A Lot of Treasure

“It’s too early to pick out pumpkins,” Filibuster groused.  “I’m busy.”

“Yeah,” V added.  “It’s hardly fall, anyway.”

“It’s a nice day,” my husband said.  “Besides, if we go early in the season, we’ll avoid all the crazies.  Let’s go.”

We piled in the car and drove to the patch we went to last year.  I remembered it as a modest patch; hidden away from the crowds with only a few touristy items here and there: a flyer advertising a haunted house somewhere nearby; a goat and a cow you could pet; owners who would talk with you; a field you could actually walk into.

“Form two lines,” I read aloud as my husband pulled into the patch.  “I don’t remember that.”  I continued reading.  “Two dollars to park.” 

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The Good House

There was a sign over the massive Halloween candy display at Target yesterday: “Be the good house this year.”  The message was clear: Buy the good candy.  Buy lots of it.  Be the trick-or-treaters’ favorite house on the block.  You won’t be the house that hands out dog biscuits as a trick.  You won’t be the one known for handing out glow sticks that invariably split and leak all over the kids’ costumes and into the washing machine.  You won’t be the one who hands out the toothbrushes.  You won’t even be the one known for handing out the crappy candy.  No.  This year you will be cool. 

You’ll be the good house.

I almost fell for it.

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Picking

 

Well, after looking at too many colleges, Filibuster has finally whittled her list down to about six schools.  But this afternoon, oh, around three o’clock, once the mailman pulls to the curb, that list’ll be shot to hell.  Because as soon as she hears the mail truck pulling up to the curb, her ears will perk up.  And as soon as the mailbox is shut with a little clink, she’ll be out the door. 

Oh those college brochures.  Those colorful brochures that promise success and internships and glory to their graduates.  Those brochures that make kids—parents too—feel so important and special.  They mention famous people with pretty smiles who’ve made Much of their lives.  Honors colleges and double majors and study abroad programs so exciting.

And all of this, of course, goes back to the strawberry patch where I am most at home.

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Skipping Graduation

This post was written in response to a prompt from the red dress club:

Well, now that school is officially over, I can confess that V never graduated.   I will never forget the excitement of that day:  The beautiful dresses; the carefully-applied makeup; hair combed and styled and sprayed just so.  Cameras and camcorders and grandparents and diplomas wrapped up in yellow ribbons.  Her older sister, offering advice.

My husband went out to the lawn to claim a few of the folding chairs that had been set up hours earlier in preparation for the big event.  I took V to the assigned room. 

She paused at the entrance.  “I’m not doing it, Mom.”

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The Music Died

This post was written in response to a prompt from: the red dress club:

This was absolutely the last time she would touch a piano; the last time her fingers would tease out the intricate patterns of notes and rhythms from the keys, black and white.  It was the last time her hands would repeat the conversation that has been going on for centuries.

“Stay after class,” her teacher told her, the day she let the conversation die.

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