Hey friends, it is Tuesday blog night. So here we are. Welcome. Thanks for joining me.
Just yesterday, my friend was sitting in the field that is across the street from my house. Though it was already early evening, it was sunny still. I had just stepped out to call my kids in for dinner when Ally waved me over to her spot among the tall, tawny grasses of the field. I knew what she was doing, sitting there, book in hand, eyes roving up the hillside. She was keeping an eye on our kids playing at their home away from home, the neighborhood fort.
Ally and I both moved to our street this past year, but we've been friends since our oldest children were toddlers. She did a semester in Kenya during college, on a semester program my Uncle Paul directed. "You know what we have here?" she said, squinting up at our kids, small figures just visible among the aspens on the hillside.
"What?" I asked, watching as my son came out of the aspen stand holding a stick like a bow and launching imaginary arrows into the field.
"A boma."
It's true. We've happily found ourselves in a boma. Boma is a term used throughout East Africa for an enclosure with dwellings (and often livestock) inside it, a few family groups living together. Our street, Fox Field, has fields on both sides and is only one block, running directly into the foothills of Mount Jumbo. There's open space all around our little collection of houses and, as there's only one street, running quickly to its cul-de-sac end,there's lots of too-ing and fro-ing among the families and kids.
Spring not only brings out the birds here - thank goodness the meadowlark and its song have returned! - but it brings out the balls, scooters, bikes, wagons, and children moving from field to neighborhood tree to driveway basketball hoop to field.
While Ally was keeping a distant eye on the contingent of our kids up the hill at the fort. A sixth grade girl from two houses down was pushing Birtie on her trike. Ten minutes before I came out to gather my children in, a fourth grader who lives next door appeared at my elbow. I was prepping dinner, buffalo burgers. "Can I do that?" she asked as I got an avocado from the fridge. I handed it over with a cutting board and knife. She sliced it into neat sickles and then began to tend the onions I had carmelizing in a pan.
Boma life isn't what we planned on when we moved up the Rattlesnake to Fox Field. We were looking for a house with a little more space for our growing family and for a place within walking distance of the trails and creek. We got all that. And we got our boma.
In the field, Ally and I watched our kids. Seth's imaginary quiver had run out of arrows, he ducked back under the shadow of the fort. We could hear the kids whooping over who knows what. "Boys. Dinner!" I called, mindful that a ten year old was manning my stove.
"I'll send them in." Ally volunteered.
I scooted back inside, scooping up Birtie and thanking the twelve year old who was now entertaining her with a ball.
Boma-life, I thought with a smile, so glad we ended up here.
Just yesterday, my friend was sitting in the field that is across the street from my house. Though it was already early evening, it was sunny still. I had just stepped out to call my kids in for dinner when Ally waved me over to her spot among the tall, tawny grasses of the field. I knew what she was doing, sitting there, book in hand, eyes roving up the hillside. She was keeping an eye on our kids playing at their home away from home, the neighborhood fort.
Ally and I both moved to our street this past year, but we've been friends since our oldest children were toddlers. She did a semester in Kenya during college, on a semester program my Uncle Paul directed. "You know what we have here?" she said, squinting up at our kids, small figures just visible among the aspens on the hillside.
"What?" I asked, watching as my son came out of the aspen stand holding a stick like a bow and launching imaginary arrows into the field.
"A boma."
It's true. We've happily found ourselves in a boma. Boma is a term used throughout East Africa for an enclosure with dwellings (and often livestock) inside it, a few family groups living together. Our street, Fox Field, has fields on both sides and is only one block, running directly into the foothills of Mount Jumbo. There's open space all around our little collection of houses and, as there's only one street, running quickly to its cul-de-sac end,there's lots of too-ing and fro-ing among the families and kids.
Spring not only brings out the birds here - thank goodness the meadowlark and its song have returned! - but it brings out the balls, scooters, bikes, wagons, and children moving from field to neighborhood tree to driveway basketball hoop to field.
While Ally was keeping a distant eye on the contingent of our kids up the hill at the fort. A sixth grade girl from two houses down was pushing Birtie on her trike. Ten minutes before I came out to gather my children in, a fourth grader who lives next door appeared at my elbow. I was prepping dinner, buffalo burgers. "Can I do that?" she asked as I got an avocado from the fridge. I handed it over with a cutting board and knife. She sliced it into neat sickles and then began to tend the onions I had carmelizing in a pan.
Boma life isn't what we planned on when we moved up the Rattlesnake to Fox Field. We were looking for a house with a little more space for our growing family and for a place within walking distance of the trails and creek. We got all that. And we got our boma.
In the field, Ally and I watched our kids. Seth's imaginary quiver had run out of arrows, he ducked back under the shadow of the fort. We could hear the kids whooping over who knows what. "Boys. Dinner!" I called, mindful that a ten year old was manning my stove.
"I'll send them in." Ally volunteered.
I scooted back inside, scooping up Birtie and thanking the twelve year old who was now entertaining her with a ball. Boma-life, I thought with a smile, so glad we ended up here.
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