Forth of July
On the average day, I have to admit, I don’t really think much about what it means to be an American. I’m not exceptionally patriotic, and don’t involve myself in politics. I typically scurry around in my little corner of the world, blissfully naive and pathetically ignorant to most of the inner workings of the country I call home. But on one pinnacle day a year, when we’re all called to drop the petty differences that separate us into “I” and “you”, and “us” and “them”, and instead join hands with our sisters and brothers in stars and stripes to become “We the people”, well that I can get on board with.
Our day was filled with family and friends, sunshine and tasty treats. We splashed in the pool;
It was the quintessential Independence Day celebration. And because we had already been dazzled by the Pittston fireworks, we headed home before the sun set with a little girl who wasted no time passing out from exhaustion in her car seat. Jon and I watched the fireworks erupt across the horizon as we drove, ready to pass out from exhaustion in our bed, thankful to be American living in the land of the free and the home of the very brave.
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Backyard Splashes
The sun has grown strong and the temperatures are soaring, and while we love to branch out to visit nearby pools or the lake, sometimes we find ourselves going only as far as the back yard.
Milani loves water. Bathtub water. Lake water. Even baby pool water. She's even climbed into her baby pool in full clothing. It makes no difference as long as she gets to splash and swoosh, and fill her blocks only to dump them again.
Maybe someday we'll have a real pool, or a boat, or a house on the beach (wishful thinking) but in the meantime we'll beat the heat splashing in the backyard.
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Blueberry Picking
I know I've already preached my sentiment on these plentiful summer months, my love of harvesting the fruits of our labor, and sometimes other people's labor. And that craving for the satisfaction of picking produce with my own hands, and finding ways to preserve it to be savored months from now, is the reason we've raided the blueberry patch twice already.
We visited Bill's Blueberries, a quaint little gem of a blueberry farm, run on an honor system by a friendly old man (who I can only assume must be Bill) and his sweet wife. Handmade signs mark the driveway and decorate the shed, and rusty antique farming equipment adorns the lawn.
Random trinkets like old milk jugs in a rusty wire rack, a weathered barrel, dirty leather yolks, that would look like trash anywhere else, fit perfectly into their places around the farm lending an air of nostalgia.
From a single speaker, oldies drift faintly across the farm, carried on the breeze so that songs seem to fade in and out as you pick.
True to standard picking procedure, pounds of blueberries plunked into our buckets, and an ounce or two (or three) went directly down the hatch. Milani climbed among the trees, and sampled some green blueberries.
Curious to understand what was so appealing to her about those little green blueberries, I sampled one, and oh my goodness are they beyond sour. The awful aftertaste lingered for hours, and I can't imagine how she managed to continue popping them in her mouth one after another. Let's just assume she's still developing her palate, and of course she still managed to eat her fair share of blue ones from the bucket.
The boys found other ways to fill their buckets.
Bill even has a little patch of raspberry bushes, and I managed to scour them for enough berries to turn into sweet and tart raspberry jam.
Another preserve checked off my grand canning plan. And as soon as the sweltering temperatures return to a more bearable level, blueberry lemon preserves are next on the list.
Ok, so maybe I have one more rant about canning, but I can't freaking help it, I'm hooked! Every time I pull my little jam jars out of the boiling water, and listen to the lids pop down one by one as they cool, I gain such a sense of satisfaction. It's like I've sealed away a piece of this summer. Like I've filled a jar with sweet memories, and a little sunshine. Like I've managed to capture the love and fun and energy of these days, and tuck it away for a cold rainy day. And since fewer people can and preserve these days than was done years ago, I feel like I'm part of an effort to resurrect a dying past time. To stand next to a massive pot of boiling canning water, stirring bubbling jam the way my grandmother or great grandmother might have, is pretty satisfying in itself. End of sermon.
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Dalton Carnival
Jon and I used to visit the Dalton Carnival beer tent every summer. We used to drink pitchers of Miller Lite from little plastic cups, and catch up with friends we hadn't seen all summer. We used to stay long after the stars came out, and the families with little ones headed home to read bedtime stories, and strings of little yellow bulbs illuminated the tent.
Maybe out of habit, or an attempt to hold true to tradition, we headed to the carnival last week. We went on a Thursday instead of Saturday. We arrived at six instead of nine, and left well before sunset. Water was the only beverage we guzzled.
Milani enjoyed a sampling of roast beef, potato pancakes, and pizza.
She looked wide eyed at the lights, and rides, and games with bright colored prizes.
This year she was content to observe, but next time I'm sure she'll be begging to ride the rides, and play the games.
And my girl is a flirt! She will scan a crowd for anyone who will make eye contact, and then girlfriend turns on the charm.
She grins, and laughs, and plays shy. She'll spin, and dance, and put on a show for anyone who will give her the attention. We stayed long enough for her to elicit some smiles and chuckles, and headed home with a full belly and bolstered ego.
To be honest, I didn't even miss the beer tent. I'm happy to forge new traditions, and I enjoy watching my girl soak in new experiences. And I love that we've become the family with a little one who heads home well before the stars come out to read bedtime stories.
