rat and mole


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The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one’s ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.

There was the old Disney Wind and the Willows tape I would watch at my Grammie’s house, always nestled close to the television until someone would tell me to move back, I was ruining my eyes.  But I never read the story and only brought the audiobook home last week on a whim.  Now I can’t listen to it without smiling and feeling that good belly-hunger you get when you are reading something really wonderful.

That belly-hunger for the hot sun “pulling everything green and bushy and spiky up out of the earth towards him, as if by strings.”  For “toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in it in great golden drops, like honey.”  For more of Toad and Mole and dear Ratty.  And Badger, who “never said ‘I told you so,’ or, ‘Just what I always said,’ or remarked that they ought to have done so-and-so, or ought not to have done something else.”

september sun


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September table



We drop Reed off at school, and then we keep walking. A month ago, we might take the shady side of the street, but not anymore. The warm sun won’t last long. We take all we can get.

September is the most beautiful month.  The food is the best, and the clothes, and you don’t have to mow the lawn much or worry over seedlings or shoveling snow.  The cool air makes you hungry, and I love being hungry.

September is the most beautiful month, but as much as I like it, I also don’t at all.  It is like a beautiful, interesting person whose company- for some, unknown reason- you can’t stand.

Ah, well.  I don’t feel at home in September, but I am still glad it’s here.  I’m glad to live in the world and watch the months come in and out and eat apples and brussel sprouts and walk on the sunny side of the street.  I am glad the sun is still warm and I can keep walking and walking and point to the bits of yellow on the trees and say, Look, Helen!  It’s autumn!.


school year


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School.  This is the first year that autumn has meant a return to school in our family for anyone but me.  Reed has had three days of 4-K, now, and it is a new rhythm for us, and we are both still figuring out what to make of it.

For now, Reed knows he likes the big plastic slide in the classroom and he likes the other kids.  When asked if he does a good job of listening to the teacher, he replied “Well, what about the other kids?  The other kids are so interesting.”

For now, I know I like walking to drop Reed off, walking to pick Reed up, seeing the other parents and kids and backpacks all in a row, and how it feels when Reed comes home and we all eat lunch together and tell stories from earlier days and read a book.

Here be Monsters! we are reading.  We sit around our too-small table loaded with plates and jam and knives and cups and straws and read Here be Monsters!  We love it, all of us.  And I think we all love that moment, too.  Coming home.  Eating food.  Reading a book around a table.

feather bed




‘It was a good thing for them, but it wouldn’t be for him.  He’s been over a year thinking it out and studying books about it, and if you have to spend a year worrying and arguing yourself into a thing, that thing’s against your nature.  If he had been cut out for [it], he’d have just sunk down into it months ago, as easy as falling into a feather bed.’

                   -spoken by Uncle Tom, Flora Thompson’s Over to Candleford


As easy as falling into a feather bed.


ice cream!

We had our first visit to the orchard.  The apples are ripe, but it is still watermelon season, sidewalk chalk and open windows.

Here it happens all at once.  You blink an eye and it’s autumn, autumn in earnest, and you don’t know how it happened.  This year I am going to watch the pot.  I am not going to miss it.

these days

artist II“I am going to school, too, mom.”

“You are?”

“Yes.  Not 4-K.  A different school by Reed’s school.  My teacher’s name is Ms….Don’tfalldown.  She likes to bring everyone blue moon ice cream all the time.”


These days Helen talks as much as ever and Reed always seems to have  tomato seeds in his hair.  He has at long last discovered the joy of a bicycle, and is out riding as soon as his teeth are brushed.  Helen annoys him at the table by singing.  We are constantly talking about table manners.

And Margot is more a part of this world than she ever was, before.  She is learning how to ask for things without screaming (an appreciated skill if there ever was one) and slowly transitioning into the biped life.  She gets as many laughs and as many tomatoes as she can, and I like that about her.  There is a lot to like about Margot, that logical, fun-loving, strong-willed girl.



in the corners

gardener reed
If you stay in one place long enough and don’t move too fast, you get to know its ways and rhythms.  We used to take evening walks by the river, and I know where the geese liked to rest and the habits of swallows.  But lately evenings have taken me in the other direction, uphill, away from the water, to the pavement.

The middle school parking lot is empty and wide with shallow hills and inviting curves, an appealing place for budding cyclists.  I give Helen’s training wheels little nudges with my feet when the going is tough and watch Reed pedal around.

Around the bend, behind the gymnasium and along the tether-ball poles, a group of three or four kids lolls.  They are never the same kids, but always just the same, somehow.  On bikes.  On scooters.  Eating an orange popsicle.  Not doing anything much.  Never causing  trouble.  Not being exactly good either.  One boy always showing off.

They could be a kid-gang of any era, really.  They could be Little Rascals or Tom and Huck.  And I like that.  I knowing they are a part of the summer evening landscape along with the happy man and his baby girl, the large woman and her golden retriever, the joggers.  I like being reminded that we aren’t all about Are-we-just-teaching-to-the-test? and Is-technology-hurting-our-children?.  We are also about Biking-with-an-orange-popsicle.

Here’s to that.

popcorn in two bites

June 20

My girlsToday we ate popcorn, and I watched Reed eat a piece in two bites: the soft top, the kernely bottom.  I always used to eat popcorn like that.  I ate the bottom first, saving the best for last.

You remember these things when you have kids.  And then, I think, you forget them all over again.  But I would rather not.  I would rather remember it all.





a word on helen

ready to jump


The thing about Helen is, she’s the sort of girl who, when having forgotten the word for something, doesn’t pause or stumble or ask what it is called.  She dives right in and says the completely wrong word with complete confidence.


“I picked some CHARD for you!”

(Cantaloupe.  Clover.)

She doesn’t mind being wrong, that girl, and she never balks.

That’s the thing about Helen.

a word on the potluck

mint tea for three


The wild corner of our garden (I always like the wild corners best) is overtaken with mint, so I stooped and steeped and churned fresh mint ice cream, the first of the season.  But that isn’t what I want to talk about.

I want to talk about potlucks, but the story begins there.  Because the six egg whites in the refrigerator leftover from said ice cream brought to mind brutti ma buoni, and I opened Everlasting Meal to find the recipe.

First let me say that I live in the land of the potluck.  “Bring a dish” is the default and often goes unsaid.  I have always been happy with this arrangement.  It is conducive to parties with plenty of food for the guests and less pressure for the hosts: both very valuable things.  But this time flipping through Tamar Adler’s book (I’ve read it cover to cover at least five times), a small paragraph caught my eye:

There’s great value in being able to say “yes” when people ask if there is anything they can do.  By letting people pick herbs or slice bread instead of bringing a salad, you make your kitchen a universe in which you can give completely and ask for help.  The more environment with that atmospheric makeup we can find or create, the better.

I like living in a world of parties with plenty of food and less pressure, but these days Tamar Adler’s vision seems better.  The world generally (and the Midwest particularly) could use more places where you “can give completely and ask for help.”



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