Because I’m a sucker for melancholy thoughts, I took this photo and named it The Last Peony of Summer. It really is. It looked forlorn and lonely on its bush, so I picked it and added some lavatera and baby’s breath to keep it company.
Oh Mom, the girls said when they massaged my feet last night.
Oh Mom, your feet feel like crusts, dry bread crusts.
I was out in the garden on Friday hilling potatoes and it was hot for Alberta and I went in and was trying to get up the courage to make biscuits for some dubious looking chicken potpie filling I’d found earlier in the week when I was cleaning the freezer. Dan texted me in that dreadful moment and said shall we go town for supper?
Of course THAT answer required absurdly little thought.
Quick as you could say It’s A Hazy Day, I was in the shower, scrubbing my crusty soles.
I posted this on facebook, (so skip it if you already read it) but this is the same guy that heard me wondering aloud whether I should make potato salad for my company lunch on Sunday or go down to the garden and try to find some new potatoes and peas.
A half hour later, I found this on the kitchen table.
We argue about the most juvenile things sometimes. And we get busy and grouchy and tired. But I never doubt that he loves me.
Andre, did you wash your face like I told you to? I asked him on the way to town. There was a Tom Sawyer ring around his jaw that very clearly hadn’t been cleaned.
Huh-uh, Bryant said. He just licked it.
I was feeling kind of blue today. Then my petunias waved at me.
While Ontario and Ohio have seen more rain than they’re happy about, the West is burning up with heat and forest fires. I feel sad about days of haze and miss the bright blue sky. But each time I feel ungrateful, I also try to say thanks that the fires are not right here. Dear Jesus, please send rain to Idaho and Saskatchewan and B.C. And if there’s some left over, we could use it here too.
And that’s life around here, along with canola turning yellow, freezies and iced garden tea, swimming evenings in uncle David’s dugout, and a few ripe raspberries.
I’ve been reading Ann Lamott’s Bird by Bird for the first time and I’m hooked. Some people just know how to write.
I have been wanting to write for two weeks and a day.
But all of a sudden there’s nothing to say.
(That rhymes, please note.)
We reunioned the month of June away.
(ach my. That also rhymes.)
With 85 diverse and interesting Peacheys, we talked and sang and boated and slept as little as possible for 48-ish hours.
With 22 solid and fun-loving Martins we did the same, though it lasted longer. (I think that solid and fun loving sound incongruous together, but those are two adjectives that really describe the family well. They’re a steady, faithful lot. But my do they love their jokes and good times.)
Here are a few pictures.
Photo credits to Donna Grace C. Peachey and Julia Kuhns with her daughter Heather’s camera, I believe. 🙂
I could say much more about reunions, but it is time to
clean the bathrooms and sweep the floor get everyone up and ready for church
start the laundry and pick the peas.
I started this Saturday morning,
worked on it Sunday morning,
and must publish it this Monday morning.
Song fail. Sorry, Mother.
A Mennonite lady visits London with her young son.
That was some Peacheys. Here are the Martins in a formal way. I have fireside pictures and singing videos and 50th anniversary cake pictures and all kinds of things. But…the peas.
Can you tell who is just faking the smiles and who doesn’t really care anymore? For some reason I can’t upload the shot I want. It’s really quite hilarious trying to find a family photo in which everyone looks good.
The news is so full of tragedy and ignorance and sadness and hunger and pain.
Sometimes it seems like we get to live in this easy little cocoon. While I’m grateful, I also long to DO something to help.
The great danger facing all of us…is that some day we may wake up and find that we have been busy with husks and trappings of life and have really missed life itself. That is what one prays one’s friends may be spared-satisfaction with a life that has in it no tingle or thrill that comes from a friendship with the Father. (Philip Brooks-1835-1893)
I can’t forget this young man who graduated in May. He deserves a post in itself. But the peas!!!
Happy Monday, friends.