Tea-time

My kids love to have tea. But one must do it properly. There should be spoons. And a tablecloth. And splashing.

Cracklins

Today, as I rendered lard from last year's porker, Flannery tried out her first cracklin'. She said, "Hmmm. They're good, but they need less salt aaand...some butter."

Lines in pleasant places

I'm sitting in bed now, resting. There's a warm, sweaty boy sleeping beside me. His hair is curling and he sucks his finger and snuggles a blankey in spite of the sling and swaddle that bind him.

In the last two weeks, we endured a rampaging stomach flu, miscarried a baby the size and color of a large pearl, and broke a collarbone in a restaurant in Spokane (the broken bone was, by far, the easiest of the three).

We've finally finished the laundry. We laid little Finch O'Donnell to rest under an apple tree at the intersection of a river and railroad. And Huckleberry seems to be healing.

For this moment we have peace.

Last night, I put Atticus to bed and sat reading while Brendan took the older kids to see the animals at the fair. I was lonely and tired and feeling blue. And then they came home—my own little carnival complete with plastic sheriff hats, stickers, and ice cream—came charging into my quiet and the sad spirits fled. There was whining about pajamas, crying over a ruined sticker, and frustration because the sheriff hat wouldn't stay on. Brendan sat there enjoying it all and I turned into Martha and tried to march everyone off to bed until he stopped me. And then I realized that he was right. Their eternal souls will march on in the continuing story and will be the better for their father's smile, but bedtime will not have mattered all that much.