A Dirty Pan Can Always Wait.

This is the first meme I've ever done. I'm doing this one because it's easy, and I'm procastinating scrubbing off the burnt-on remains of slow-roasted tomatoes from two pans. (I hate that last sentence. It went about as well as the scrubbing will.) I got the meme from Scrivener.

Rules:
1. Go into your archive.
2. Find your 23rd post (or closest to).
3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.

So here is my sentence: "Presents?" I'm not sure it counts if it's not a complete sentence, but I'm not going be obsessive. A bit disappointing, eh? I'm still not ready to clean those pans, though. Maybe John will do it if they sit there long enough.

Montessori Musings

So far, so good. Jack is a kindergartener at Montessori, which means he is still in his class of children ranging in age from 2 to 6. But this year he is a "role model" and gets to help the younger children with everything from new "works" to tying their shoes and helping them with jackets. He is in school from 9:00-2:45 each day. Our la-di-da award-winning school district with the great SAT scores and plethora of AP classes for high schoolers still has half-day kindergarten. And not everyone will fit, so there's a lottery for who gets morning or afternoon. Going to school in the afternoon would suck, right? The nearby Chester-Upland school district has federally supported full day kindergarten because with their tax base they could never pay for it. Don't get me wrong, I totally agree with that use of federal money, it's just strange the way things work.

Anyway, Will also is at the same school this year, same times. It's a bit much for a almost-four-year-old, perhaps, but it's such a great place, and they do fun things in the afternoon, like Spanish, art, and gym. So far his teacher says he is "a sponge." A couple outbursts of temper, but nothing out of the ordinary. We keep giving him a cloth napkin and placemat every day at lunch last week, but they kept on not coming back, and at Parent Night we figured out he must be putting them in the "laundry" every day, which is where the extras go if kids have forgotten to bring their own napkin and placemat in. We still haven't gotten anything back yet, and I'm getting down to skeevy old washcloths for him to take in. On Friday he did mend his ways,though.

Wednesday's post and all the comments put me in the mood for more company, so I invited a family whose daughter is new in Will's class. Hadn't talked to the mom much, just felt like maybe we were on the same wavelength. We had a great time and the kids had a blast, eating their cotton candy ice cream on top of the "clubhouse" and playing mysterious games with quirky rules. I had a backlog of eggplant from the CSA so we had eggplant lasagna with garlic bechamel sauce, from Deborah Madison's Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone. It was divine. They brought salad, bread and a red zinfandel. Her family runs a business out in western PA that John's family frequented, to we got to say "Small world!" I love saying "Small world, small world. . . . Huh." Another sip of wine.

Another thing I really like to say is "Two Silver Kayaks Upon a Silver Prius." Is that not a pleasant phrase? We spotted this vehicle (vehicles) on the way to church yesterday and marvelled upon its general silveriness. It was actually "Two Silver Kayaks Upon a Silver Prius with a Thule Rack." Ouch.

Whatever Happened to Dinner Parties?

Last Friday we had another family over for pizza. "You don't have to do that," was my friend's response when I called to invite them. We just wanted to get to know them better, that's all, and we have pizza a lot anyway . . . their son is the same age as Jack, we like the whole family, bla bla bla. In the world I pretend we live in, that's what you do. We had a lovely time. My trusty pizza crust recipe never fails and we put all kindsa stuff on top (homemade pesto was one). We have interesting beers (a Troeg's sampler,in this case, and Brother Adam's Braggot Honey Ale). We talk a lot and the kids are old enought to not need constant, nervous supervision. Life is good on such evenings. Cheaper than a restaurant, especially if you consider the babysitting costs,and so much more social and relaxed. And, for me, anyway, making food for people is life-giving.

Sometimes I hear this little whiny voice in my head saying, "When is someone going to reciprocate?" and I have to say that "reciprocation," the way my mother used to count it, doesn't happen often. But I learned a long time ago that true hospitality is a gift you give without expecting it "back." Or maybe you get it back in other ways, by simple appreciation or good thoughts. People at my church are quite hospitable in this way, and people from other churches I've attended in the past, because, whether liberal or conservative, hospitality is a part of our common value system that transcends politics. It's not about showing off, or "entertaining" in an orgy of perfectionism, but simply about sharing the bounty, being vulnerable and generous to others, and learning to know people more intimately.

