and I sat down to the table with a fresh mound of peaches. I put on music that reminds me of ocean breezes, sand sifting between my toes, and sunsets that fool one into thinking the day has just begun again. The skins piled up, striped in scarlet, pits the color of plums stacked at their edges. A cup of sugar, a little cornstarch, cinnamon, lemon juice, butter, and pie crust later, and we found ourselves here. With this peach cobbler. Somewhere between salt water and jungle vines: on summer's edge. Where goodness comes bubbling with peaches.

Audrey: Explorer

Yesterday, we went to the park. We perused a picnic table laden with free books and fished out The Story of Columbus. We took him for a walk. As I explained who Columbus was and what exploring meant, we struck out on an adventure of our own. Our path was paved, but the stops were not. With each new page, our expedition leader discovered a new spot to dwell and take in the words until the next page turn. Then we were off with new points to plot, our course set, until our brave commander announced, "I don't want to be an explorer anymore." So she hitched a ride atop the back of a new vessel (her brother's stroller) and rode in steady to the playground and the treasures that awaited.

Audrey: Frog Catcher

We've been playing search and rescue around here. It's become part of our daily regiment. As soon as Audrey's thoughts veer toward the outdoors, so does she (regardless of apparel or lack thereof). Every day, multiple times a day, she asks to go outside to peer down the window wells for wayward frogs and toads. Several times a week she sounds the alarm that another frog has fallen into the well and needs a lift. I was on duty today when the signal (Audrey yelling, "There's a frog in the window!") came through the screen door. Audrey, armed with a net, led the way.

This little victim was an eager rescue participant. He jumped into the net as soon as I fished it down to him. Audrey took over as transporter, sticking her hand into the net every few steps, too eager to wait for the pond. We had barely reached the water's edge before she reached in and flung him, ahem, to safety. One more frog: found, freed, and safety waterlogged back home. All in a day's work.