Why shouldn’t we know?

Laura spent the weekend with a girlfriend, swimming in the pool and eating her way through a kitchen of snacks. She could eat her weight in sugar weekly, left to her own devices, and knowing what would happen, we stopped to buy a bag of snacks on the way.

I waited at the checkout and in a bit she appeared with an armful. I saw a bag of cashews dangling between two fingers, but the rest was blocks of processed and prepackaged. “I got healthy granola bars,” she announced. I turned it around to “nutritional information,” and pointed out 12 grams of sugar.

“Divide that by four grams per teaspoon and you are swallowing three teaspoons of sugar per bar.” She shrugged; I bought the lot, and she had a wonderful weekend.

Last week I listened to three folks I know, in a bitter discussion of regulations. One owns a food distribution company. It services vending machines, for instance. Apparently the machines must now display the nutritional content of every product in the machine.

“Why not?” the damn bleeding heart liberal dropped into the conversation. “Why not!” sputtered the right of red conservative food distribution company owner. “It will cost too much!”

And there you have it. As a population, we have fallen for convenience. Insidiously, since the Great War ended, convenience has consumed us. We, down here at the very bottom of the chain of distribution, have sent our dollars up the food chain in order to shoot bullets of salt, sugar, fat and unknown chemicals down our throats.

If processed food were not available, we could not buy it. Parents would buy carrots and celery at the grocery store, teach the children how to clean them and carry them for a snack. That’s not an oversimplification. There is no reason people should not spend the time on life’s basics as on, for instance, soccer games and texting.

I am quite fond of the fellow who must spend big bucks telling consumers what he is selling them. However, we are years and years beyond laissz faire. I don’t think this man has grown rich from his business. I do think he’s invested a life time in his business, and I also think people should know the ingredients of their food purchases.

He could lobby the food industry to print the labels large enough to be read through the fronts of vending machines. Then the only expense would be wiping down nose prints.

Unnamed granola bar label

Late summer color

Next year all my hanging baskets will be mandavilla

Yellow, pink, white and scarlet.

And one hibiscus.

Their blooms trail everywhere.

Lamb's gerbera daisy suddenly began blooming, just like last year.

The August lily hosta.

The foxglove's last stalk.

A patch of maple leaves.

Goldenrod.

The tree at the pond. Its leaves are covering the surface of the water.

The golf course grass is so brown.

Must be like playing through shredded wheat.

Purple finch.

 And, a picture not worth putting up, except I captured the finch in a tree.

They generally have gone before I find them, let alone focus.

Archery camp

Laura started archery camp this afternoon, at Old Trail School in Bath, on Ira Road, just over the river past Riverview Road. I’d not been there before; nice campus.

I haven’t been that way into the valley since taking Hamilton to and from church every Sunday, and occasionally spending the three hours between enjoying the valley, the river and the herons. Sad Hamilton couldn't be bothered to stay in touch with the men who would underwrite his mission. Like his father, I agree the structure and direction could only benefit him, as much as proselytizing turns my stomach.  Now he wants sent to college, and his dad says “Get a job.” I suppose he’s waiting for a really good job for a summa cum laude high school graduate to come up the steps and knock.

Metro Parks has an archery range on the way to Old Trail, and we stopped there to show Laura what a range looks like. No targets were up; I suppose because the range wasn't booked for the afternoon. However, the posts the targets hang on are there and all the backstops.

As we left I said she’ll know what she’s looking at this afternoon. “Yes,” she replied, and I also know the string goes toward my nose!”

I dropped her off in a classroom; I bet they start with theory. “Only William Tell and Douglass Fairbanks shot arrows over the shoulder. The string goes toward your nose.”

I opted to wander the valley while I waited. When I picked her up I learned there is an up and down to a bow, and it’s necessary to bend the elbow of the arm holding the grip, else the string will thwang you on the forearm. I do recall that from gym classes in college. She will most certainly go back tomorrow.

I drove down Ira to the end, which is not the end, but where the road is closed because no one has enough money to put it back together again. Since the only landowner is the national park, it’s their problem.

In the order in which I took them:

Impatiens around a mail box 

I'll be. Hale Farm. I'd forgotten it's on Ira Road, past Old Trail.

It's a sort of living history place now. Admission charged.

The Hale House, but you can bet not the "homestead." Took some money to put up such a house.

Ditch lilies, brown eyed Susans, and I think, phlox. 

A barn at a private home on the way down Ira.

 The Covered Bridge!

It was on our way to Aunt Laura and Uncle Frank when I was a child.