Some people in my town belong to a "supper club," which no children attend, and for which each guest makes a gourmet dish that is prescribed by the host. It's four times a year and it sounds interesting, but also very high-pressure and a little scary. You probably need to devote some thought to your wardrobe and clean your house top to bottom and get a professionally made centerpiece? I don't know, because even though several people have told us about this supper club, we haven't been invited to the damn thing. Screw them.

The Truth Teller

A few proclamations from Will:

1. Last spring, to his Sunday school class, "My mommy has a vagina, but I have a penis." There, my secret is out.

2. About a woman standing very close to us at his Montessori one day after school: "Look, Mommy, she has a baby in her belly!" She didn't.

3. About a woman using a vending machine at the YMCA: "Look, Mommy, she's buying junk food!" She explained to him that it was okay because she was buying a granola bar with raisins and nuts. That's the kind of moral authority a three-year-old can assert.

4. During children's time at church, said really loudly so all can hear, "____________________________________." I'll fill this in when he does. This past Sunday he said something fairly harmless about how if a raccoon bites you you might have to go to the hospital, which had nothing to do with anything,and just made people laugh and look at us in that generic "Well, that was interesting" kind of way. That's okay.

Last Feral Outburst Before Preschool?

It was already an unusual day at the produce market. The Chinese lady who works there had asked me to write a sign for her. "You write big mum for twenty-three dollar? Each?" she pleaded, nodding her head vigorously. "Sure," I acquiesced. "Nice, nice, you write another same?" "No problem!" Then I proceeded to shop for apples, bananas, and a couple other things. Will and Jack were eating cereal bars because it was lunch time, really.

Right after I had paid for everything and was waiting to sign the receipt, Will tugged on my shirt. He pointed to his mouth, which was full. Then he pointed to a loaf of French bread, with a bite taken out of it, right throught the plastic. "You're almost four years old! I can't believe you did this! Now I'm going to have to buy this!" I scolded him, while trying to keep my voice down. "I'll pay for this in cash," I said, exasperated, turning back to give the lady the bread. Then--he did it again. To another loaf. "I was hungry," he wailed. Now feeling like a horrible mother who not only losed her cool at the store but who does not feed her children adequately, I looked back at women in the modest line behind me, for affirmation, a smile, a sympathetic glance? Nope. They averted their eyes.

The other day Will jumped around nervously, asked to sit on my lap, and then proceeded to pee voluminously. As I soon as I felt the spreading warmth I shot off my chair, and the kitchen floor took the rest of it.

It's not all backsliding, though. He got dressed all by himself yesterday for the first time! His underpants and shorts were backwards, but still. I let him do it in another room with the door closed, as he requested.

I think he will love Montessori. He is very "hands on," must touch everything, must play with everything. In the Montessori classroom all the "works" are within reach and the children can work with things as long as they want within "work time." Will will be in a different classroom from Jack, who is in kindergarten this year. The kindergarteners have their own class one afternoon a week, and the rest of the time are with the younger children. They help them learn new works and serve as role models. And teach them to tie their shoes and zip their jackets.

It's only going up to the low 80s today. As soon as I post this I'll turn off the air conditioning off and fling the windows open. The kids would rather go to the library than the pool lately, Will has his new backback, and fall is in the air. I love these days.

"All Those Black People, Drowned."

So said a woman rescued from her rooftop in the Ninth Ward yesterday. The New Orleans Times-Picayune gives a heart-rendingly immediate portrait of the sadness because it is replete with specific losses and problems, and includes individual pleas. Someone is looking for Miss Rita and Aunt Eula, someone else for Robin and Ken and their four English sheepdogs. The following plea shows the plight of this city with every one of its capital letters.

PLEASE HELP US TO LOCATE OUR MISSING FAMILY. THEY ARE A YOUNG MARRRIED COUPLE, AGES 23 AND 24. THEIR NAMES ARE ANTHONY CURTIS JOHNSON AND SHELENA JOHNSON, OF NEW ORLEANS. THEY HAVE 3 SMALL CHILDRENS UNDER THE AGE OF 6. THE TWO YOUNGEST CHILDREN SUFFER GREATLY WITH ASTHMA AND DO NOT HAVE THEIR MEDICATION. THE WIFE AND MOTHER SHELENA, HAS BEEN DIAGNOSED AS BIPOLAR, AND DOES NOT HAVE HER MEDICATION. WE LAST HERD FROM THEM AT 4 AM THURSDAY MORNING. SHE WAS CALLING FROM A PAY PHONE AT THE NEW ORLEANS CONVENTION CENTER. THEY CAUGHT A RIDE THERE. BUT WAS LEFT WITH NO FURTHER RESCUE EFFORTS. SHE CALLED IN THE MIDST OF OTHER FIGHTING AND GUN SHOTS. THERE IS NO OFFICIAL LEADERSHIP OR ORDER. THE CHILDREN ARE ARE VERY HUNGER AND FRIGHTENED. MY NEPHEW ANTHONY IS TERRIBLY EXHAUSTED FROM DAYS OF LACK OF SLEEP. PLEASE SEND HELP TO THE CONVENTION CENTER, WHERE PEOPLE HAVE BEEN OVERLOOKED, FORGOTTEN, OR IGNORED. THEY HAVE FAMILY HERE IN HOUSTON WAITING TO RECEIVE THEM. PLEASE, PLEASE HELP!!!

