School vacation week was this week. This year we decided to take a trip back down to the Maryland/Virginia area to visit family. We hadn’t been there in four years. It gave us the chance to catch up with family and a few old friends.
We started in Frederick, got the chance to both chill at my mother’s house and walk around the historic section of Frederick. On the side of one building is a pretty nifty mural of a man looking out an open window. We ducked into an antique market where there were, among other things, endless jars of old silverware.
After a few days we headed to Virginia, staying just over the line from Washington DC. From there we got to catch a Nats game one day, and revisit the National Zoo the next. Took the Metro both times, which was an absolute madhouse after the ballgame let out. The zoo had some great exhibits we hadn’t seen before, especially now that they’ve opened the Asian Trails section. This exhibit gives the Asian elephants a lot more room to roam than I remember them having the last time.
In addition, I got the chance to play my father’s new Martin guitar, which has an amazing sound.
All told, lots of fun was had by all. Observe the proof:
This weekend, like many of the weekends during the school year, was a blur. Ballet classes, Sunday school, grocery shopping, etcetera etcetera–the list runs long.
One of the things we did was man a table at the local Farmer’s Market. The town Farmer’s Market has been running for about a month now, and will keep on going until the middle of October. This Saturday was particularly fun because it was “kids vendor” day, the day when the local town kids can make things and sell them. There were the usual suspects of cookies, cupcakes, and Rice Krispy treats. There were also the usual craft-y suspects in the form of loop band bracelets, bead necklaces, and paracord bracelets. There was one little girl selling colored pencil drawings she’d made for $2 a drawing (each came with its own sheet protector–in case you were wondering what all you got for your $2).
The Boy Scouts were there selling popcorn, which, if you’ve never had, is very good. It’s not Girl Scout cookie good, but then again, what is?
Of course, there are other vendors there. Actual, you know, farmers. There were four or five farms represented, selling everything for apples to shallots to meat. (Apparently Boylston had its own meat CSA. Who knew?) There were also other craftsmen/women there as well. One woman was selling handmade soap (we bought a few bars because they smelled so good), there was a vendor selling goods made from alpaca hair, there was a local woodworker selling things like bowls and oil lanterns and pens. I bought a pen because they were just fantastically beautiful.
My kids didn’t have anything to sell. Instead, they had been asked to man the table for the local food pantry. The food pantry had been running low on stock and one of the parents of the third graders mobilized an effort to get it restocked. Because of schedules and conflicts, there were a lot of people who could be present at the Farmer’s Market to help collect the dry goods. So we volunteered. And while I can’t say they stood there for four hours taking food donations, they were there to help out for a while and accept food (with their parents there to pick up the slack for when they bolted.)
All in all, it was a great time. The kids had a ton of fun with so many of their friends who were there to buy or sell. And they helped out a local charity. I’m really proud of them.
Check out some of the pictures from the day below.
This is going to be one of those sappy-daddy-loves-his-daughters kind of posts. If that’s not your cuppa, exit now.
Still there? Well then, meet Joshua. This is the name of the stuffed tiger you see in the picture above. My older daughter named him.
Now, technically, he’s mine. He was a gift from said daughter back on a birthday or Father’s Day a bunch of years ago. But, given how much Joshua seemed to prefer my daughter’s company to mine, I let him hang out in my daughter’s room.
You might be wondering why I’m posting about a stuffed tiger? Hey, if Miline can write about a stuffed bear named Edward, why can’t I write about a stuffed tiger named Joshua?
The main reason I’m thinking about Joshua these days is because, out of nowhere, he has returned. When my daughter was younger, in the five to six range, I would tuck her into bed, and then Joshua would join the party. He was a happy addition with a special quality: he could fly.
When Joshua’s arms are outstretched, he looks like he might take off into the air. And one day, as it happens, he did. I used to fly Joshua around my daughter’s bedroom before bed and she would spend time trying to catch him in her hands.
Fast forward a number of years. Unannounced one day a week or two ago, Joshua suddenly returned to the stuffed menagerie that occupies my daughter’s bed every night. I picked him up one night and, for nostalgia’s sake, flew him around the room. And my daughter, remembering how the tiger used to bring the fun, decided to try and catch him.
We’ve been doing this now for about a week. And it’s like a connection to a past you forgot you used to love. My daughter turns back into a five year old when Joshua flies around her room, in the same way I turn into an eight year old when I get hold of a box of Legos.
I know it won’t last. There’ll finally be that night where one, the other, or both of us decide we don’t need to fly the tiger. But until then, I’m holding onto these moments with both hands.
My grandmother belly-laughing at something my daughter did as a toddler
This is a little bit of a love letter. Today would have been my grandmother’s 95th birthday. She passed away at the end of last August. In honor of her memory, I thought I’d share a family anecdote I didn’t know before she passed. I learned about this one in the weeks after her passing, as all the stories, memories, and tall tales started to emerge.
This one is about the first house she bought. And what’s important to note here is that she bought it. My grandfather had joined the marines and was serving in a tiny little corner of hell called the Pacific. My grandmother, on her own, decided that the time was right for her to buy a house and settle into it. I don’t know the exact reasons why, so I’d have to speculate, but I would guess it was so that my grandfather would have a house to call “home” when he was finally able to come home.
My grandmother found the house she wanted and went into the bank. She was working for the now defunct Bonwit Teller department store. She need to work to make up the balance of the budget, since the pay for a marine serving overseas wasn’t terribly large.
She arranged the financing and settled the mortgage. Knowing her the way I did, she did this without fanfare or panache; it was simply the right thing to do. Not that she wasn’t full of doubt. Buying a house is a big deal, a lot of money, and no matter how full of confidence you are, there’s always a certain specter of doubt that lingers. Maybe not long, maybe it’s smaller or larger, depending on your personality. But it’s there.
Or at least it was for my grandmother. She had her doubts. After all, she was a woman buying a house in the 1940’s, not exactly the most liberated time for women, and with the shadow of government telegrams always edging around the door—well, of course there were doubts.
However, doubts or not, my grandmother was deeply spiritual. She was a lifelong Catholic, and had a particular fondness for St. Therese of Lisieux. St. Therese is known as the “Little Flower”, and is have reported to have said upon her deathbed “After my death, I will let fall a shower of roses…”, meaning she would send a little bit of heaven to earth. Since she loved roses so much, that was a little bit of heaven to her. My grandmother took strength from the story of St. Therese.
My grandmother settled on the financing with the bank and prepared to go straight to the house. On her way out of the bank, as a thank you for being a customer, someone was handing out roses. Given my grandmother’s spirituality and attachment to St. Therese, she must have seen this rose as a good sign. A coincidence perhaps, but a good sign nevertheless.
This purchase took place in the winter, not a typical time for blooming flowers in New York. But upon showing up at the house, directly from the bank, there in the garden was a rose bush. And despite the fact that it was winter, on the rose bush bloomed a single red rose.
It was then that all of her doubts receded. When my grandfather returned from the war, together they started a family, and it was in that house that my mother and my uncle were raised.
Happy Birthday, Gram. I hope there are roses wherever you are.
Love, Scott
My grandmother at the wedding reception of my cousin
Of course, there are other vendors there. Actual, you know, farmers. There were four or five farms represented, selling everything for apples to shallots to meat. (Apparently 
Scott Lyerly 