Friday Night: Went to Patti’s for Groupies. We were all there, which I liked, because frequently one of us has other commitments. We have decided to read Scott Hahn’s THE LAMB’S SUPPER which is about the Mass and the Book of Revelation. Patti had a chicken cacciatore sort of dish over pasta, salad, bread, and key lime pie for dessert. Delish! Then while were were praying for all our various intentions, it started to storm, and one thunderclap was so loud that my heart stopped for a fraction of a second and Michele screamed bloody murder and the doorbell rang. We said Thor wanted to come in. When we finally left, Patti noticed that her doorbell was fried.

Saturday: Up very early to go to Deb’s and set out yard sale stuff in her driveway. It was the annual Deacon Hills yard sale. She, as well as Michele and I, had stuff, but she had to go to work so I sat at the sale. We didn’t make but about $100 all total, but we got rid of some junk. It was pleasant out, not too hot, but when it started to rain I had to drag everything into the garage and back out again. What didn’t sell (in case anyone is interested)–Deb’s little plastic patio set (white round table with 4 chairs and cushions), her Ab-lounger, her Lowe’s push mower (hardly used), Michele’s milk glass dishes, and her George Foreman rotisserie. Then I went to the Valley, picked up Mombo, and we joined John, Dana, Bruce, Kathleen, Greg, and Jerry Raisor at the Great American Brass Band Festival. Dana and Kathleen cooked wonderful food–hummus and chutney over cheese with crackers, caesar salad, bread with pesto, roasted baby summer squashes, salmon salad, cherry-berry pie! All I had to bring was the wine and the Mombo! The music was great, the weather completely pleasant. We got to see Jim and Beth and her family, too. Well, actually, everyone else did–I saw Jim, but by the time I got up to their table they had already left–I was too busy talking and loving the music.

Sunday: Even though Mombo and I had a late night, we made it to church for a beautiful Mass and special Father’s Day homily by Fr. Pat Dolan. Took a few minutes to sip coffee and talk to James and Susan, then stopped at IGA because avocados were on sale. They didn’t have them, but we got a good deal on white vinegar so now we are ready to clean up a storm. I headed back to Kelley Ridge to pack, but later on in the afternoon Jerry R. called to say he was in Lex having made an appearance at an Arts function at Talon Winery for the Bluegrass Community College, so I headed into town and we are at Bonefish Grill for his Father’s Day (they gave him a free coffee mug!). We hung out at our favorite store in Hamburg, Half Price Books where both of us should be banned from entry, and then to Graeters for some mocha chip ice cream. Called Pops to say Happy Father’s Day, and we talked for over half and hour. Perfect ending to a near perfect weekend–now can I have just another day or so to get everything else done?

Cotton Candy Blizzards–They’re Back!!!!!

Eeeewww!!!

A shiver ran all the way through my body to the gas pedal.

“I Wish I Were in Love Again” by Lorenz Hart

The sleepless nights,
The daily fights,
The quick toboggan when you reach the heights—
I miss the kisses and I miss the bites.
I wish I were in love again!
The broken dates,
The endless waits,
The lovely loving and the hateful hates,
The conversation with the flying plates—
I wish I were in love again!
No more pain,
No more strain,
Now I’m sane, but …
I would rather be gaga!
The pulled-out fur of cat and cur,
The fine mismating of a him and her—
I’ve learned my lesson, but I
Wish I were in love again.
The furtive sigh,
The blackened eye,
The words ‘I’ll love you till the day I die’,
The self-deception that believes the lie—
I wish I were in love again.
When love congeals
It soon reveals
The faint aroma of performing seals,
The double-crossing of a pair of heels.
I wish I were in love again!
No more care.
No despair.
I’m all there now,
But I’d rather be punch-drunk!
Believe me, sir,
I much prefer
The classic battle of a him and her.
I don’t like quiet and I
Wish I were in love again!

Today I took the kids out on the concrete area outside our school’s side door. It’s kind of nice because it is shaded and relatively clean for a concrete slab. And the weather was too beautiful to be inside. I gave them each a huge 36″ X 24″ sheet of newsprint, a big paint brush, a jar of water, some crayons, oils pastels, colored pencils, and water soluble markers. Then I made them all come sit with me next to my paper, and I proceeded to mess around with color, putting one thing on top of or next to another, wondering out loud about my “experiment,” painting over top of things with clear water to see what would blend and what would bleed. They started directing me. . .”try this”. . .”put some this over it”. . . “why don’t you. . .” I said, “Why don’t you do it?” And they did–for nearly an hour. In the afternoon we came back with little paper plate palettes with small blobs of yellow, blue, and red watercolor and clean water. I returned to my paper, messed with the colors, and then did a watercolor wash over some of the crayon. “Hmmm.” “Can we ‘speriment now?”