And from a reader of the Times-Picayune in the Virgin Islands: "It is hard to believe that the wealthiest, and self-proclaimed STRONGEST nation in the world is so incapable of taking better care of its citizens in this DISASTER. It is embarrassing! Those attempting to render aid must be just as exhausted and frustrated as those dying to receive that AID. Amazing, simply amazing."

Husband Away, Wife will Play

John had a "Leadership Challenge" this past weekend for his graduate program. They had to listen to various dull presentations. A librarian droned on and on about the many ways you could do research without actually "having to" go to the library. An IS guy told them about how to use the university's computer system. A business writer talked about his vacation in Australia and the starlets he met, and a little bit about how paragraphs are nifty things to use, and he gave them all copies of Strunk and White. They were most helpfully instructed to "pull the reader in." Then after lunch, the ropes course. John's knee got a bit sore, but he was otherwise unscathed. At 42, he is by far the oldest member of his cohort. They did give them beer, but Bass was the best they could come up with.

They all had to spend the night, so that meant I was alone after the boys went to bed. You must understand that John almost never travels anywhere for his job. I allowed myself to go wild by eating some Breyer's mint chocolate chip ice cream and watching Seinfeld episodes. Then I slept with--I know, I'm a wild woman--all the windows all the way open. Wu-hoo!

Nine days until Will goes to school. Fourteen days until Jack goes to school. And John is already back, two nights a week. Anyone want to found the National Project for the Synchronizing of School Schedules with me?

Barefoot Amish Mother of Ten Seems Happy

Well, I couldn't resist adding blueberries to the peach crisp I made, and they colored the whole thing blue, oh well. It was delicious, and was duly devoured my our fellow CSA members.

We met the Stoltzfus family and their ten children, ages 17 down to 4 months. All of 'em barefoot and quiet. Henry, age 8, was willing to speak when some of them took us on a tour of the barn to see the animals. Their mother, also barefoot, is a cheerful plump woman in her late thirties. Her "Pennsylvania Dutch" accent sounded almost like it had an Irish lilt to it, and when she was taking us down the endless rows of squash I was wondering about that, and also remembering the nearby town of Colerain and a "Derry Road," (also towns in the North of Ireland) and speculating idly about the early Anglo-Irish settlers mixing with the Amish. People asked questions like "What do you do about Japanese beetles?" and "When will the spaghetti squash be ready,?"and I wanted to ask her, "Was there ever another life you envisioned?" "Is this life enough for you?" "Is it too much for you?" The questions I want to ask are huge, unwieldy, impossible.

I'm as fascinated by the Amish as the next person, but I find their rural life of endless physical labor and pragmatic chores horrifying to contemplate in too much detail, especially the women's. Sewing, cooking, washing clothes, cleaning everything including the walls constantly, having babies the "natural" way every year and a half over and over and over and over and over. (I had to have C-sections so I guess I would just be dead a few times over.) The same everything over and over and over. And no way to leave the system without being shunned.

Last summer John and I read a romance novel of his mother's about an "English" design student who develops a crush on an Amish hottie and ends up converting to be Amish and marrying him. It was a howl. She was studying Amish design in school, which is strange because I don't think there's a respectable art school in the country that would consider traditional Amish quilts, for example, to be "designed." The quilts are all very predictable, symmetrical, programmatic patterns with formulaic use of color, aren't they? One of the students at the art school I used to work at told me that her art history instructor called Amish quilt design "mundane." Maybe it's no surprise that a contemporary art history scholar would decry an aesthetic that does not value innovation, period. It's simply not about that and never has been. Amishness is about tradition in the most repetitive sense. And when I was listening to Saloma, the mother, I was thinking, she doesn't have to invent herself. The blueprint for her life is there. She follows it. She fulfills a destiny she has always known, not a personal destiny, but a small role in the destiny of her people, who believe they are following God.

