We are newly returned from our travels to points west then east then west again. I think it may be a long while before I again plan to vacation on both coasts in one trip. But, two weddings, a 90th birthday, a 40th anniversary and a baby-shower later, we are back in Montana, unpacked, suitcases mostly away, and weeds colonizing the garden. The poppies are exuberant this year. Unchecked for the past month, they've made the most of their freedom, choking out the rudbeckia, putting out blooms in unlikely corners of the yard, being cheeky with their leggy leaning over the sidewalk. I have been pulling out fistfulls of them with some regret, they're so pretty it dismays me. The dill and oregano, however, are another story; it is far more satisfying to yank them and I do it without a second thought. Though I had left the tarragon in a patch of its own when we drove toward Portland last month, I couldn't even locate it when I was searching for it to dress a salad the other evening.. Presumably, it was buried beneath the fragrant oregano melee. After a few moments of scouting and a few hearty pulls, I had again secured it a perimeter and access to sunshine. But really, a person's got to admire the oregano and dill and plants of their ilk that can cover so much ground in so short a time. Adapted or fecund or downright exuberant for life, they certainly know something about flourishing where they're planted.
Our travels were wonderful and hectic. In total we slept in five states and one province, logging more than sixty hours of travel. But what's vacation if not a little hecticness right? My parents' house (that interesting experiment in inter-generational living) has nine living in it at all times, Tim and the boys and I rounded it out at 13. With my grandpa leading the pack at nearly 93 years old and my nephew Malcolm bringing up the rear at 10 months, there was always something wonderful to be observed - the huge smile Malcolm has every time he sees his great grandma, the way my dad and his 4 year old grandson tend the garden together, or my grandpa reading the morning paper and taking his coffee while four of his great-grandsons build legos at his feet. Moments like these made me smile, but let me be the first to say, I take my hat off to the current inhabitants of the Josstel (the affectionate name for my parents' hive-like home). Though four generations living in one house has its Norman Rockwell moments, it has far more dishes in the sink, loads of laundry cycling through the washer, and compromises about schedules, space and tidiness than I for one could have guessed at from afar. So, props (and prayers) go out to (and for) all there, but especially my mom who holds the whole listing ship together. Keep on, keeping on, ma'am. You always flourish where you're planted.
The Great(est) Grandparents with the boys
my folks at Crane
Some inter-generational Red Sox watching and cotton candy munching
Out for an evening
Boys at the beach:
