the continuing adventures of us
The girls & I all went yard-sailing for the last of the season this morning with my mom. Emma made her cry by pointing to a sign and saying, “Look Mam! That says Yard Sale!”
Mom was so proud.
I got a $5 inflatable couch, two kinds of polar fleece and (what else) a stack of books. Later this afternoon, my aunt arrives on the bus for the weekend.
So the girls did good yesterday. I was too brain-fried to tell you about it yesterday. Meaghan spent all her money, Sarah spent less than half, and Emma got new stuff too. She just got socks & undies, though. Also had a conversation about homeschooling with a lady in the customer service line. She asked about probably the second-most common question, how does the school board check up on me? They don’t, really. Then again, they don’t give me a diploma either.
Since we were at the mall a full two hours, long enough for anyone, I rewarded us all with takeout from BK.
And I did a phone interview on homeschooling last night. I found it kind of difficult, and can think of ten different ways to say what I did better and more articulate. Hi there, newspaper-person if you get this far!
If you have teenage girls of any age, you probably already know how dangerous it is to get within range of a mall, especially this time year. The clearance sales are in full force. The whining has begun.
“But Moooooommmmm….” it starts, “I need a new pair of jeans because in my collection of 27 pairs, I don’t have one that is low ride/skinny ankles/cuffed/ worn out/ ripped artistically/embroidered/ lace up/ button fly/ patch pockets/ none or all of the above!! And according to Teen Vogue, Seventeen, Elle Girl and YM, if I don’t have a pair, my life will be ruined!” they will wail. “Besides,” and here’s where they pull out the Big Guns, “They’re on SALE! Only $20!”
Totally forgetting that an extra $20 can sometimes, oh I dunno, buy little things like FOOD or GAS seems to be an afterthought. After a bit of discussion, Ron and I decided that not only were we going to give Sarah a full one hundred dollars to go out and buy her fall wardrobe, we would do the same for Addison and Meaghan, too.
I mean, really, they are pretty experienced at picking out their own clothes and just handing them over for us to pay for. Or most likely my mom, who takes them on more-than-hundred-dollar shopping extravaganzas a couple times a year.
Speaking of my mom, I was 14 and going into grade ten when she said to me, “Oh fer cryin out loud! Here’s a hundred dollars to buy your clothes, now leave me alone!” No sweeter words have I ever heard. Ahhh…. It was a great experience, such that I still remember the thrill of getting that Spanish embroidered fitted white satin top from le chatau on clearance, 50 percent off…
But I digress. Especially now, 20 years later, when similar words have come out of my own mouth.
I tell my mother of our plans on the phone. “A hundred bucks!” she screeches, “But what about inflation?!? That won’t go far, look how much money I spend on them when I take them shopping! You are a mean, horrible mother!” She pauses. ‘Are you sniffling? Do you have a cold? You sound choked up. Did you get enough sleep last night? Are you sick?”
I assure her I am fine, just adjusting to the cooler weather, and that if I am a Mean Mother, I have learned from the best. She says that’s right and I’d better not forget it.
So that is what I’m doing this morning. I’m heading to the bank, right after I get dressed and get them piled in the van, and then we are heading to the mall, right in time for the doors to open and the markdowns to begin.
They even have lists. Meaghan can figure out 15% tax in her head on any purchase up to $120. She should, she’s been practising all week. Now I have to go find my most comfortable shoes and load up on caffiene. I think I’m gonna need it.
There’s this thing about this time of year, the batten-down-the-hatches feeling we get at the back of our conciousness. It’s cooler, the sun rises and sets at different times, and it also has moved around a bit.
I remember, back when we lived in the country, taking note of the sun setting on the horizon. There, where that tree sticks up, is where it sets in winter, and over there a few degrees, in summer. I would watch it edge closer and closer to its destination.
Like a toddler, I guess, we’re keeping track of the spin of the world and growing things, and it is the same every time. Every single year the seasons change, right on track. We dig up the dirt, we plant different seeds, we water, weed and keep an eye on growing plants, to one day – soon now – reap a harvest.
Now here, if we were standing around talking, here is where Ron would nudge me with his elbow and say to you, “Well, some of us weed. Some of us just wait until it shows up in the house to look after it.” But he says it with a twinkle in his eyes and a smile, so I just roll my eyes at him and keep talking, instead of smacking his shoulder.
It’s a fascinating process to watch, this growing. Here is a seed, outside a textbook or illustrated cartoon, and all we did was start the process. Left to its own devices, the seed would grow anyway, but we like to think we do something. Whadda you know? It does exactly what it is supposed to do.
The plants grow and take over their alloted spaces, green and lush, or sometimes scrawny. The flowers bloom, but not just flowers for show, but flowers to set fruit – to grow the vegetables we want. Little green sprouts shooting up from the ground, stalking higher to the sky, maybe roots thickening under the ground to be unearthed like treasure. Watching a tendril stretch and grow and twine itself around another stem, seeking further, higher. Finding a small green globe, hiding beneath a leaf, seeing it expand and bring forth brothers and sisters.
So that’s when the air starts to cool, we know. It’s not some date on the calendar, it is the very air we breathe, the longer shadows cast by the sun, telling us it is almost time. I know it will be soon, that harvest day, when we head out of doors, all the baskets and boxes we can find in our hands. We will pull and pick and dig, like children on a treasure hunt. Look at the size of this, we’ll say, and we’ll discover plants we forgot, hidden under bigger leaves of more curious plants. How many is that now, we’ll wonder, and laugh at the sheer marvelous amount of our booty.
We have to sample the wares, we’ll say, and brush off a bright orange carrot, right on the side of our equally dirty pants. It will be crisp and cold and full of flavour, and we will declare once again, it is the best we’ve ever tasted.
We will bring them in, these fruits of our labours, and protect them from the cold and spoil until we are ready to dine on them in thankfullness. They will line the floors, green and gleaming, blushing in readyness. They will line the stairs, leading the way to more green and yellow and orange. They will fill our cupboards and freezer, after an afternoon of steaming up the windows, chopping, cooking, stirring, bottling and bagging.
The house will burst with produce, the table will groan under the weight of the spread. And we shall be fully, completely satisfied.
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