We said goodbye, took our only two children, shod in new sneakers and not quiet at all, and traveled back to the suburbs in the minivan. Saloma and Henry and their children will pick more fruit and vegetables for us in the months ahead. Maybe Saloma will have three or four more children in the next decade. Her whole world supports that, expects it, is leaning toward it. She doesn't need to pick and choose among parenting styles, choose preschools or wardrobes. It's been predetermined, proclaimed by the elders long ago. She doesn't need to stand out, make a statement, be the best mother, have the most brilliant children. She is merely a square on the quilt, helping to form a larger pattern that may not be visible for generations to come.

Fie on Root Rot, Crabgrass, and Blog Spam

Into June, John and I could be found looking at the giant tulip poplar by the back fence, willing it to live, and exclaiming, "Oh, there's a bud, up there! At the top!" "Aren't the smaller branches looking a teensy bit greenish?" When another month had gone by, and no leaves yet, we had to admit the truth. We called the tree service, and learned that our massive tree had died of root rot. The roots had probably had this for years, and then suddenly the tree was just not getting enough nourishment. It seemed fine last year . . . Because the root rot may cause instability, they need to bring in a crane instead of just having people cut off branches while standing in it. That's why it will cost $4,000. Sigh. At least Jack and Will will have something fun to watch.

Finally it has been less hot, so the other morning Will and Jack and I (emphasis on "I") weeded half our side garden, which had been woefully neglected for at least a month. I wonder why crabgrass finds it necessary to amass such a giant root system, if it isn't even going to grow that big? Why can't it be like that extremely tall thick weed with practically no roots?

Another really noxious weed, blog spam, has appeared on my blog twice in the last five days. I've never had any before, in all nine months of its existence, and so this seems like an ominous development. I limited my comments only to registered Bloggers, but that didn't help, as the next comment did technically come from a registered Blogger. GRRRR!

And now for something completely pleasant . . . . We have an extra share of peaches this week from the CSA, due to someone accidentally taking too many shares and then redistributing them incorrectly. But instead of hogging them all for ourselves I'm going to make a big peachy something for our potluck out at the farm tomorrow. The farmers are Amish, so this is a really special treat. We're not allowed to take pictures, of course. The children, of which no doubt there are many, will take us for a tour of the barn. Everyone is making a different dish. Then we taste brie from an Amish cheesemaker and can buy Amish stuff. That reminds me that I have a whole blog entry in my head about the romanticization of the Amish and the Amish aesthetic. I have a feeling it will be born after Saturday. So stay tuned.

Big-Box Shopping and the Integration of the Self

Great title for a conference paper, eh? I was telling my friend W. the other day about how I've decided to do a lot of my shopping and errands in Media, because I like the energy of a downtown and try to use independent merchants whenever it seems reasonable. (And Swarthmore is great if you need earrings, sandwiches, or a haircut.) She said, "Oh, no, it's big-box shopping for me until the kids are older!" I could tell she wasn't really taking in my recommendation for Deal's, an old-fashioned general store with very good prices. W. continued, "I try to do everything on my list, and when it's all done for the week, then I do what I want or shop where I want."

It's that work/leisure split again, surfacing in the life of a stay-at-home mom, for whom the split, I would think, is pretty difficult to sustain. It's easier when you work for a paycheck during the week and go off sailing on the weekend. Her life strategy certainly is more efficient than mine. But I couldn't do what she does because it doesn't feel quite right to split life into the Obligatory and the Fun, two dreary and soulless categories (to say nothing of Obligatory Fun). The way I figure is that everyday life is full of blessings if we are ready to see them. Take the endless project of food shopping. Supermarkets are usually boring and that music drives me nuts. So I go to farmer's markets, Trader Joe's, an independent butcher, a great fish market, the Swarthmore Co-op, depending on what I'm getting. It takes time but I feel better about my choices and I've enjoyed the transactions much more. And while I'm in the neighborhood I'll pick something up at the place next door. I like to feel I'm in a place.

I choose to shape the "have-to's" into something joyous whenever possible, instead of trying to get them over with. Does that make sense?

