Smitten waterfowl…and other stuff that’s just ducky!

^ Of the gazillion-trillion pieces of paper that have migrated from the school to our house since September, I think this is my favorite. For reasons that defy explanation. (Or, perhaps I should say, for obvious reasons.)

< This piece, entitled “Sleepyheads,” is a close second. It reminds me of the crazy quilt my mother made in the early ’70s. (Have I blogged about it before? If not, I must. It is my most prized possession.)

Goodbye, Panda—G’Day, Darrell Lea!>

Best licorice I’ve tasted in…well, ever!

Discovered it today at Rite Aid,

our corner drugstore.

This is potentially problematic.

 As are these sweet potato fries.

When did this

sumptuous-temptation-masquerading-as-an-antioxident-rich-superfood 

join the BK royal menu?!

I just noticed. Unfortunately for my jeans. >

 

< And finally, a happy ending: I recently received this love-ly homemade wedding invitation and am eagerly anticipating a joyous celebration with G&G, the bride- and groom-to-be.

Kindergarten graduation elicits mixed emotions

Lucy dashes to the kinder-grad gathering spot.

I just returned from the paparazzi festival known as A-town kindergarten graduation. Seriously, the Buffalo News editorialist is right: We take too many pictures, people! It’s as if our main purpose in life has become chronicling it rather than experiencing it.

I’ve always been a bit wet blanket-ish about kinder-grad. I mean, c’mon—it’s kindergarten. I’m glad the kids made it through, most of them having learned the alphabet in its entirety and their numbers 1 through 100, but the ceremony seems superfluous.

The “graduates” process into the auditorium (or get herded in, rather, by their harried teachers, who realllllllly neeeeeed that summer vacation!). The superintendent and the principal offer platitudes about the importance of education, bright future, blah, blah, blah, and the children walk across the platform to receive their “diplomas.”

But! Not before the paparazzi—er, parents—take their places at the designated picture-taking seating section situated just below stage right. Yes, really—it’s built right into the program: “Will one representative from each child in Mrs. So-and-so’s class please come forward to the picture-taking area?” 

I refused to go. A decision made easier by Grandma’s eagerness to join the media frenzy. She even shot video footage, a topic for another day. (I mean who watches home videos…ever? Especially if there are hundreds—nay, thousands of accumulated, unedited hours? Not me. No, thank you. There are too many books and not enough time.)

Still, I was caught off guard by the magnitude of the moment—ridiculousness and all—when the canned bagpipes droned over the loudspeakers, signaling the entrance of 79 6-year-olds into the room (representing half the A-town Class of 2024—the silly ceremony would be repeated later for the other half). Little people embodying the hopes and dreams, failures and foibles of their families. Sappy Sallys like the teary-eyed mom to my right and dubious Debbies like the eye-rolling mom to my left.

Both mothers were me, and I sniffled in spite of my cynical self.

To my lifelong friend currently living in London

SJF:

Today I strapped dear Delia into her stroller and strode straight to the park where you and I used to play. Only this time, instead of staying near the slides, swings and things, I kept going, all the way to the west side where we used to crawl under the fence to get in. I checked: Both fence holes are filled (the one behind my parents' house and the one behind "the crazy people's").

The mounds of dirt are also gone -- the ones where you used to dig so daintily, poking the ground with a carefully selected stick, and where I -- I savagely scratched the soil like a primitive primate, always returning to my mother looking like the proud maker of mud pies that I was.

Prowling the perimeter of the park today (30+ years since we claimed it as ours), I peered through the vine-covered fence to find the neighbors' yards altered by the decades. The tidy half-acre of lush lawn Mr. and Mrs. Y used to prune so fastidiously is now patchy and brown, guarded by two menacing dogs.

The woods remain, where we fancied ourselves budding Thoreaus, concocting codes and composing poems about ethereal aspirations, sibling rivalries, and the fragrant violets that carpeted the ground by our "treehouse" in early spring. The walkways are overgrown. And a rusty swingset stands in the middle of the plot, perpendicular to Mrs. Jones' swimming pool (which, by the way, is gone, too -- but at least that old swingset is there, a monument of our childhood).

The saddest part about my park adventure, aside from the ache that accompanies nostalgia, was the absence of any children at the park on this sunny, almost-summer afternoon. "Where are they?" I wondered. "Watching TV," was my gut guess. Gut-wrenching.

But then, a hopeful discovery: Raspberry vines, on the south side, by the woods! The fruit is green, but it should ripen in two or three weeks' time, when I will return to the park and think of you, my beloved friend.

Much love,
Marsha Grace