Chickens!

This one's for Willie!

Yesterday I stopped at my favorite Amish vegetable and fruit stand to fetch my corn ON the cob and my tomatoes, a favorite summertime supper. The young man who has helped me in the past was there again behind his usual box of small change.....the box that makes the pine plank into a makeshift store. Barefoot as always, and with a weathered straw hat propped haphazardly on his head, he told me that this year he would be in the 8th grade, normally the end of Amish schooling. "But now," he moaned, "we have to go to school for about an hour once a week until we're fifteen." (I think I got his story right.....the Amish have a Pennsylvania Dutch accent that is sometimes difficult to understand.) Moving on after thinking about that additional schooling and scratching his head, he began to figure the tally on my purchases. Sometimes it takes a while.

Just then, in a furry of feathers and a gaggle of giggles, around the corner came a Latino family screeching in Spanish while running after a large chicken/ rooster/ poulet of some sort. I don't know much about chickens.....could have been a Rhode Island Red or a Pennsylvania Purple....but it was huge,,,,,as winged creatures go. Yes, it was bigger than a sparrow, but okay, smaller than an eagle or a condor.....maybe. I dodged the darned thing while the trio of family members tied up the feet and away they went to the car with their prize. I should have asked if it was dinner.....or a pet.....but I was too stunned and more than a bit scared. Those creatures flap around and have sneaky beady eyes and razor-sharp bills. Besides, Poppo was waiting at home with the cute corn holders, the red-handled butter spreaders, and the salt shaker.

The point of this blog is to shout out a hearty thank-you to the powers that be in Newport News for not allowing even one pet chicken within the city limits. Those things could be really dangerous if their feet came untied.

xox Mammaw

Andrew "Uncle Scott" Mears

I went through four and a half red lights to get to Chantilly, Virginia to meet Andy. Heart won.....no contest. An armful of giggle and a willing hugger-backer, Andy was a real keeper.....and my very first grandson.

Long ago his Poppo and I changed the name of Willow Road to Andy's Road because on it, from his car seat, he could see HIS donkeys, HIS lambs, HIS goats, HIS horsies, HIS cows and even two of HIS swans on Amish farms as we inched along. Once we stopped to chat with those cows, but they were non-committal. Drat.

Sharing cow talk was easy. Climbing up into the seats for high school and collegiate swim meets was terrifying. So.....I can't swim and I am afraid of heights. Try the University of Maryland swim-a-torium. It is a dizzying experience. (I only did it once.) Andy could churn up swim meet waters better than Grandmother Stone's egg beater. Not one bit of braggart in him, he kept most of his blue ribbons in the bottom of his closet. Meanwhile, as his unauthorized Pennsylvania press agent, I shared newspaper articles and online sport releases with friends, strangers and maybe even a cow or two.

Now Andy is too big for the swing in the front yard, and he is no longer interested in finding pine cones or pretty rocks. There is no way I could strap him into a car seat! Today I am most proud of the man Andy has become. He has grown into an intelligent, honest, and handsome University of Maryland graduate and accountant-to-be.

He can balance my bank book anytime.

All Great Men Are Named George

I have had shingles since January 5th. If you are saying, "Ohhhh, bless your heart, you poor thing," hang on a minute. Yes, I have had shingles.....a horrible, painful, fever-ful, wallow-in-self-pity disease....but I also have had George since 1954. Now say, "Ohhhh, bless your heart, you lucky lady."

Quietly, efficiently, and lovingly George has been with me every step of the miserable way. And now that there is this glorious light shining at the end of my tunnel....now that I can see with clearing clarity.....now that my real world is coming back to me...the light at the end of my tunnel is George....always has been....always will be.

My Son Scott

One day Scott will find this blog of mine, squint his eyes, and announce, "See. Nothing about me on mom's blog. But lots about Lisa and the Mears family. Proof, as if any was needed, that she has always loved Lisa best." Then, of course, I will have to deal with that all over again. Sibling rivalry. (But nothing serious. Really. Trust me.) Still, it would be very, very smart to insert a little Scott on this blog before the year ends.