There was a sign with clearance over the cross beams.

Ira Road makes a sharp right under the bridge.

Drivers had to blow a horn to see if another driver might be in the bridge.

It's part of the Towpath Trail now; not a road.

Looking at these beams and timbers, I doubt it is the bridge of my childhood. Too new. 

Part of the rewritten history of the valley, courtesy of the National Park. 

On the other hand, another generation can look at and understand a covered bridge.

The river under the bridge and

the origin of one of Dad's favorite remarks as we passed through the bridge.

"Mary (an artist friend) sat in the river and painted the bridge."

"Did she have a ladder?"

"No. She sat in the river and painted the bridge."

Along the river bank.

On the way back up the road.

I cut off the openwork metal piece on top of the church.

On the Hale Farm property, one of the buildings moved to the site to emulate early 19th century life.

Must be private property.

I believe this barn and the next are on Old Trail School property.

Altogether too precious, and that's not a compliment.

Raspberries along the parking lot, waiting for Laura.

I left them for the birds.

  

Going, going...

School has been in session close to two weeks, now, and the rhythm of routine is settling in.  The school system's brand spanking new, bigger and better computer system is still in upgrading mode. Daily emails tell me not to worry, when it is fully functional, I will know all.  In the meantime, not to worry.  

Homework cannot be posted by teachers, but the resident grandchildren are working away, so they must still be able to write down assignments. The system, additionally, cannot yet deduct fees and assessments from the children's accounts.  It's all the same money, now or then; I don't care.  Even if I had it out to interest I would earn a mere penny.  

Getting the children back in school does make the beginning of September feel more like meteorological fall than my lamenting of its seasonal opposite last spring.

I sat on the front deck in the sun this afternoon and had a long overdue chat with Ann in Wisconsin. The phone said forty five minutes when we were done.  I sat there so long I accomplished my spring project of acting like a statue with a camera.  I watched three cardinals and a woodpecker dominate the bird feeder, eating away for half an hour, with various chickadees vying for a lesser spot on the feeder, and sparrows and doves cleaning up the seed on the ground.

Sadly, I did not have the camera, and I wasn't about to say to Ann, well, bye, I need to use the phone to take pictures.  I see that is a completely feasible project, and I'll try it again, with my camera.

I do have some interesting pictures.  Laura's sunflowers, about two weeks apart.  They are maturing in a row, and the first one has such a heavy head--but not ready for birds, yet.

Out in the backyard, a most interesting discovery yesterday:

The fungus in the watermelon rind hole

Disappeared!  

Its remains probably are there on the lower lip.

No one made a trip down the ravine for scientific observation and analysis.

Saddest of all endings to summer--no one brought watermelon to the picnic.

The end of an era

The watermelon rind hole

Seems to be out of business

What I did while the painters painted the barn:

A damsel fly

A bumble bee, loaded down

A butterfly in the phlox

The weeds in the gravel

I followed a dragonfly around the garden, but I couldn't get behind him for a picture.

It was noon, and the pictures I managed were from above, a tiny winged creature

casting an out sized shadow on the ground below.

Like an old black and white horror film.

I put those in the trash can.

It's raining in our rain barrel

It isn't easy to water all the new plants in the front garden.The nearest spigot is in the garage below, so leaving the tap open and trusting the valve on the hose nozzle is out of the question.

Even trailing the hose under the garage door and up to the garden, so skippy little children can run down and turn on the spigot involves leaving the garage door jimmied so the hose is not crushed.

One day it came to me:  a rain barrel.  The downspout is right there.  I spent a day researching how to have a rain barrel that was not a blue tub. My heart was more than a little set on a barrel that looked like a barrel.

Charm and practicality did not come together.  I already have the finest downspouts in the universe; that pipe runs down the side of the house, under the driveway below, and out to the ravine, fail-safe for twenty-five years.  

Jan and I went shopping and found this one.  The downspout does not terminate in the barrel, the barrel ties into the downspout.  

Tom installed the barrel over the weekend, and it received his seal of approval.  There is a clever gate that closes when the barrel is full and lets the rain water continue its course out to the ravine and the creek below.

After three weeks of rain we are stuck in a week of hot and humid, with no forecast of rain until week's end. Tom couldn't wait that long; he filled the barrel from the well and Laura and I gave it a test run yesterday.

It is so hot we needed to water again tonight to keep all our transplantees happy.  But, five days of hot and humid just turned into a mighty fine thunderstorm, and it's raining in our rain barrel!