Kids don’t get to mess around with stuff. Our deck at Two Trees was an art studio, a science laboratory, a playhouse, office, and yes, a dog pen. Doing experiments was a way of life. Messing around with art, music, science, writing, building, nature—how else do we get scientists, artists, musicians, writers, inventors, vets? Kids need dirty up to their elbows nitty gritty under the fingernails no directions experiences. We all do.

to begin with. The first time I heard them was at Calvary School on one of the last days. They call them locusts, and insist they are locusts, because that’s what everyone calls them in Marion County. Then, I went to the Valley on Friday night and made Mom put her hearing aid in and go outside to listen. At first she said they were the peepers, but then realized that they sounded more like some kind of muffled buzz saw. They next day when we had Michelle’s shower, her young cousins who came down for the the ride and to check the place out were fascinated with their discarded exoskeletons stuck all over the the trees.
I found them kind of fascinating–the red eyes, the resurrection factor. . . and I didn’t have to deal with them at Kelley Ridge because they weren’t there. Until this last weekend. Until I tried to mow. Until they started to buzz unceasingly to me–“My name is Diego Cicada. . . Prepare to DIE!” Aaaaahhh! It was the Night of the Living Dead Insects in the daytime. Stephen King could not have written anything more terrifying. I mean, think about it–they have been dead for SEVENTEEN YEARS! These are Zombie Bugs! At first I said I would just ignore them. As I mowed around the trees, one would land on my arm or lap, and I would flick if off and go on. But as I moved away from the trees and into the fields, I realized that 90% of them were in the trees when I mowed there–when I mowed in the fields, they wanted to be on ME! In my hair, down my back, on my ear, up my pants leg, under my socks. . .I kept flicking, and cursing, and flicking, and then saying the bad words inside my head because I couldn’t open my mouth or they would be in it! My baseball cap brim was covered with them. Thank goodness my sunglasses deflected the ones that flew toward my eyes. Of course, they don’t sting, but they like to grab, so you can’ just shake them off. You must flick.

I did get the yard mowed–I wasn’t going to let the blasted boogers stop me–but here’s what I want to know–do they have enough sugar in them to be harvested for biofuel? Because if they do, the energy crisis is solved–I might have enough at Kelley Ridge alone to put Saudi Arabia out of business.

I do not eat them any more.
They’re made from what is on the floor.
I do not like them, Oscar Meyer.
Not even from a late campfire.
I do not eat them off the grill.
I won’t eat one at all until. . . .

I’m at the Taylor County High School girls’ softball field, and Hayley is playing shortstop. She’s hit a single, and made a few tremendous defensive catches, but they are behind 6 to 3. The sun is in my eyes, but it’s cool so I have on three layers (everything I could find in the back of the truck including an old baseball cap), and I’m remembering going to softball games with Ian in high school when his girlfriend was the pitcher. The booster ladies are cold in the concession stand, and no one is giving them any business except the little kid who keeps reaching up and running off with the ketchup bottle (until his dad wallops him one). And I see they aren’t boiled–someone has grilled them and is keeping them warm in electric skillet. I pull out a buck and pile on mustard, ketchup, relish and jalapenos.

Hayley’s up to bat. It’s the bottom of the 7th, and there are two runners on base. We’re down 6-3. She connects on the first pitch–pops it up–caught. Shoulders slump. Disappointment. But she’s only the first out–two more chances. Two more outs. She made some great plays. I love girls’ fast pitch.

I like this hot dog, Booster Mom.
Don’t tell me where you got it from.
I like it at a Hayley game.
The crowd, sport, cheers are all to blame.
I’m glad I ate–I cannot lie.
Too bad you don’t have rhubarb pie!

Over the weekend I took two long walks. The first, on Saturday, was at dusk. I tried to walk my Kelley Ridge property line to the west of the lane coming back to the house. This is the only time of year to do it. I so wish I had the ability to clean up some of the wooded areas for walking and visibility. That was not Joe’s intent, however, as I found many wildlife shelters that he had fashioned. They would have liked each other, Dad and Joe. I made it to his failed minner pond (it leaked :{) and was deafened by the sound of the peepers. Then on Sunday I put on my DJ Ditty (okay–my MP-3 player) and listened to THE SPLENDID TABLE go to Tuscany as I hiked for an hour and a half on the east border. So beautiful. I found another flood pond and the fallen down stone fence that John and Dana and I found a year ago. I’d love to think of a way to haul some of the stone up to the top of the ridge. Dadbo would have thought of a way for me. If he knew I wanted it, he would have made it his mission to get it for me. Not that he should have or that I would have wanted him to, but he would have.

