These little piggies went to market

You haven’t lived (much) until you’ve had the chance to take a two-and-three-quarters year old to a farmer’s market.

Jack and I hit our local one today… I’m practically salivating for the first blueberries (due on Tuesday which is early). Not all the booths are up and running yet– some won’t be there till after Independence Day next week when the middle-of-summer early crops come in. Today it was still mostly perinnial plants and flower baskets. The brown egg guy was there with bits and pieces– lettuces, radishes, cukes, and zucchini. One table was covered in long, thick walking sticks. And the berry people were there with sweet black cherries, tart Montmorencys and apricots.

Jack and I took our time. We strolled up one end and down the other of the covered market. Jack held my hand but still managed to dart from one side to the other to sniff the begonias (a disappointment, I’m sure), gingerly touch a fat cucumber, and peer through the bars to the river.

The river scares me. I grew up in the ’70s when it was still a monstorous thing that popped up in the local news whenever a kid was dumb enough to get swept away in it. Today it was low and sluggish on the edges and only swift in the middle but it still made me shudder to think of Jack slipping into it. I gripped his hand ridiculously tight.

I bought some lettuce for our supper tonight and some sweet and sour cherries for a clafouti. A potted lavender plant was only $5 so I picked one of those up as well. It’ll help fill in the corner of lavender I’ve got going. Jack wanted to carry it which amused not only me but most of the vendors. He’s so little and the pot just the perfect size to look like an almost impossible task. He strained and grunted for half the length of the pavilion then set it down and took my hand instead.

Ten dollars and fifty cents later we headed to the car. If you don’t have a two-and-three-quarters year old to take to the farmer’s market then I pity you. See if you can borrow one in time for blueberry season.

The journey of a 1000 miles

Jack and I have been taking long walks. Well. I’ve been doing the walking– he’s in his stroller. The pup rides underneath the stroller in the basket… he sticks his head out the side to catch a breeze or sniff at the air every now and then. He’s a lazy pup.

I am, too. I don’t mind walking if there’s a point to it– say if we’re going over to my Momma’s house for a visit or to the Chinese restaurant a few blocks away… but to just walk, well, that’s never really appealed to me. Last year, on our Great Escape to the Big Apple, we hoofed it all over NYC. And I didn’t mind it a bit. I encouraged it. The subways were a pain with a stroller and all the stairs and up top we could see more. One day– and it was a day that ended in my very swollen ankles and feet– we went up and down the isle of Manhattan to the tune of 30,000 steps (according to the pedometer). But walking in New York held the promise of so much to see and do and eat. Plus Robby was with me.

Walking in my hometown doesn’t have the exotic allure of a city like NY or Chicago. The balm comes in Jack’s chattering commentary on the things we see along the way.

Today it was major construction. A whole crew with their machines and an enormous crane (”Cranky!”) captivated us for a long while. We sat on the edge of the walking path– Jack in his stroller, me on my bum, the pup in his basket, watching the “BobBuilders!” tear up a road. Jack was delighted with each piece of equipment and I with his delight. (Frankly, I think the construction crew was a little delighted, too, with their obviously enraptured audience of one very happy small boy. The way they stepped up their efforts while we sat there was second only to perhaps their boss showing up on the site. Suddenly the three men who had, on our arrival, been puttering about, were firing up jackhammers and rollers.)

At the pond we looked for the ducks– “Where’d ducks go?”– and found a mama with her three chicks teaching them to paddle about after her. (They did a nice job of it. I hope Jack was paying attention to them?) and listened for the frogs under the bridge. Jack was quite pleased to see two firetrucks amble past us– and even more so when their occupants waved at him. (”Firefighters!,” he breathed.)

And there were the other walkers. The purpose driven sweaty ones and the older couples strolling ones. The other mommies and strollers. The dogwalkers and the joggers and the old guy that roots around in the trash cans.

Not quite as exciting as Times Square… but it’ll have to do.

Say it again, Jack

It’s the little things that really get to me.

Jack’s speech is getting clearer and clearer. Every day he anunciates a little bit more so that even the casual acquaintance can understand 75% of what he’s trying to say. And, consequently, we’re losing some of the little Jackisms that make us laugh.

Dumptruck has brought us no end of delight. When Jack sees one his glee is encompassing. His execution of some critical consonant sounds, however, is not… so it comes out, “dumf–k” which is made even more hysterical when he’s pointing and saying it at increasing volume. Driving around town has never been more entertaining.

Almost as funny is firetruck because… well… you can imagine.

One lazy, weekend afternoon Jack woke up from a nap and pointed to Robby and said, clearly, “Cock!” which startled us both until we realized that he was pointing at Robby’s watch which he calls a clock.

The one I miss the most though is “double double”– Jack’s unique way of saying w. He’s got it down these days. His ear doesn’t catch that he’s finally saying it clearly so for him there’s no difference but my heart breaks a little when he sings the alphabet song these days.

There are others… and we truly are delighting in the new clarity of his diction… it’s just another sign of him growing up and we’re a little sad that it’s all so fast.

Turns out you can go home again

I’m really excited. My old campmates are putting together a reunion for later this summer.

I went to camp during my junior high and senior high summers… it was a fantastic camp with an exceptionally tight group of friends. We stayed in touch until the last years of college then gradually drifted out into the “real” world away from each other. A few years ago one of own’s mother died and we all flocked to his hometown for the funeral. She had been part of our campworld, too– and I like to think that she would have taken great delight in seeing us all amassed again as we were for that day.

And now, her son, our friend Jason, is putting together a 20th reunion.

Bring on the tuna boats. I’m there.

All’s Calm

Friend Ericka is a married woman now. My 9 houseguests have left for their own states. I’m a little blue. It was a fun weekend. Great to have a house full of people we love to be with, food, drink, and merriment… and the sounds of banjos, guitars, mandolins, autoharp, and bass….

Jack, who spent the weekend spoiled by my Momma and his AunT is somewhat undone if still pleased to see again his toys and puppy.

And I have time to blog again but not the mental energy to write anything clever…