Down East Days

Back from the cool and breezy and into the hot and sticky. A bumpy transition yesterday, what with Will's loud whining and wailing in Trader Joe's, and his pushing a lady's cart in front of her, and the lady muttering "Jesus!" and Will refusing to apologize until she was too far away to hear. And the gorgeous yellow and green bowl I got at Isleford pottery was broken by the cat today, still in its box and wrapped in a bag. And John saying "You shouldn't have left it on the counter." So I now realize I've got to write up something about the Maine trip before it becomes completely erased by the dog days of a Pennsylvania August, and its attendant grumpiness and whininess. And no camp or school.

Our cottage was near Southwest Harbor on Mt. Desert Island. We could take a little path down to a rocky beach, where the boys loved to pick up crab claws and shells that had been dropped by seagulls. In the distance we could see several islands and a couple other harbors of Mt. Desert. Great Cranberry Island was the closest. (Isn't that a great Roald Dahl kind of name?) We heard the distant clinking of buoys, the occastional hum of a motorboat, gulls arguing as they wheeled close by, and a dog barking across the bay. We smelled the brininess of the sea, but also a fresh wind blowing through the wild roses by the shore. At low tide we could wade a little in a tiny bit of sand.

We went to Sand Beach and were amazed that some people were actually swimming in the 50-degree water. We did swim a little in Echo Lake, though, and Jack and Will dug the biggest hole in the sand ever with some French children. We ate at several lobster pounds, a restaurant at the Atlantic Brewery, and a couple other places with great food that didn't mind kids around. (No fast food on the island, and no chains of any sort. How do they do that?) We rented bikes and rode around Eagle Lake and Witch Hole. Jack was on a trailer bike and Will on a child seat that he was a little too big for. Another day we took the passenger "ferry," just a small boat really, to Little Cranberry Island, which was peaceful and quiet. Children sold us lemonade and cookies out of a wagon. I got some napkin rings at an artists' co-op there, and the ill-fated bowl.

It's not a Maine cottage without a quirky collection of books. For children, Burgess's Animal Stories, E. B. White's Trumpet of the Swan, Franklin's Secret Club (which we had to read to Will about four times a day). For adults, a book on raising pigs, the Foxfire books, a bunch of thrillers, and a book called Gay-Neck, an Indian story about a pidgeon. Really. There was even a Victrola, but no records, and it made excruciating shrieking sounds when you turned it on or off.

Could it Possibly Be Any Hotter and Stickier?

And to top it off, our new air conditioning system broke this morning. So my legs are sticking to the chair and I'm sweating. Not merely glowing.

Will has a new friend, Noel. It's really his first friendship, and he's infatuated. He and Noel run around all morning together in preschool camp. We've heard several times how Will and Noel spotted a cat in a tree the other day. Will brought a half-deflated Trader Joe's balloon to camp to show Noel, asked me if Noel could come to Maine with us, asked if Noel could come over to see our cat, and said he'll miss Noel when camp is over. Conversation in the car on the way to camp:

Jack (skeptically): He sure talks about Noel a lot now. How did he make friends with Noel?

Me: Well, since he's sitting right next to you and not doing much, why don't you ask him?

Jack: Will, how did you make friends with Noel?

Will: Well . . . I went to camp. Noel and William (Noel's brother) were there. And now we're friends.

So there ya go.

Tomorrow I'll be busy packing, and we leave Friday morning. Wouldn't you know the heat wave will break just as we go Down East. Murphy's Law, and all that, whoever Murphy was. Have a happy week, dear readers.

Wild Blueberry Bushes in the Sun

Wild blueberry bushes in the sun have a certain spicy scent that I love, less cloying than lavender and utterly envigorating. You always know you can reach the mountaintop when you come across that scent. On our Maine vacations, when we weren't hiking we were clambering over the rocks on the beach, for miles. Who needs sand, anyway? We felt like we could go on forever, that we would never tire of the perching, jumping, and climbing up again. And again and again.

And when it rained? The old cabins we rented were full of the owner's discarded treasures and books. The very best was a cylinder Victrola. We listened to songs from the 1930s on it, especially "Catch that Tiger" and a song with the words, "Yabba dabba doo, the monkeys in the zoo." As a child I always read anything I could get my hands on, and the musty books were always entertainment enough for me, whether they were the original Pollyanna books, obsolete Girl Scout handbooks, or P. G. Wodehouse's Bertie Wooster series, all of which I remember reading.