Like the little loom. When I was in second grade, the teacher (she was a substitute because Mrs. Artz was pregnant) wanted us each to bring a potholder loom to school, probably to keep us busy. They were metal in those days (the kind you would have bought at Wertz’s 5 & 10). Maybe we were weaving because we were studying about Indians. I told Mom and Dad. We didn’t buy things for no good reason. Mom went through her stuff and found a little 3X3″ yarn loom used to make small squares for afghans. I knew this wasn’t what the teacher really wanted, but I couldn’t complain, of course. I’d make do. That was what our family did–we made do. Dad came in late. He had been out at the rabbits. I said good night. I was sure he couldn’t detect my disappointment when I showed him the little loom. It was late. I went to bed thinking about how not to be embarrassed about the little loom. I loved Mom for finding something for me. The next morning when I got up Dad was already gone to work. I’m sure he had come in to say “bye”–he knew if he didn’t let me know when he was leaving, I would have a bad day. Nothing unusual until I went into the kitchen. There on the table was a foot square pine hand loom. Sanded as smooth as silk with little nails pounded in perfectly at half inch intervals. How late he did stay up doing that? Probably not any later than he stayed up putting finishing touches on my science projects or college application letters years later. The crazy thing about this is that everyone one of the seven of us has similar stories. He just knew. He just did.

I got to Mombo’s after a week’s worth of work, and she fixed us a meal of green rice casserole, oven baked fish and sliced tomatoes. We decided to watch the first episodes of the the HBO mini-series that Deb had taped for me–JOHN ADAMS. It stars Paul Giamatti, Laura Linney, David Morse, and Tom Wilkinson. Toms Hanks, as executive producer, took David McCullough’s Pulitzer prizing winning book and made an amazing film. It did the book justice to produce a mini-series rather than a feature length film, and the acting quality is beyond reproach. I highly recommend the viewing time, and hope to attack the book myself this summer (or 1776, whichever is in at the library at the time). Mom and I have been interested in reading together about John and Abigail since we read THOSE WHO LOVE years ago.

I found my lost Netflix dvd of the first season of “24” last week and started to watch the series from the beginning. It is easy to get caught up in the character of Jack Bauer, whose honor is beyond reproach, who will risk everything to defend his country. But he’s fiction. I don’t think I truly realize what men like John Adams risked. He wasn’t Kiefer Sullivan or Paul Giamatti. He was just a man, the son of a farmer and a farmer himself, father and husband, dependent on the love and advice of his wife, Abigail, schooled in the law that he loved above all, and making the decision, from his perspective, to follow a law greater than the laws of his mother country, the law of liberty. What they endured is hard for us to imagine. Would we have made those decisions for ourselves and future generations? We still have several episodes to watch, and much has yet to happen. It makes me mindful to pray for my country.

Caitlan has let us know that she and Kyle arrived safely in Oxford. Thanks be to God. I hope they have a wonderful time during his visit there. Then she will be studying day and night for her final exams (I think they are called collections) before coming home on June 17th. I am so proud of all her hard work and diligence. I know it has not been easy, but she has shown that she has the “right stuff.” I can just imagine her dad’s pride, and Joe’s as well. Brendan is safely in San Francisco after a solo cross country drive. He is hard core. He is gypsy. Ian continues his Hawaii interlude. I think the mainland is pulling his heartstrings, though, and I anticipate the day he settles closer to the Valley that we all call home.

Last night was so beautiful. I stood on Jerome and Janet’s deck with Baby Juliana in my arms. We looked at the little lake and the gorgeous spring flowers blooming among the trees. We heard the birds and the neighborhood dogs barking. The sun relfected on the water, and overheard a plane caught her attention. She pointed at the sky. I said, “Airplane?” Nancy called me from Iowa just to check on me after reading herein about my stolen purse misfortune. What a friend. Later we had grilled vegetables and the best grilled portabello mushroom sandwich ever, topped off the evening with some Yellow Tail Shiraz Reserve, prayed for two more friends who have had their cancer return, and for a high school buddy of Joe’s whose 32 year old son was killed in a car wreck on US Rte 27 yesterday (father of a little three year old). To live in a household of intercessor pray-ers is indeed a gift. Life is light and dark, mountains and valleys. Rick Warren says it’s like a railroad track–you travel on both rails. There is always happy and sad, difficulty and blessing. One thing remains. God is good.

Yesterday was not a happy day, at least not at first. I had to take off work to go home and search out all my info on what was in my stolen purse so that I could cancel and/or report everything. But somewhere in the interim, Dana called me to say that Lee had two tickets to MENOPAUSE THE MUSICAL at Norton Centre that she was giving away and did I want them. As I poured out my woes to Dana, I thought, “Oh, why not?” so I called Jeanne and, amazingly, she had the evening free. We went to O’Charlie’s for dinner, talked non-stop, and then split our sides laughing at “gril jokes” (although Jeanne said Cliff would have thought the show was funny too since he is having to go through the symptoms with her). It was so much fun. I love my sister.