On summer mornings, after breakfast, Mother would essentially put me out with the dog to get me out from underfoot. Hill wandering, creek wading, hiding in the empty middle of a huge bush of some sort with books and a blanket. Getting blistered occasionally from poison ivy.
The bookmobile came out to our little wide spot in the road once a week, and sometimes we'd go into town to return or get more books.
Vacation Bible School for a week in June, moving through the stages from kid on one of the classes to teacher when I got to high school. Then, later in the summer, the church festival, where the ladies would cook insanely good chicken sandwiches and bring their best pies and potato salad, and the men would be lopping up the water melon. Another hierarchy to pass through was handing out slices of pie and watermelon to being trusted to cut the pie, to being one of the waitresses taking orders from the old folks who would always exclaim about how big you were getting.
The best summer was the year I was unofficially dating the preacher. Unmarried clergymen, much like Jane Austen's single rich men, were definitely in need of a wife, and the unspoken jockeying for position among the eligible girls was fierce. I didn't even know I was competing, until I realized Rev. Dave was picking me out to talk to. Oh, the thoughtful/jealous looks. And the weekend I was home from college during the winter, and he kissed my cheek after church. Scandalous!
That summer, there was a field trip to the Pittsburgh Zoo, where all of us country kids stared at the white-tailed deer in the cage and going, "No, really, they have them in the zoo? Don't these people get out?" Mid-afternoon, with most everyone who wasn't thirteen and younger was hot and bored, Rev. Dave, who had grown up in Pittsburgh, sidled up to me and suggested getting some pizza at a place he knew nearby. So we snuck off for a couple of hours, ate pizza and played pinball, then went back to the zoo, where the chaperones were giving us looks and the kids were going "Where did you two go!"
He eventually went to a more populous/less rural parish--at which point he kissed me once, because now that I was no longer a parishoner he wasn't breaking any rules--and that was the end of my summer as the preacher's girlfriend.
All the stories seem to be the same with regard to advice for caring for the hawk. "Give it time."
Ever since these hawks hatched, I've been especially cautious with my chihuahua. Didn't want the momma hawk deciding she would make a good teaching tool for hunting.
The NatGeo site says these hawks stay in the nest up to six weeks and I'm thinking we are right at that time period. Also that they are the most common North American hawk, which I am thinking explains the prevalent "wait and see" attitude.
I'd feel a lot better about letting nature take it's course if my window hadn't started the current path.
Theresa post followed by Cashmere's made me think "Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie..."
Oh, and another summer memory! Going to my mom's and dad's company picnics each summer. They were both in the same park and picnic area every year, so they sort of blend together in my mind, with volleyball games and softball games, picnic food and ice cream carts, all jumbled up. One of my biggest memories was playing right field (as usual) and getting a softball hit right to me, and my glove didn't get up in time to stop the ball from hitting me right between the eyes. My glasses' nosepiece took the brunt of it, and I ended up with big bruises on my cheeks from the glasses digging into them under both eyes.
Just in time for the move, my shredder and granny cart are both near death.
I am OMG tired. am going to sleep when mac does. Hopefully that means I will get up when he does too, or at least within an hour of it. That will give me 2 hours before the movers come to pack to double make sure everything is put away that I do not want them to pack.
"Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie..."
I did ask if they were good "eatin'" which brought no laughter What.So.Ever.
Well, I peeled some paint today, but didn't start applying the stripper. Got the stripper, tape and tarp and implements, need to hit up the dollar store for saran wrap and cheap sheets.
Ran ALL my errands today. Ooof. Laundered, visited with neighbor cat (she's such a sweet, crazy thing. I wish the meet'n'greet had gone better, then I would have her over here, since she's starving for attention. She cries when I leave after an hour,) swam, washed the produce.
Tomorrow I need to see about some plants and planting, pickle cukes, slice up some salami for a work thing, and hopefully get a start on the great stairrail stripping of 2010.
And more laundry.
Okay, I've Googled and I still don't know. Someone please explain to me 1) what the big horking deal is with LeBron James lately, and 2) besides a basketball player, which I gathered, who the hell is LeBron James?
The big deal with him lately is that he was deciding which team to play for next year, and this became a huge deal, like spread out over weeks of speculation.
Why, he's LeBron James. And LeBron James is LeBron James, who is our prophesied LeBron James.
Not to be confused with marklars.