 A song of my mother's:

Playmate, come out and play with me

And bring your dollies, three

Climb up my apple tree

Holler down my rain-barrel

Slide down my cellar door

And we'll be jolly friends forever more

But she couldn't come out and play

It was a rainy day

With tearful eye she breathed a sigh

And I could hear her say

I'm sorry, playmate, I cannot play with you

My dolly's got the flu, boo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo

Ain't got no rain-barrel, ain't got no cellar door

But we'll be jolly friends forever more

The watermelon hole

    

Although it has rained for eleven straight days at our house fireworks went off in the Friday night break, to the delight of all the children and grown-ups who crowded Barlow Field.  Emily professed a little disappointment the show lasted only half an hour, but as it commenced raining on the way home apparently half an hour was perfect.

Fourth of July was a little awkward this year, falling on Thursday.  But it rained much of the day, so no harm, no foul.  Beth and I scheduled a picnic for Saturday, at Camp 61, and the word went out. My only responsibility was the head count, and I could report at least sixteen.  Our house is little expanded from its two bedroom bungalow origins, except the deck and the studio, so all would be well if it rained on schedule, better if it didn't.

And it did not rain until the last guest departed.  It was a deck party!

I had some checking up to do:

The twin cousins, Laura and Francis, born two weeks apart.  They think "twin cousins" is stupid, but I'm the grandma, so turn around for your annual picture.

Caroline and Laura still fit in the same chair.  Caroline just came from a swim meet; those are her events inked on the back of her hand.  Rather clever.

Although one of the last two or three remaining viable branches came down from the elm tree in this current round of storms, 

The watermelon hole remains. I do not recall how many years it has been that children have played Corn Hole with watermelon rinds aimed at the elm's knot hole.  A long time.  Uncle Tom has banned corn cobs from being used these days; the raccoons are simply too fond of corn cobs still reeking of butter.  But deer make short work of watermelon rinds in the ravine, then leave.  

On your mark,

Get ready,

Go, Go, Go.

Final score:  Francis--one; Deer-a whole lot.

There will be pictures

Nothing, but nothing irritates me more than a “bored” child. Had we tried that line on our parents we would have been spading gardens or setting up a croquet game or any of the stuff parents had in reserve. 

I’m good at finding jobs, and these kids have turned out to be quite cheerful job tacklers. No one has tried the bored line, yet.

Way back in early spring the high school sent out a notice of Summa taking applications for summer “interns.”  So you relate to that at once, in our day they were “candy strippers”, and Summa is one of the two major hospital systems in the greater Akron area.

The screening process may have been rigorous back then; it certainly is now. A multi page application, complete with an essay.  Screening meetings, orientation meetings, TB testing, ID badges.  Teenagers with ID badges, for crying out loud.  It’s a new world; I shake my head. It’s the way it is for them. And, it is a hospital.

For the first screening meeting I told Hamilton and Emily they needed tan khaki trousers and nice shirts. That was OK with Hamilton, but Emily is a little too fond of “skinny” jeans and tees.  There was a bit of persuasion required.  Then the directive from Summa, business casual required.  Emily double checked at school to confirm business casual, and she and Hamilton went shopping.

My heart went pitty pat when I dropped them for the screening and my two business casual grand kids walked away.  I cursed forgetting my camera (this before I knew how to take pictures on my phone!).

Today is their first day, noon to four.  Hamilton will be calling out-patients to remind them of appointments; Emily will be filing in “Wound Management.” Driving them to St. Thomas I warned them, “There will be pictures.” Yea, we know, gramma.

“Well, I’ll just be the grandmother who ruined your teenage years, because there will be pictures.”

And Emily, bless her little heart, said “It’s not like ‘this is a picture moment’, and you whip out the camera. You tell a story.  Like that biography you found of your great grandfather and I took it to school for my genealogy project.”

Now, if they just stop saying “like!”

My Aunt Ruth, IHM, was a nurse, and worked at St. Thomas long, long ago, when it was the Catholic hospital.  Emily’s middle name is Ruth.  Aunt Ruth would be proud.

So, our summer is settling out.  Emily has lots of library volunteering and Summa.  Hamilton has being commandeered by his sister, Summa, and McDonalds, to pay his car insurance.  Laura makes bird houses with Uncle Tom and goes to the library.

In July Emily is going to State College, Pennsylvania, to help Linda at a major art show at Penn State.  Hamilton is going to church camp.  Band camp at the end of July, and then school starts in August.  Hard to believe, and there will be pictures.

Stand over there

Turn around and smile.