26th August, 2018 Sunday
Its so grey. There is mist in the air. 65 degrees Farenheit in my kitchen. Open windows’ breath brings wax wane chill. Dishwasher swishes the final line of picnic dishes. Farm Harvest Party last night. My son in law’s sister’s vegetable farm, the one he weeds and plucks and washes its dirt’s yield.
His sister and her husband bought The Farm, a six acre patch along a highway to a volcano. Six years they toiled it alone together. My daughter and her husband’s transition this past year from one landscape to this meant The Farm had extra hands this season.
Evening last The Farm was ground with ridges sprouting sprouts of green things to come, a few pigs in a pen, lots of young. And littles, oh the littles, playing in a wee creek, dancing on their own two tiny feet or in the arms that made them. A band of synced men playing a pack of songs that moved us through the evening, dusk to dark. My husband, tall and walled due to ears that lose sound in crowds, finds men like him to chat the way men like him do. I meander to pods of familiar women and in minutes they are even more familiar. Loud music and my feet start and then I find I still have dance inside. Oh thank you…
My son in law’s family is strewn throughout the crowd with lovely loving people they have been collecting over decades. His Mama and Papa and a cousin and a neighbor. And yes, another sister beams her share of magic round about the crowd. I love them all. They have all embraced us as theirs. And we are so so so grateful…
My son in law has a dear friend in tow and their friendship shines the mischief they spark in each other. Its a fine thing to witness. Such play. Dear friend’s wife holds the babe she had inside the day my daughter wed. The babe is boy and dear and strong and soft still. Please please grow him safe and loved and sourced for him to shine on the Grace of A Good Man. We need more.
“Where is She?”, “Where is She?”, “Where is She?” I say, “She will be here.” She will, she will, I hope inside. She needs a night like this. Then I hear she is not coming. Damn.
She works when others play these days, you see. Then tends her flock and loves her pup and after all of that, she has nothing left for play. I know how she feels so well. I know the rage and lonely of the weekend work.
Some one said last night, “You are so lucky they are with you.” I spurted a laugh. I do love it that we have this time but…Grown children are not necessarily thrilled living right next door to parents under a roof that isn’t theirs. Mine are here necessarily until they find direction. They will, I know. In the meantime, we share yard and field and food and wine and dogs and love, yes, love, definitely love.
And there is struggle for them too. From wild open to farm and town in a year? Shock to them. Where is ground?
I tell them through the air because I cannot say it straight to them, the ground is there, you’ve got this. You have all you need to land somewhere that is all yours and you. Meantime, this is ok. Meantime. Its only the Meantime. I love you.
Crying now. Oh yes, I love you, truly do.
So its Farmer’s Market Day 2. Chicken booth is manned by son in law, or SIL for short. He’s got people skill. He’s good at shopping chicken or anything else. The weather chill means more or less, we will see.
Today the Market is close by so we will go and maybe walk the Zoi pup into public. She is sweet and full of love for us and happy at home, and cautious about the World beyond her fence. I hate the bit of bringing her to strange and fear but they lessen with trips. I like home too. Really like home. I am a Cancer, Crab, I like my Shell. Outside, unknown, not so much.
Oh, tea was black with half and half and local honey gathered last week.
Ta
Tea With Me 