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.

A good bed can win a war

Early on in our weaving career Jan and I tried different venues, experimenting on a fit in the fair world. Some of the shows were short on cash but long on stories.

One such show, the name I do not recall, was held in the Carillon Historical Park in Dayton, Ohio.  It was an outdoor show of no great renown, themed generally around a reenactment outfit that hosted a trading post.  I recall we were approached to exhibit because we often demonstrated spinning and offered some handspun, hand knit sweaters and hats and mittens.

The reenactors were American and British Revolutionary War soldiers.  And camp followers.  I remember little about the battles, which were held at regularly scheduled times.  A cannon was fired frequently.  The people who came to see battles reenacted were not much interested in a fair, and there was sparse traffic through the show.

For this post I did some research to find Ohio reenactor groups and some Revolutionary War moment that could realistically be staged in Dayton, Ohio.   As we all know, that war was conducted east of the Appalachians, although there were lots of British militia about in that whole lead up, the French and Indian War. My cursory research turned up little, so I have nothing of interest to add about the history reenacted.

It was a mighty cold weekend and although regular patrons were few, we did business with reenactors with cold children.  Our stock of children’s sweaters and mittens was wiped out by Saturday afternoon.  Before the show closed that night one young reenactor came in carrying a minute toddler, Willow, about eighteen months old. 

The sweaters all were sold and there seemed to be nothing suitable to keep the baby warmer.  Then Willow’s mother spotted the dish towels and bought a dogwood flower overshot towel as an extra blanket overnight for the baby.

Sunday morning was too cold to be outdoors, unless there was a booth to open or a battle to reenact.  We wandered over to the encampment early, to check up on Willow.  We met a British officer and his wife emerging from their tent, and, of course, remarked we were grateful for the real, warm beds we’d enjoyed overnight. 

The officer and his lady exchanged glances, then invited us into their tent. A canvass wall divided the front and back of the interior.  The officer drew the wall apart and showed us their primitive bed, with rope underpinnings, and an obviously modern box spring and mattress under the coverlet.  The secret to their success.

We found Willow, warm and toasty, and wearing her new towel as a cape.  We've seen Willow and her mother several times over the years, and at last meeting Willow still had her dogwood towel.  Not surprising, the towels in our kitchen drawer are upwards of thirty years old.

Overshot, dogwood pattern

Laura's sunflowers

For many years there was a grape arbor here.  A fungus blew through, the vines made grapes every year, but they withered before they were grapes.  Last fall Tom dug them up and burned them.  Laura thought sunflowers would be a good replacement, and she and Uncle Tom planted sunflowers.

In all fairness to them, our side yard is on the deer trail. They come from the woods behind the garage, stroll through the yard (and the big garden beside the garage), cross the road and disappear in the woods across the street.

So, sunflowers on the way merely provide another nip and nibble. "A little taste, dear, and we must be on our way."

The sunflower stalks continue to grow, in spite of being topped.  At first Uncle Tom planted more seeds. Then the deer didn't need to bend so far for a tasty morsel to chew on the way.  Or, one more bite for the road, perhaps.

Uncle Tom left sunflower outside the fence for the deer.  But the rest of Laura's sunflowers are for the birds.

Around town

A few times since spring I've stopped for some pictures around Peninsula.  I find one house especially pleasing, and hoped to photograph it in several seasonal dresses, but what the heck, it's time to share.

Peninsula is on the National Register, and homeowners have some restrictions.  The house on the right had serious roof and porch work last summer and all the gingerbread was replaced.

I pass Mother of Sorrows church every morning driving into work.  Father, or more probably the good women of the church, dress the church seasonally.  These stoles went around the door at Easter.

I pass the fence at least twice a day, too.  I love it for framing a picture, and for making a picture charming.

I like it for the ivy coming through in the spring and the daffodils in its yard.  And, I like it for the wonderful stone wall along the other side of the drive.

The peaked house in spring, and today.  Ten years ago, when I began working for the township, this was a one story cottage.  Such a pleasant looking house now.

Two more front yards on my way to work.  Ed's gardens, on the left, change at his whim as he moves stone blocks around.  The house on the right generally is leased for offices.  I believe it's vacant right now.

Another house on the way to work.  The azaleas in bloom in the spring.

All the sidewalks in town are slate (which is extremely slippery when wet), except the replacement for the sidewalk this catalpa pushed aside.  The silver rod on the left is my car's antenna. 

And at work the lower level landscaping is beginning to take hold and look official.  Daisy's in bloom here, in front of a little tree that sheds its bark.  No idea what it is.

Summer games

Summer means family gatherings, often accompanied by loud, raucous family games.  Croquet was popular among the neighborhood kids on a hot summer afternoon.  Our back yard, at forty feet wide and sixty feet long, was an ideal court. The game often was set up at family picnics.  Children, parents, grandparents and great-grandparents played—my great-grandmother sending an opponent ball clear down the yard to cries of “Hit it hard, Marcia, hit it hard!” 

Uncle Hank had a lathe, and he turned new threaded ends on many a toilet plunger handle or a handy broom to replace a mallet handle severed enthusiastically from a mallet’s head.  That game dwindled in popularity as the adults grew older, and especially as the children grew older and pre-teen boys saw the mallets as handy weapons to settle rule disputes.  Dad put the set high in the garage rafters; effectively ending croquet games.

When we moved to this house the big front yard could not go to waste.  Croquet was passé, but Uncle Hank introduced us to bocce ball, and the tournaments began.  At every picnic, no matter who was here, teams formed and bocce was played.  Uncle Hank, half English, half German, lived in a Polish suburb; he knew bocce and he captained one team.  Our friend Marilyn, a tough Hungarian, born with bocce blood, captained the other.  The rest of us just played.

There were tough and exciting games one summer, reminiscent of the old “Hit it hard, Marcia!” days. We played on down to Labor Day, when the winning team would be declared. So many people came to that party there was an audience, as well as two teams.  A lot of cheering would be done.

At a time out in the game, when Uncle Hank and Marilyn were nose to nose on a point of order, Scuffy, the corner dog came trotting down the road.  Scuffy was the company dog of a business along the main road.  Although he had a dog house behind the fence, weekends found him lonely.  Being a terrier, he often went under the fence and in search of adventure.

One of our guests, Danny, is a police officer in a neighboring city. Danny was concerned the dog was lose.  He would even take Scuffy back and figure out how to get him over the fence. We told him to be patient; it was about time for our police patrol car to make the rounds.

The township black and white came down the road, the officer waved at all of us assembled on the porch and lawn, Uncle Hank and Marilyn still nose to nose.  Then the officer saw Scuffy, called him over and put him in the car.  Danny said now he’d seen everything; a town so small the police knew the names of the dogs, too.  He would have a story to tell at work. The patrol car came back up the road, Scuffy’s head out his window, riding back home.

The rule of the game was settled, in Marilyn’s team’s favor.  I have no idea who won, but it was a great tournament. That was the last summer we played bocce.  Mom’s next summer was spent in declining health, she was gone in March of the next year and Uncle Hank that fall.  The game used to be in the garage; Tom’s probably hung it from a rafter, out of the way.