” What’s the black spots called, mama?”
Those are the seeds.
“Watermelon doesn’t have black seeds! That’s crazy!”
It’s melon season here. The kids are having melon from a neighboring farm that had them at the farmer’s market, priced with Sharpe for $5 or $6.
“I want to plant them!”
Melon season is harvesting now, love. The seeds like to be planted in the spring.
“They won’t mind. I’ll take good care of them.”
They might not grow, honey.
The watermelon sprouts beside the wilting radishes.
Rainbows have hit a new level of glory in our home.
First we had the usual childhood awe, fascination, and adoration of them. Like you do.
Then June came round and for some unknown (to me) reason, this was the year in which much of corporate America felt free, finally, to celebrate Pride month. This added to the rainbow fandom in my house and lead to heartening conversations. When asked by a wee one why there were suddenly rainbows everywhere, I found the answer coming from my mouth before trying to find age-appropriate words: people have decided that rainbows are a way to celebrate love – and that love between any person and any other person is worth being happy about.
From the mouths of babes: then why aren’t there this many rainbows every day? I want to open a year round shop called, “Every Rainbow Every Day” because every love is ok every day.
And so in our house, we celebrate rainbows every day, in every way. Last night’s rainbow?
Yellow pear tomatoes, sun gold tomatoes, black cherry tomatoes, and pink Arkansas traveler tomatoes from the garden with a white onion and green cilantro.
“Would you count to twenty and then do the same for the next tall plant and the next one?”
“Right here, mama?”
I hope these little bean flowers make food before the heat causes them to keel over.
Not everything out of place is unwanted in its place.
I am feeling more untethered, two weeks into this sabbatical, than I quite know what to do with.
I don’t recall wild carrot ever being such a sea – in this spot or any other. How the climate change and other human intervention changes so many things.
There was a beautiful field of Indian Paintbrush nearby each spring. Year after year until three years ago. The farmer didn’t mow at some choice winter moment to allow enough light to permeate the heavy grasses laden over the soil. No flowers. And again the next year. And again.
This year, the farmer didn’t mow that same field, but did mow the one across the way and lo and behold – Indian Paintbrush!
Alas, we didn’t put two and two together in time to continue the “children in wildflowers” tradition this spring with that field. There is still time to add it up on some Blanketflower or Coreopsis though…
We pick some days to mark. We choose wedding dates to become anniversaries. We choose Thanksgiving, or not. Christmas or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa or Yule or not.
And some days choose us. A grandfather dies on a mother’s birthday. A cousin shares his birthday with the day a best friend miraculously survives.
Today, this jovial fun-filled mischievous holiday was the day my son chose for his birthday and boy, did he hit the nail on the head.
“Mama, dere’s a flower in dere.”
– Yes, love. And we’ll leave it for the bees, won’t we?
“I yam, mama. I yam leaving it for da bees. The bees is hungry. And they make us food! Is it snyacktiem?”
We’re off and away.
We’re off to great places. Today is our day. Our mountain is waiting. We’re well on our way.
May the changing of the calendar bring forth fresh for you. Fresh thoughts, fresh ideas, fresh energy, or any other freshening up your heart may be seeking.