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Thursday, July 10, 2014

Sitting in the Sun

Sewing through this summer has it's perks. One of which is getting to sit outside in the soft breeze that flows over me while I stitch.  The other is the "excuse" to sit and enjoy the garden, I steal glances at while I examine the next step to be completed. Feeling no guilt for the weeds, just enjoying the flowers, anticipating the vegetables. Clementine sits next to me in contentment. No barking. Peace reigns.

It is as if, I am transported back to my childhood. We would sit under the weeping willow trees that lined the gavel drive, so as to stay in the cool shade, not to mention the leaves of the tree grazing over our skin in the breeze. I loved those dry summer winds.

I would embroider, sew doll cloths, manufacturer small useless items with my needle, and thread. Sometimes, I would sit with my sister, she would read to me, which was one of my greatest delights. Being read to to is something I still enjoy. Oh the decadence, being able to work on something while having my mind engaged elsewhere.  Or sometimes we would sing songs from the red Scribner music books, that sat on top of our piano in the living room..

On Sunday afternoons, our family would sometimes gather around the piano. We would sing songs that were encased in those covers; Casey would Dance with the Strawberry Blonde, Daisy, Daisy or countless others. I personally loved the Casey song the best. "His brain was so loaded it nearly exploded..." fascinated me as I  tried to imagine what that looked like.
My four, in all of their glory! 

As these days cascade past me, I am reminded of  my children playing in the yard.  Their days were filled with taking things outside, then dragging the same items back in at the end of the day.  Little House on the Prairie* imagined through their eyes,  space odysseys, as the swing-set transported them. Super hero stories played out, fights worked out, all as if those days would go on forever.

Holy Cats! the day has begun, sewing, to be finished, yells to me, so this writing
must stop, be stored until the next minute I can find to write them. To be honest, these thoughts circle me, and are stitched into cloth as well as my heart.

*That summer, my eldest convinced my car pool partner we were selling our house, purchasing a Winnebago, and going west, like the Ingalls. Sigh. 

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