The town of Ellsworth, on Mt. Desert Island, had a blueberry pancake breakfast one Saturday, in which cheerful volunteers scooped cupfuls of batter out of garbage cans to splat on the griddle. Pancakes eaten outside are always delicious, but with Maine blueberries, they are just too good. Look away, vegetarians, but every vacation we had to boil the obligatory lobster. I don't remember the lobster crawling around on the kitchen floor a la Annie Hall, but it was all quite a delightful ordeal of delayed gratification. Crack the various parts. Carefully, tediously, extract the tender flesh. Dip that little piece in butter. Now you can eat it. Do it all over again for the next little piece.

Even the leaky rowboats and bee stings have a gauze of nostalgia over them, I suppose because my mother and my brother David are gone. Did I tell you that we forgot our bickering on these vacations? And that we all helped with the dishes and the sweeping?

Eight Days until Maine

Joe Miller, here's the recipe for the Apricot-Almond Cobbler. And we've gotten two more pounds of apricots this week. I'll make some other apricot dessert this Saturday for when my brother and father come over.

A big thanks to Scrivener for recommending my blog here (see #4). I think I may have a couple more readers now. Blogging away in obscurity is fine with me, but welcome aboard, everyone. He nows says he did that so that I would post more often. Jo(e) is right, he is a pest.

Here's a list of things that I was thinking about last night.

A Few Things I Dislike

When Jack puts his lips on the kitchen countertop and blows, creating a loud farting sound

Having to admit that the child yelling "My penis is peeing!" in the swimming pool is mine

Camp that is only 2 1/2 hours long

Taking two kids to two different camp locations for camp that is only 2 1/2 hours long

When my declawed cat scratched a visitor's bare legs, drawing blood. The hind claws still work just dandy.

Knowing that we have to clean out bucketsfull (is that a word?) of ancient cedar shake debris from our attic. (We neglected to cover our stuff up there when we got two old roofs taken off and a new one put on.)

A Few Things I Like

My husband putting away the dishes and loading the dishwasher

Jack and Will kissing and hugging each other

Friends who will drive five hours or more, with two small kids, just to visit us for 24 hours

The anticpated coolness and fresh air of Maine in August

Memories of childhood vacations spent in Maine

Having a DVD player in the van (so much for those simple vacations of yore)

Fantasizing about going here next summer

Two Pounds of Fresh Apricots and Two Geeks

Two pounds of fresh apricots are waiting patiently in my red Pyrex bowl (like the bowl my mother used to have) to be made into an apricot-almond cobbler today. The apricots just arrived in the CSA on Wednesday, and our friends Scott, Kathy and their children are coming to visit today from Virginia. The convergence of the apricots and our friends makes me giddy, since all are so delicious and rarely experienced by us.

I had a post all written the other day but then I lost it when I tried to save it because we were having DSL problems and I ignored my geek husband's advice. It was about how John (geek husband) wanted to go to the Tyler Arboretum last Sunday. This shocked me, but I soon learned it was so he could try out his new GPS tracker. Hmmpph. Did I say he is a geek? It wasn't as horrible a distraction from nature as I had feared. I think he got it for our trip to Maine in two weeks, although I might find it handy if I ever go to the King of Prussia mall again. I'd like to not have to use the car's alarm function just in order to find where I parked. Even better, though, is my plan to never go to the King of Prussia Mall.

Speaking of geeks, I have to tell you that when I was in college in the late 1970's "geek" meant "not Greek," as in not affiliated with a fraternity or sorority. That was all it meant. And "nerd" was a new word, I guess, which is probably why the Roches spelled it wrong on their album "Nurds," which came out in that era (like James Beard spelled "pasta" "paste" in an early 1970s cookbook, instead of just calling it "macaroni" like like all the other Americans). And yes, I was a geek in that non-Greek sense of the word, along with the Indian students, pimply ROTC members, gay artists posing as straight chemistry majors, and confused malnourished transfers who smoked. Anyway, what are the students at my college called now if they're not in a frat or sorority? PWSHGACs? People Who Should Have Gone to Another College?

Well, it's back to those beautiful apricots.

Not really, that last sentence was an awkward attempt at closure. Sometimes I forget this is a blog. What I'm really going to do is throw the dead lightning bugs out of Jack and Will's bug catcher, which is on the kitchen table next to the cat. Then I'm going to push the cat off the table. Then, yes, I'll clean the table. Give me some credit.