On the average day, I have to admit, I don’t really think much about what it means to be an American. I’m not exceptionally patriotic, and don’t involve myself in politics. I typically scurry around in my little corner of the world, blissfully naive and pathetically ignorant to most of the inner workings of the country I call home. But on one pinnacle day a year, when we’re all called to drop the petty differences that separate us into “I” and “you”, and “us” and “them”, and instead join hands with our sisters and brothers in stars and stripes to become “We the people”, well that I can get on board with.
Our day was filled with family and friends, sunshine and tasty treats. We splashed in the pool;
And played;
And nibbled on goodies until we were stuffed.
It was the quintessential Independence Day celebration. And because we had already been dazzled by the Pittston fireworks, we headed home before the sun set with a little girl who wasted no time passing out from exhaustion in her car seat. Jon and I watched the fireworks erupt across the horizon as we drove, ready to pass out from exhaustion in our bed, thankful to be American living in the land of the free and the home of the very brave.
***************************************************************************
Backyard Splashes
The sun has grown strong and the temperatures are soaring, and while we love to branch out to visit nearby pools or the lake, sometimes we find ourselves going only as far as the back yard.
Milani loves water. Bathtub water. Lake water. Even baby pool water. She's even climbed into her baby pool in full clothing. It makes no difference as long as she gets to splash and swoosh, and fill her blocks only to dump them again.
Maybe someday we'll have a real pool, or a boat, or a house on the beach (wishful thinking) but in the meantime we'll beat the heat splashing in the backyard.
**************************************************************************************
Blueberry Picking
I know I've already preached my sentiment on these plentiful summer months, my love of harvesting the fruits of our labor, and sometimes other people's labor. And that craving for the satisfaction of picking produce with my own hands, and finding ways to preserve it to be savored months from now, is the reason we've raided the blueberry patch twice already.
We visited Bill's Blueberries, a quaint little gem of a blueberry farm, run on an honor system by a friendly old man (who I can only assume must be Bill) and his sweet wife. Handmade signs mark the driveway and decorate the shed, and rusty antique farming equipment adorns the lawn.
From a single speaker, oldies drift faintly across the farm, carried on the breeze so that songs seem to fade in and out as you pick.
True to standard picking procedure, pounds of blueberries plunked into our buckets, and an ounce or two (or three) went directly down the hatch. Milani climbed among the trees, and sampled some green blueberries.
Curious to understand what was so appealing to her about those little green blueberries, I sampled one, and oh my goodness are they beyond sour. The awful aftertaste lingered for hours, and I can't imagine how she managed to continue popping them in her mouth one after another. Let's just assume she's still developing her palate, and of course she still managed to eat her fair share of blue ones from the bucket.
The boys found other ways to fill their buckets.
Bill even has a little patch of raspberry bushes, and I managed to scour them for enough berries to turn into sweet and tart raspberry jam.
Another preserve checked off my grand canning plan. And as soon as the sweltering temperatures return to a more bearable level, blueberry lemon preserves are next on the list.
Ok, so maybe I have one more rant about canning, but I can't freaking help it, I'm hooked! Every time I pull my little jam jars out of the boiling water, and listen to the lids pop down one by one as they cool, I gain such a sense of satisfaction. It's like I've sealed away a piece of this summer. Like I've filled a jar with sweet memories, and a little sunshine. Like I've managed to capture the love and fun and energy of these days, and tuck it away for a cold rainy day. And since fewer people can and preserve these days than was done years ago, I feel like I'm part of an effort to resurrect a dying past time. To stand next to a massive pot of boiling canning water, stirring bubbling jam the way my grandmother or great grandmother might have, is pretty satisfying in itself. End of sermon.
***************************************************************************************
Dalton Carnival
Jon and I used to visit the Dalton Carnival beer tent every summer. We used to drink pitchers of Miller Lite from little plastic cups, and catch up with friends we hadn't seen all summer. We used to stay long after the stars came out, and the families with little ones headed home to read bedtime stories, and strings of little yellow bulbs illuminated the tent.
Maybe out of habit, or an attempt to hold true to tradition, we headed to the carnival last week. We went on a Thursday instead of Saturday. We arrived at six instead of nine, and left well before sunset. Water was the only beverage we guzzled.
Milani enjoyed a sampling of roast beef, potato pancakes, and pizza.
She looked wide eyed at the lights, and rides, and games with bright colored prizes.
This year she was content to observe, but next time I'm sure she'll be begging to ride the rides, and play the games.
And my girl is a flirt! She will scan a crowd for anyone who will make eye contact, and then girlfriend turns on the charm.
She grins, and laughs, and plays shy. She'll spin, and dance, and put on a show for anyone who will give her the attention. We stayed long enough for her to elicit some smiles and chuckles, and headed home with a full belly and bolstered ego.
To be honest, I didn't even miss the beer tent. I'm happy to forge new traditions, and I enjoy watching my girl soak in new experiences. And I love that we've become the family with a little one who heads home well before the stars come out to read bedtime stories.