survival

I am hoping my pumpkin plants survive The Rabbit.
I can see how pumpkin plants could taste fine to a rabbit.
I am hoping my corn survives the heat.
I can see how extra heat could make a corn plant age before its time.
I am hoping my cucumber plants survive my grandson.
I can see how creating natural disasters with the garden hose and garden soil could be fun.
I am hoping my tomatoes survive not being staked.
And that my flowers survive my beauty loving granddaughter.
And that my hanging baskets survive my neglectful ways.
All things green and growing.
I am hoping there is an abundance of flourishing.
Not just survival of the fittest.

dragon breath

Summer has swooped down on us, as hot as a fire breathing dragon.
We cower in our houses.
Or scuttle into the shade,
or rush to and from our car.
As the great ball of fire rises ever higher overhead we hasten to close the window,
close the blinds,
hide away in the shadow.
We are surrounded by heat.
We breathe heat.
We are heat.
Night falls, but not the temperature.
The dragon stalks by night.

i hope

Under the leaves in my garden,
under the cool tangle of green,
down in the shadow,
hidden from all eyes,
a little rabbit has made a summer hide away.
One tiny rabbit.
A baby bunny all alone.
Where in the world did it come from?
How did it end up in my yard right in town.
My back yard is against a very busy street.
Dogs live in the yards on either side of us.
We've never had rabbits before.
But we have a bunny now.
When I water the front yard, it shoots from one hiding spot to another as the cold spray sweeps ever closer.
I can see that it is growing.
It could have rested on the palm of my hand the first time I saw it.
Now it is stretching out, sleek and sassy.
And well fed.
I can see the missing blossoms on the pumpkin vines.
Perhaps our little bunny will turn into an adventurous rabbit and seek its fortune in fields afar come fall.
I hope and so do my pumpkin plants.

so are we

There's a family living under our deck. A family at last. We thought our Robin Real Estate Listing had expired but a family has moved in and settled down.
We have a couple nests resting on the beam under our deck and this spring a blue/green egg appeared in both of them. There they were, like jewels, glowing in the shadow. A mother robin laid each egg as a practice run I guess. She didn't take to motherhood right away and as spring turned into summer, we at last removed the abandoned eggs with a sigh.
Perhaps all the activity overhead was the problem. You know what they say, location, location, location.
And then, just as we were on the verge of giving up, there they were.
Three blue/green eggs.
And all in the same nest.
And the mother was there too.
Flitting off the nest if our feet strayed too close above.
Always near, her bright eyes upon us.
And then one lovely day, the little trio of eggs hatched and three tiny naked birdlets lay panting.
"I can see their hearts beat," cried my grandson, peering between the boards.
Three infant robins.
Like any youngsters, they are never still.
And, they are always hungry.
The mother is never far away.
Her day is an endless cycle.
Find food, feed babies, find food, feed babies.
She has taken to motherhood.
She is watching babies become birds.
And so are we.

planes of time

"I think I need to let my family know I won't be getting home tonight," my mother says to me anxiously as I help her into bed.
I know she is lost in time but I say cheerily, "Well I'm your daughter. You can't get any more family than that!"
She seems comforted but minutes later, she suddenly appears in the doorway of the room I'm reading in.
"I think I need to let my Dad know I won't be home," she declares emphatically.
I always try to sooth my mother when she is confused without adding to her delusion. Just reminding her that she is a woman in her eighties has worked at times to bring her back to the present.
"How old do you think you are?" I ask gently.
"Fourteen," she says. almost like a question.
"Fourteen?" I repeat, momentarily caught off guard.
"Oh....or twelve," she says, misunderstanding my look of disbelief.

Dementia is a confusing state of mind.
My mother can still have a conversation.
Still has opinions about things.
Still makes jokes.
Still cares and is still interested in life around her.
It's just that the planes of time are gone.
She is here and there somehow at the same time.

The mother of my childhood was a woman, gentle and dependable. She was just always there.......doing the things mothers just did.
I never really thought about it.
As a teenager it occurred to me that my mother was eccentric and maybe she was.
She never marched in step with popular culture even when she was a teenager herself.
I realize, in looking back that the beginnings of her mental decline happened much earlier than any of us were aware.
She became somewhat distant and detached.
Her contributions to conversation were not always what the moment called for.
She began to loose her large and ready vocabulary.
She began to forget and just never stopped.

all over again

Is knowing how to make playdough an essential life skill?
Probably not but plonking down a big lump of playdough turns your dining table into an artist's studio, a science lab and a pretend bakery all at the same time and that's pretty cool.
Here, for your edification and education is The Math Of Playdough.
One cup of flour+ one cup of salt + one cup of water+ one tablespoon of oil= a great lump of loveliness.
(Once mastered, you could probably add this to your resume).
Ready?

-Have the children drag chairs to the kitchen counter
-Get a large bowl.
-Add one cup flour. Be sure to divide equally in half cup increments so that each child has an exactly equal chance to sprinkle flour into the bowl, onto the counter, themselves and the floor.
-Pause while youngest child fingerpaints designs in the flour on the counter.
-Continue by adding one cup of salt.
-Make sure to divide into two equal parts.
See above for reason.
-Stir.
-Stir.
-Add one cup of water. Divided equally of course.
-Add one tablespoon of oil. Quickly chuck it in. Remember, children are resilient. Or, if you are blessed with surplus patience, carefully divide into two equal portions.
-This is the best time to add a few drops of food coloring. 
-Sometimes, due to complex factors like humidity, or predictable factors like sloshing water and wafting flour, the end result needs a smidge more flour added.
Just knead it in as though you were making a teeny tiny batch of bright pink or green bread.

The recipe can be doubled but it is WAY more fun to just start at the beginning and do it all over again.

part of the summer

Playdough has been part of the summer fun around here. My granddaughter has rolled and patted and pressed her way into a pastel playdough patisserie filled to the brim with pink (of course) and blue pies and cakes, ice-cream cones and cookies.
My grandson, following other inspiration, has rolled his playdough into cocoons and chrysalis that have hatched into butterflies and beetles. He has formed fossils too. Lots and lots of fossils.
It has reminded me of a long ago summer day.
When my oldest daughter was two, I began to make playdough for her entertainment. Just like my granddaughter, she was transformed into a miniature baker. Cookies were her specialty.
My in-laws had come for a visit.
Grandpa was reading and my little daughter proudly carried a fresh batch of playdough cookies into the living room for his approval.
He promptly took a bite.
Moments later, he appeared in the kitchen doorway with my little daughter at his side. Neither of them looked happy.
"This sure is salty cookie dough," he lamented hastening to the sink.
"Oh, you didn't EAT it did you,?" I gasped.
My little daughter solemnly nodded.