I spoke with a friend recently who admitted to envisioning our life here like a wee family of woodland fairies – traipsing about, foraging in the heather, tangled hair long and loose and wild in the sunset. Certainly barefoot, she says. The barefoot part is true, for some of the children some of the time,
Our first night in the cabin, dehydrated and weary, we line up our mattresses on the unfinished floor. Our eyelids are heavy, but we steal a few pre-bedtime minutes for shadow puppets on the wall. We are here, we whisper. Finally here.
We had been preparing for a move, a temporary one, in which we would spend our first summer sleeping on a raw 160 acres of newness, of mountains, of yarrow. And all was in tumult. Ken and I were juggling our own proverbial spheres – he, putting finishing touches on a rental property – me,
Months ago, I am stuck in San Luis Obispo. The plane needs this one part, says the attendant. We had to order it. Might be here Thursday? It is Sunday. The airport is small, and a sudden swarm of indignation thickens the air. We have homes, we argue. Lives! Babies who need our care,
Image Credits: Iron & Lace for Camp Climb Summer camp for the young me was this: wet socks drying on hickory branches. Cold Dr. Pepper from the canteen. Legs dangling from the top balcony of Amity Hall, lost in a continual conversation with stars and the dirt beneath.
I’m no stranger to the immense personality crisis Mother Nature endures throughout an Indiana spring. This year in particular, our entryway has danced between parasols and parkas more times than I can count. Sundays spent chattering on a back porch, kids swinging wildly on a hammock chair, popsicles at the ready. Monday morning? Snow, and
Vacation came, vacation went. I’ve spent the past few days in the post-getaway rhythm of folding whites, restocking pantries, shaking sand from the car mats. This morning I unpacked my suitcase and returned an unread pile of six books to my nightstand – a welcome reminder that even beloved hobbies pale in comparison to watching
My 10-year-old self loved many a summer days – air slick with freedom, elbows slick from cherry popsicles. An entire universe whirling by from the banana seat of my lustrous purple Huffy. Cicada symphonies. Gingham feasts. Chlorinated hair. And then, I grew. From inches higher, the neighborhood creek seemed far less adventurous than the latest