And so it Begins

25 pounds of tomatoes from the farmers market are sitting in a box in the dining room.

Can 12 quarts of canned tomatoes be far behind?


UPDATE: 8/13/13:
Make that thirteen quarts!

Paparazzi

We took the girls to the pool in our complex this afternoon. It was pretty empty for a Saturday, but as we approached, the sound of kids splashing and playing carried over the fence. It turned out that our neighbor was celebrating her birthday, and the noise we heard was five almost seventh grade girls enjoying the party. I thought nothing of it until I put my stuff down and looked a couple of lounge chairs over. There was a former student staring at me with her mouth wide open. I guess she's not used to running into her teachers in their bathing suits. That makes two of us.

I played it cool, though, like it was no big thing, and after a brief conversation, I jumped in the pool. 

Was it my I imagination or did her fingers fly to her iPhone the minute I turned away? A few minutes later, the birthday girl sat down next to her. They whispered for a minute, then our cheeky neighbor called out to me. "Hey, Ms..." she paused because that's not what she calls me. 

"Tracey?" I suggested.

"Nuha and Esinam say, 'Hi!'," she finished, naming two other girls who were not present.

""Tell them I hope they're having a good summer," I said, and I flashed a big smile and waved before I swam off to play with the girls, because I'm pretty sure there were pictures, if not video, to go with that text.

Company!

Just home from seeing The Smurfs 2, we got One Direction blasting, and we're making beaded rings, lanyards, and friendship bracelets. There was a little ballet demo from drama camp earlier, too.

God daughters in the house, yo.

Most Sincere

We have been trying to cultivate ourselves a nice cucurbitaceae for going on four seasons now. This late winter, when I was starting my seeds, I found a couple of old ones in a packet labeled "Connecticut field pumpkin," and in that most optimistic of moments, I planted one of them in my little starter cells. Flash forward six months, and that seed has grown into a vine that has taken over all the free space in our garden plot. On it there are two promising specimens and a couple of smaller back ups.

I couldn't tell you exactly why, no doubt we could connect it to any number of childhood Halloween memories, but I will be thrilled, thrilled! I say, to pick a pumpkin from my own little patch.

Here it is today:

(Fingers crossed!)

Those Old White Guys

One of my best friends from high school lost her dad today. He was 90 and died peacefully at home with 2 of his five children by his side; not a bad way to go, right?

When I heard the news, I noted the date, because me and dates? We have something going. Just the other day, I ran into a couple of friencquaintences (yes! by all means give me credit for that portmanteau word) at Target, and I had the occasion  to impress them with my knowledge of their birthdays. I wish I could take more credit for it, but (shrug) it's just how my brain works.

So, today, I thought of Nixon resigning. It was August 8, 1974, (Bobby Bloomer's birthday), and we had been to Great Adventure theme park with my aunt and cousins. That hot, sweaty night, with all the window fans blowing, we watched on TV as the president made a speech from the oval office that he would resign the next day. It was history.

How old was my friend's dad then? I wondered, and I calculated that he was 51, my age exactly. He was a fortunate man, and I personally wouldn't turn down another 39 years like those, but then I got to thinking. How old was Nixon then?

The answer-- 61. Just 10 years older than I am now. Hmm. So he was... 55 when he was elected. That seems impossible. How could that be? NIXON was only 4 years older than I am when he ran for president? But wait. The first time he ran, when he was that stodgy alternative to the young and vibrant JFK? He was just 47!

So, I did a bit of research into all those old, white guys who have led our nation. (Thank you, Wikipedia.) The median age is actually a youthful 54 and 11 months, which falls between Herbert Hoover and Lyndon Johnson. (Really? Really!) Seriously... Tyler, Fillmore, Grant, Garfield, Arthur, Cleveland, BOTH Roosevelts (FDR? C'mon!), Cleveland, Kennedy, Clinton, and Obama were all my age, or YOUNGER!, when elected president.

Gasp.

You know how politics are these days. I'm already following "Ready for Hillary" on Twitter, and I am ready for her-- mostly because she's a woman, but also because she will kick that median age up a notch.

Turning Point

It comes every summer, that clear sense that nothing lasts forever and that no matter what, fall is on its way. Was it the bright red maple leaf I saw tucked among all the green on the trail the other day? I nearly picked it up. Might it be the butternut squash and pumpkins(!) that are dominating our garden, despite the fact that not a single tomato has ripened? Could this unseasonably cool weather be the herald of even crisper days yet to come? Maybe it was our conversation with Richard and Annabelle this morning wishing them good luck as they start school tomorrow, or perhaps it was the time spent at my own school last week, on an interview committee, setting up Heidi's new class room-- even though I am disillusioned with my field, the pull is strong.

Oh, there are still 20 days until teachers report back and summer is officially ended for us, but this evening when I showered after the gym, I ignored my shorts and put on a comfy pair of sweat pants.

Roula-la-la

I ran into a former colleague and old friend in Target today, and she looked great. She's left public school teaching behind and spends her days raising her four-year-old, doing and teaching yoga, and blogging to let off steam.

She was never one to be shy with her opinion, and so I eagerly noted her blog address, and I share it now with you.

Shout out to Bitches Broo!