It's early early Wednesday morning. The crickets are still simmering under my open window.
Their rhythm sounds like the slow shake of jingle bells. August has always been a snarly month.
Not sure if it's the intense heat, or the fact that summer is waning and new beginnings are just around the corner. I have those pesky dreams that I've missed a history class for a whole semester, and I'm wondering if the professor noticed my absence; wondering if I could take the final exam. When I wake up, I review my life up until now. What have I forgotten?
800 Charlemagne's coronation. 1066 Battle of Hastings. 1215 signing of Magna Carta.
The dates are still there. The dates are numbers you can count on. Always one answer.
The dates of my own life. Another story. What lies between truth and fiction. Fuzzy dates.
Gosh, what if the history class was on revisionist history? Wouldn't that be a fun(ny) topic?
Just think of the debates in that classroom, and the papers would certainly be creative.
(Although , some history professors may believe they have revisionist students to begin with.)
I think August is a time to count blessings, especially now with the garden's abundance. My facial skin looks great because of all the steaming pots I've been looking into every day.
Is there anything better than fresh tomatoes, tomato sauce, salsa? Could we bottle the scents of dill, basil, cilantro? And this year's peaches are just exceptional-- our mouths full of sun.
I'm mid-week in my last summer writing & art workshop. The children are 8-12, again quite wonderful. Surprising too, working with colleagues' children and grandchildren. With this bit of knowledge, I can see what I like best of them in the children. It's curious what's passed on, and none of it is genetic. I see this in my own children and grandchildren too. Startling when they're quoting me, especially when I believed whole-heartedly that no one was actually listening. Wrong again.
Spent last week with my granddaughter. Able to give her a lot of attention. She's swallowed up by the din of her brothers. We went blueberry picking and we were quite successful hunting blueberries, but to avoid boredom, I had to incorporate a bit of opera in our picking. We sang lines and repeated lines in chorus. Example: Blueberry, blueberry, blueberry pie, better than a bug in your eye. It went on and on, and soon families in other rows were singing with us. It was fun. We even had a grand finale. The singing made us forget the heat and focus on the picking. And I must say we had perfect pitch.
So now, and most likely today, Peter and I need to put up the blueberry jam. We're going to try some new low sugar recipes. We've discovered a new book. Will post more later.