The Monkey Barrel

Archive for August, 2007

The best way John’s baby lips
Could curl around the word
Squirrels to the rest of us
Fweels jumping and chasing, to him
Pests, rodents, vermin, all
Better definitions in this home
Till this afternoon, in an unlikely spot
4 wriggling fweels
Tiny little bodies
Hairless, sightless, brand new
Shreaking for their mom
To save them from the giants
We took the insulation woven nest
Placed ‘em in a shoe box
Scurried over to Ms Tracy (mother earth)
To have a look see
A call to animal heroes
There is a second nest they say
Leave the box open
And their mamma will come
So out in the baking sun
Their furless little forms
Tucked in a crazy nest
Wait for mom to save the day
A half an hour later
We tiptoe through the garage
Peek inside and find
An empty nest, rescue

Through the rolling foothills we sped our way out into Holmes County Ohio. Rivers and streams and fields flying past, God’s country. Amish Country. Such splendor only exists in dreams, but yesterday it was here on earth. I have a secret yen to become Amish. Ride in buggies, grow gardens, tend children, raise barns, milk cows. The simplicity and the innocence are breathtaking. A people who strive in a modern world to stay connected to their families and their God. How could anyone not want to live in a community where all are treated like family and your neighbors are as close as any sister and brother. How did we get it so wrong out here in society?

My little lambs and their overgrown manes got clipped last night. Their shorn locks such different colors framing their nearly identical faces. Sometimes I can hardly believe how alike they are in appearance and still I am amazed that twice we created such beautiful works of art. Luke’s golden tow head glows even brighter from the summer suns bleaching. John’s brown interwoven with copper and bronze shimmers in the light. Both have little brown faces and tanned arms. Sometimes the haircuts make them look old, but more often it makes them younger again.
Luke will move into a big boy bed sometime next week and the potty training will begin in earnest. He is so ready, and I am so not. I was totally prepared for the baby stages, but the toddler and boyhood have caught me off-guard. He says things like “Seriously mom” and “I have no idea” and he lives to milk a laugh out of us.
John is so 7 and so ready for 2nd freakin grade! When did I get to be a mom of a second grader? His guitar lessons are going well and his teacher seems to be amazed by his affinity and ear for it. I am surprised and not, because frankly, he’s never done anything half way. I think Tae Kwon Do (sp?) is in his future this year, and basketball in the winter.
Both are so happy, nearly all the time and get their biggest jollies out of torturing the crap out of each other. But they are ours, and bliss it is to have them.

The summer is fading. The grass is crunchy and brown and sadly littered with crispy leaves. Rain has been scarce here and my plants have suffered. They turn their brittle heads to the sky, searching the barest drop to prolong their pitifull little lives. I cannot water fast enough or deep enough to keep up with the thirsty trees that feed fast and greedily from any drop that nears their roots. The sun has scorched whatever it’s touched. I cannot remember a summer that was so oppresively hot in it’s waning. I was hoping, as always that we’d have enough rain this year for a spectacular autumn. Everything will be dead before it even gets here. It’s a bit depressing as we gather the days we have left before the school year begins. I like perfect little fairy tale landscapes for them to remember so John can begin the year with a bang. Perhaps the burnt foliage will just be another boost for him to look forward to being inside the classroom 5 days a week. Sigh

Their number is twelve
Tiny green creatures
Banded in black
Spotted with yellow
Chewin up the parsley
Beneath my purple verbena
That lured their mothers
To plant them there
Twelve wiggling, squirming bodys
Fattening themselves
Rippling over the stalks
Preparing for their change
No parsley for our salads
Or to savor with our meal
I haven’t the heart to move them
So they contendedly munch
Soon they’ll curl
Wrapped in gossamer curtains
Slumbering through their change
Transformation before our eyes
If only we could sleep
Through the changes
That spread our wings
And give us flight