As I was saying, when Scott was born my mother announced, "Oh, dear. I wouldn't want anything any different for you; a family is the joy of life. But remember: now your peace of mind is gone forever."

Much has happened to trouble my Scott-ish peace of mind since that day in 1956. There was the concussion when five-year-old Jeannie next door pushed him down the steps backwards in Charlotte, three trips to the emergency room for stitches one summer in Pittsburgh, an open chin from flying over the handlebars in Camp Hill, and then thsee stitches were opened up by a Little League fly ball. Actually, I choose NOT to list everything here. Even now I am not fully recovered. Hence the gray hair.

But, as dad always said he would, Scott grew up in spite of me. He has an enormous gypsy jazz guitar talent, his own picturesque house ( with a unique kitchen and a great backyard swing) a cool car, a degree in Sociology (had to put that in , didn't I?!), two terrific collegiate kids of his own (speaking of peace of mind), and a heart as big as all outdoors. We are all aware that there is a lot of Thompson in him. Get to know him and then you decide if that Thompson-ism is a good or bad thing. As for me, I love him dearly.....worth every piece of mind.

xox Mom

Finding Willie

Seems as though we have all spent a sizable portion of our lives looking for Willie. When he was only in the crawl stage he would hide behind the sofa, under the dining room table, or, really, inside a kitchen cupboard. Later, always in 'scamper' mode, he would hunker down in the hemlock tree where we couldn't see him. It wasn't even easy finding him among the other second-graders at recess on the playground, and once, at the mall, he super-scared us by curling up in the center of the round sweater rack at The Limited.....for 10 terrifying minutes.

When in high school, he was THAT good that we had trouble following him on the basketball court. A few summers ago we stopped to ask how we could find Willie at the Rockbridge County Young Life camp. A young man in a beat-up red truck told us, "That there's the best camp in Virginny. Anyone who don't like that camp.......jist slap 'em silly 'long side the head." Not much later we found Willie and he was in camp heaven....no slappin' necessary.

Just last week we drove to Newport News, Virginia, turned at the sign that said Christopher Newport University, and walked into the magnificent library. We settled on a comfy couch and......waited for Willie to find us.

As his grandmother, let me say this:

If you are searching for hug therapy from a tall, slim, handsome college junior, it has ALWAYS been worth the trouble to find Willie!

Buttering our Scotch

The Military Tattoo* in Edinburgh is something George has always wanted to see/hear/attend. So when the Tauck brochure arrived, I said, "Let's do it!" That was, I promise, long before we even had a clue that Lisa and family were going to England and Scotland for her 50th birthday and for their 25th wedding anniversary. Our respective travel plans will merge in Edinburgh for one day two weeks from today.....what are the odds of that?????

And what are the odds of the online Tattoo update saying, in paragraph 4:

"Show-stopping turns are expected from the United States as the Citadel Band from Charleston, South Carolina will present an inspiring musical display which has enlivened events across the globe." 

For the record, the Citadel and the Virginia Military Institute have been arch rivals for years. My VMI Keydet, on hearing that we were going to be 'inspired AND enlivened' by the Citadel Band said a very bad word. We are going anyway.

Perhaps next year we can all meet at the Dodge Poetry Festival!?

 

*Military Tattoo, you ask? That's thousands of bagpipes from all over the world in one place.....or a billion fingernails scratching across a blackboard all at once.....depending on how you feel about the pipes.

Stone Harbor 2010

I have been working on THE list.....A list.....SEVERAL lists.....ok.....MANY lists for our upcoming one week by the sea in Stone Harbor. One week! I have a collection of lists from years back in almost every drawer, in almost every nook and cranny of the house. Since 1971. Some are even clever and cutsie. Some are sadly simple. Some are trite and way overdone. The 1978 list spells mayonnaise wrong. That's fine with me; only one of us eats mayonnaise anyway.

So I thought: no more lists.

What we need, we'll get.

What we want, we'll find.

What we can't afford, we'll do without.

That pretty much sums up living anywhere, anytime, doesn't it?

(I'm not that secure: the toilet paper is already packed.)