Meet Our Imaginary Friends

I have an imaginary son named Bill, who always washes his hands quickly before dinner, using just the right amount of soap, and who trots obediently up to his bath when he's asked, never lying down on the stairs or insisting that I carry or drag him. Or so I told Jack when he asked me if I had any imaginary friends. Jack and Will share their imagary friends, Jubie Vicdaria (a boy) and Christopher Zero (a girl). The other night all four of them, Jack, Will, Jubie, and Christopher, all visited yet another friend, Asworth, who lives in Hawaii. They took me with them, which was nice. A significant part of the visit involved Will and Jack lying on top of me on the sofa. There was some confusion as to who got to be Asworth, so each boy played their own Asworth. It all worked out, Asworth being a rather sketchy, amorphous character, a kindly host residing in the shadows. At some point it was revealed that he is Aslan's cousin (from the Narnia stories), but none of us quite knew what to do with that information, so we disbanded the game before returning home, so I guess that means we're still all in Hawaii.

Jack will often tell me about "Jubie's World," where instead of green traffic lights they have purple, and where they speak a special language. In Jubie's world, children are permitted to do lots of things they can't do in our world. Last night John was asked to give Jubie a bath, which he was pleased to do. The IFs don't seem to eat, but Jack and Will's bunnies do, so they sit at the breakfast table propped up against the wall, and we give them tiny bowls of cereal. (The boys both sleep with their bunnies, but I don't know where the IFs sleep.)

Realism does rear its ugly head now and again. Will, as he was finishing his lunch yesterday, remarked, "We're meat. We're built out of meat." As he cheerfully polished off a piece of ham.

Next to Godliness

No matter how good you think Ben and Jerry's ice cream is, it is not "homemade." And neither are the vast majority of products you can find in the supermarket, as everyone knows. The word did well with focus groups and that's why it is slapped liberally on food labels. One of the great things about web commerce is that you can actually buy homemade stuff because the artisan can market the product directly. To just randomly choose one of these entrepreneurs, oh, hmmm, let me see . . . let's take my brother Dan's Southside Soap. He really makes this in his home and has done so for years. Big, textured herbal-smelling chunks of real honest soap that clean ya real good, I can testify. He has also made ale, beer, mead, dog food, yogurt, lamps out of PVC pipe, and curtain rods out of copper tubing, thankfully none of which are offered for sale on the web. The mead is fermenting on his kitchen counter now, in an enormous bottle, to be consumed by knights and ladies in the mid distant future.

So if you're dirty, or if you're clean but running out of soap, or need to restock your gift supplies with unique but inexpensive consumables, then what's not to like about my brother's soap, eh?

Summer: Chapter One

I'm going to try to not think about last week. No preschool, no camp, no patience, and I had to get the house ready for weekend guests, no small feat. My routineless boys bonded a lot, let's say a whole lot. Jack and Will have developed their own shorthand. "Oh-ee, oh-ee, oh-ee, oh,ee," when yelled by Jack in the house seems to mean "Run around throwing things while yelling. When Mommy and Daddy show anger, laugh maniacally." Another one of these coded commands is "Jane has cut the pie too small." No idea where this came from, but when proclaimed at loud volume, while spinning around holding a potentially dangerous kitchen implement, it seems to indicate "Let's stop Mommy and Daddy from having a conversation by doing whatever it takes. Anything goes."

Last Tuesday when John was at his class (Why ever did I have to give him those clippings about grad program open houses last fall, anyway?), Will pooped in his underpants and peed copiously on their bedroom rug. Poop in the underwear must be dealt with immediately, thoroughly, and carefully. Jack was instigating mayhem and throwing his clothes up into the ceiling fan, and running into the bathroom where I was with Will and flailing, causing poop to smear in unwanted places. I cursed something awful, loudly, which Jack decided to repeat for several following nights whenever I was in the bathroom with Will.

I've been reading my grandfather's letters now and again, and in one letter to my mother, who was home with me (toddler) and my brother David (infant), he assures her she is a good mother. Sometimes I need that assurance, too. Now that the boys are excited about their half-day camp, we have more structure, and I've got some time to myself. Except for Will pushing all the neatly folded laundry off the dining room table yesterday and me screaming bloody murder, it's been a good week so far. Last night when they were getting crazy, I started playing my yoga DVD and they were mesmerized. Jack was even doing some of the positions, especially Warrior Two.

About that Weird Fish Paste in a Tube they Sell at Ikea

Don't buy it. That picture on the tube of a child smilingly taking a bite out of a cracker loaded with the stuff? Why do you think they used a drawing instead of a photo?

