Signs of Fall

Signs of fall are all around. It's moving-in weekend for SUNY Fredonia students, and the Fredonia Farm Festival is in full swing. Quiet summer nights have given way to the loud voices and late-night laughter of our new student-neighbors as they make their way home from house parties and bars. On my way to the farmers' market early this morning, I saw the tell-tale beer cans nestled in the grass and the first few colored leaves on the sidewalk. Although fall is my favorite season, these early signs of fall are bittersweet. If fall is coming, that means summer is ending. And the end of summer means our last child will be leaving for her last year of college. It means the house will soon feel too big, too quiet, and too empty. It means taking baby spinach and baby kale for green smoothies off my weekly shopping list and adding non-vegetarian entrees to our weekly menus. It means my girl won't be perched on the other couch doing her nails or making bracelets while we watch Mad About You or Gilmore Girls. It means I won't see her ponytail swinging as she heads out for a run. It means she won't be making us laugh at the dinner table or on the tennis court. It means we have to get used to being two again, instead of three or four or five. We've been sending kids off to college for nine years now, but somehow it never gets any easier. How can it? How can we stop missing our kids when they are not with us? My mom is eighty-one, and she still misses my sister, my brothers and me.  She treasures letters, phone calls, and visits and wishes they were all more frequent.  So maybe it's something you never really make peace with, you just handle it as gracefully as possible and keep your door and heart open.  For everything there is a season.

The First Day of Summer

For most of his adult life, my dad collected half dollars. Somewhere along the way, after we kids had all grown up, he decided to divide up his collection among us. I can't remember how many we each got, but I do remember agonizing over what to do with my share. I kept them for a while then finally decided to put them toward a special purchase: an L.L. Bean tent, two sleeping bags, and a Coleman cooler. We loved our new green tent. Its first outing was at a campground on little Squam Lake; I was five months pregnant with our first child, and Steve and I were spending the summer with friends in New Hampshire. Later on, when our kids were small, we pitched the green tent in our backyard every summer and camped there. I loved those nights filled with stories, games, snacks, and giggling kids.  When the kids got bigger and we could no longer fit comfortably in our four-man green tent, we bought a second smaller L.L. Bean tent to accommodate the five of us on our yearly campouts with friends on Chautauqua Lake. The trips to Camp Chautauqua gradually died out as the kids grew up, got jobs, and moved away. But every summer I still get a hankering to sleep in the tent. The kids can't be talked into backyard camping anymore, but good old Steve usually humors me and agrees to sleep outside once a summer.  Well, since the longest day of the year fell on a Friday this year and since none of our kids were home, I thought sleeping in the tent would be a perfect way to celebrate the first day of summer.  Steve surprised me by saying it was "not a bad idea," right off the bat, and although we spent a few minutes talking about whether we actually had the energy to set up the tent and lug down all the bedding and whether our backs could take sleeping on the ground, we decided to go ahead and pitch the smaller two-man tent. As far as I'm concerned, the two best parts of sleeping in a tent are falling asleep to the sound of crickets and cicadas and waking up to sunlight peeping through the tent windows. The time in between of trying to get comfortable on the hard, bumpy ground is the price you pay for enjoying the falling asleep and waking up!  Last night, soon after we zipped ourselves into the tent, a loud party started in a backyard of a house down the street; instead of crickets and cicadas, there were loud music and even louder voices and laughter.  Finally about 2:30, Steve woke me up and said he hadn't been to sleep yet and he was sorry but he had to go inside.  I nibbled on a couple of graham crackers and pulled out my Kindle, which I discovered is much better for middle-of-the-night tent reading than the old flashlight/book combo I've used in the past, and eventually fell back asleep when the party ended.  I woke up early this morning to a cacophony of crows and the sun shining through the tent's plastic skylight. Steve and I will both be tired later today, and it might take more convincing to get him to spend another night in the tent with me, but I'm pretty sure I'll never lose my fondness for sleeping outside, even if it's only in the backyard!

Food for Thought

I'm in the midst of reading The Feast Nearby by Robin Mather.  The book as a whole has me thinking a lot about taking better advantage of local food sources.  But there was a chapter early in the book that made me think about more than food.  The chapter focuses on the all-too-brief season of asparagus and ends with these lines: "Learning to appreciate a fleeting pleasure for itself is part of life, I guess.  I am working on cultivating my delight in a season's riches without longing for them when they have passed.  Like the seasons of my life, they will march along, whether I am ready for their changing or not."  I loved these words--not just for how they apply to tender spring asparagus, plump summer sweet corn, and crunchy fall apples, which I admit I sometimes long for out of season, but even more for how they help give me perspective on the seasons of parenting.  It's easy to fall into longing for the days of babies and toddlers or really any of the days when all the kids were still at home.  Those were seasons of great bounty, and I loved them.  But ready or not, those fleeting days are gone, and I need to recognize that this current season of life has many riches to offer, too.  Good book, good advice.