MountainMornings

This is the week of Granny Grampie Campie!

The Grands are enjoying one full week of no scheduled activities – no school, no soccer, no day camp, nada. In other words, it’s the kind of summer we used to enjoy, that is before I was sent off to sleepaway camp at Camp St Joseph for Girls. Even the Virginia grandparents have arrived to join in the fun; so we celebrated by baking them a strawberry bundt. It tilted a bit to one side, but was delicious with whipped cream. https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1019441-fresh-strawberry-bundt-cake?searchResultPosition=1

Plump, delicious strawberries are in season at the Farmer’s Market, but you’ve got to get there early or they sell out. Same with flowers I’ve discovered. To create a kick off your shoes, care free, vacay-like vibe takes some planning – for example, our badminton set was in rough shape. The rackets had holes in them and the birdies were missing in action. I found the last set at Dick’s Sporting Goods, and now two of the three new birdies are resting comfortably on the roof of our garage.

And forget Pickleball, the Love Bug loves tennis. We happen to have tennis courts in the same park as the Farmer’s Market, just three blocks away; so a neighborhood crew of kids can just hop on their bikes and ride there like a Norman Rockwell print. Only these kids wear helmets. Luckily, we’ve been blessed with cool weather, and so far the only real bugs I’ve seen are the magical lightning bugs at dusk.

I know ninety plus degree-hot and humid days are right around the corner, so we’re enjoying the outdoors while we can. I’ve made a delightful “garden-gate-friend” who lives across the street, ie someone who freely walks through my gate to visit and vice versa. She has promised to teach me Mahjong and graciously invited us to her pool! Needless to say, the Grands loved swimming next door despite the cool temps.

Lucky us, there’s a public library in that same park filled with great children’s books and no limit on how many books you can check out. The Grands love nothing better than to curl up with a good book. Sometimes I find them both randomly reading on the couch, so without uttering a word I sit down and join them. I’ve just finished Ann Patchett’s “These Precious Days,” glorious essays she wrote about her early life and spending the pandemic lockdown with a new friend who just happened to be visiting.

I didn’t know Patchett had three fathers, or as she said her mother loved the idea of marriage. Of course, I started reminiscing as well, about the Flapper and my foster mother, about my three fathers – Robert, the pharmacist who was dead before I turned one, my foster father Jim, the railroad man at Picatinny who I loved with all my heart, and my stepfather Mr B, the judge who took me flying in his Cessna. Patchett has a picture at a wedding with all her fathers surrounding her that put a frog in my throat.

But I cannot live with regrets. They serve no purpose; wishing my father hadn’t died of a brain tumor would mean I wouldn’t have this life, this husband, these children and grandchildren. I choose gratitude instead, every day, despite a fractured finger. The sweater I’m knitting for the Pumpkin shows the very spot my hand was splinted. I have to embrace my imperfections, and keep moving, keep growing.

This week I’ll be bringing the Grands to a rehearsal for our Pride Festivities at the end of the month. The ban on public Drag Shows in Nashville has been (at least temporarily) lifted thankfully, and our hairstylist has enlisted lots of children to participate this year. I’m imagining they’ll all be munchkins in this fairy tale city!