Anyhoozy, I want to share a poem with you that I wrote in sixth grade, April 27, 1970, to be exact. I found it going through family papers. I was attending Augusta Country Day School in Augusta, Georgia that year, and only for that year. That year I had two fabulous friends. Hilary was English and Chris was another Army brat, from Massachusetts. The rest of the girls were Southern belles in training. Hilary, Chris and I climbed trees, eschewed the blue eyshadow all the other girls were wearing, and got straight A's. It was my last year of childlike oblivion. A month after writing this poem we moved to Germany, where I soon attended a large American school with grades 7-12. Mannheim American High School was a place where I was certain I'd be crucified for wearing saddle shoes and white socks, and the innocence such clothing signified.

This poem must have been the result of an assignment on "something you learned from your mother." I do know my mother had slammed a few doors by the time I wrote this, contrary to the poem's claim. This poem is filled with lies, fake dialogue, clumsy versification, and drift of thesis, but at least I make fun of my own attempt in the last line. The footnote is original. Don't know why I had to make my brother Dan sound like a demented fairy. (On second thought, maybe I wrote this just for the hell of it, because there's no grade or mark of any kind.)

Patience--A Lesson Learned

Patience certainly is a thing I admire my my mother for.
For I have never heard or seen her madly slam a door.
Once my brother got his glider stuck up in a tree,
He kicked and screamed and yelled quite loud, and also bruised his knee.
My mother just then came rushing out
To see what all it was about.
"Why Dan, your glider's in the tree!"
"I know, I know, painfully said he.
My mother suggested then and there
To send a rock into the air
And that is just what he did do,
And hit the glider that 'twas brand new.
The glider then turned round and round
And soon fell, twirling, to the ground.
"La, la, de, da, oh happy day!"
That's what I heard my brother say.
And the moral of this story is,
Don't fly your gliders near the triz.*

*In other words, trees.

Sum Sum Summertime

Montessori is out for the summer, so I took Will out of his part-time child care as well. I started off the season by getting pinkeye in both eyes and twisting my back a little.

Yesterday we rescued some great chaise-lounges from my Dad's. He was going to have the "junk man" take them away before closing on his house. After we clean the heck out of the chaises, which are moldy and dusty, and my eyes and back are all better, I'm going to restart summer.

Summer for us is so all about the pool. Every community around here has its own pool. You have to live within strict geographic limits to join. So ours is, natch, the Swarthmore Swim Club. It's not fancy by any means but it's very pleasant indeed. A friend of mine, who just moved out of Swarthmore to West Chester (to pursue the dream of a large suburban house on a cul de sac, with one whole acre of yard) used to complain that the Swarthmore Swim Club was clique-ish. To which I say, of course it is, it's the Swarthmore Swim Club, for Pete's sake. We go for the pool, and we see a number of people we know, and the number is higher every year, and I really don't care whether there are cliques or not. I don't want to be in a clique myself, but if other people do, that's their problem. There was a time when such things would have bothered me.

Our routine is this: we plop our stuff down on the grass kind of behind the best spots, which are inevitably covered with other people's towels, clothes, newspapers, and other detritus. The boys take their shirts and sandals off, and we all go in the "big" pool (shallow end). Then someone migrates to the baby pool, they go back and forth between the pools, etc. At their ages, 3 and 5, I need to watch them to a certain extent, but I can socialize a little or read something light.

After a while comes the request that I dread: "Can we play Battleship?" The swim club has seen fit to keep lots of board games for the members to use, bless their souls. So one of the boys gets the game, we set it on the towels, and I pretend that we are actually going to play this in a civilized manner, following the rules, until someone wins. Will's too young to focus, but he likes to move the ships around randomly on the board, which is no good. Jack likes to play, and could probably play a whole game, if only he wasn't playing against Will and me. I try to keep things together, but sitting on a towel for a period of time moving little pegs around on a little board that is constantly tipping over gets old. So I try to find a distraction. "Hey, there's Alex! Wouldn't you like to get back in the pool with him?"

Some of the mothers don't go in the water, but my rule is to get completely wet at least once every hour. Otherwise, what's the point? My mother had a helmet-like "hairdo" that she got every week at the hairdresser, and so she never put her head underwater. You couldn't splash anywhere near her, either. It was hard to for all of us to live with her tenous, fragile hairstyle. I believe I think of her every time I dunk my head under.

Another joke for you, this time from Will:

What did the turtle say to the banana?

Nothing.