Assortment

Her Boy

 

He knew his Mama was disappointed. And frustrated.

He pulled on boots, those camo ones, and quickly shut the front door behind him. There was big air out there. And big space. No doubt he wanted some of that. But, he was also wanting something else. Something in particular.

He dropped down the bank to the creek and bent down through the board fence there. He hiked back up the bank and headed out across the pasture, blaze-orange hat bobbing through pale fall grass. Out where there were more trees, where the creek curved, then curved again; out where he's just sure he saw a bobcat the other day.

He went out there.

His eyes scanned the ground. Looking. Looking. There were lots to choose from, alright, but he knew the right one would take some searching for. He walked slowly, sharp eyes watching. It didn't matter how long.

Then, lying there amongst all those others, there it was. He picked it up to make sure, turned it over in his hand. Yes. This was it.

Off he ran toward home, the treasure carefully hidden from anyone's sight. Quick steps brought him across the yard and he looked at the windows just to make sure Mama wasn't looking through the windows, too.

He opened the front door and peeked around. She was there in the kitchen, making lunch. Her back was turned, thank goodness. He quick-kicked those camo boots off, left them lying on the rug, and fast-dashed up those wooden loft stairs.

A black marker. And his treasure laid out on the desk, him sitting there, tongue working around the lips, eyebrows dipped in concentration, and that marker moving careful.

Best handwriting. Mama likes best handwriting.  

Yes. There it was finished. And just right. He flapped that treasure around in the the air to help the marker dry. Then he got up, and holding it in a hand that was wrap-hidden behind his back, he stepped slowly down those stairs.

She was still busy with that busy lunch-making, her back still turned.

He walked quietly up behind her, his heart beating double-time. Stopping there, he said, "Mama, I have something for you."

She turned to see.

 

And her heart gasped and fairly broke loose at all his heart written right out and laid in her hands like that.

He'd written love on the shape of love that he'd found fallen from the sky.

Her boy.

 

 

 

Apples & Love

Not that one has anything to do with the other, really, apples & love. Except. Both came through my lens over the weekend, and both were fresh and natural and beautiful. Just the kind of things that you want to share.

 

Wishing you a lovely week's beginning, friends!

Friends, Fall, and Roasted Butternut

Hello, Lovelies!

It’s been so full, this week past. With long-time friends come a long-time way to stay, to catch up, to see Wyoming for the very first time, to be our first house guests in this tiny little house of ours! Yes. We can comfortably sleep eight over here, I’m happy to report. It was like camp all week.

And between all the busy and the meal sharing and the dishes and the apple butter making and the wild game hunting (and the not-blogging), there were snatches of slow - a row of knitting here and there while sunk deep in the old arm chair, story books read aloud, and easy conversation until late into the night. And for two-year-old entertainment? Wild turkeys and cottontail bunnies right outside the glass. It may be that I don’t wash my windows for a good long time, what with all those precious little hand prints on them now.

But, fall is falling fast, did you know?

I look out, and suddenly those trees are looking quite bare, and those pumpkins are sitting on the porch, patiently, and Old Summer’s garden is waiting to be pulled and tossed into a heap. The last of the fallen limbs from the old cottonwood are ready to be gathered stick-by-stick by a work-gloved boy, and all around we see things that need the general wrap-up for winter.

Yes. Wrapped up, put by, closed in.

Hmm, I think a roasted butternut would fit right into a day like this.