Such is a blessed life.

Ossian didn’t take a nap today. After trying to lull, bribe, and bore her to sleep for nearly 3 hours, I surrendered. She was a bit of a maniac but no more than me after consuming a third cup of cold-pressed coffee and another square of dark chocolate with toffee chunks at 4 pm. Maybe sleep deprivation creates a window for developmental bursts because today, at 6:54 pm, right after dinner, Ossian Theresa Katharine de la Luz Briar-Bonpane rode her bike FORWARD, without help, for the first time. It took us a few minutes to even notice. She quietly left her mostly eaten bowl of stuffed zucchini and rice with greens to rendezvous with her tricycle. By the time I even realized she had excused herself, she was riding toward me. Her face was frozen – too proud to smile or gasp or yelp. We had to do all the yelping and gasping and pride-gushing for her. Our little baby rode her bicycle today. A tricycle, it turns out, is every bit as much a bike as a two-wheeler. Wow. She’s had this bike since November of 2006. So long that I’d really forgotten about it. But she hadn’t. She’s been quietly working, a little bit at a time, striving to coordinate the goal of forward self-propulsion with the physical reality of foot and leg movement against red plastic pedals. Just like every other developmental milestone, I am fizzing with joy and pride and emotion but also nursing a quiet sadness with the realization that she is growing up and won’t be the same tomorrow. Not that change is bad, of course. I just love her so much right now, I don’t want the her that exists right now to leave us. Such is a blessed life. Please enjoy the attached action-packed videos of Ossian’s latest accomplishment. Bonus footage of her running is included.

kuntryhousewife

Error

This video doesn’t exist

beef n’ beans, inferno style

Just wrapped up 6 days of 9 visiting friends. Does it sound chaotic? It was, at times. But, in the best possible way that chaos can emerge… as a result of high hopes, effervescent children, and dynamic grown-ups who trust each other enough to let what’s really going on, go on, a little. It was mostly like a constant dessert to have so many fun friends who love each other, and really GET each other, choose to share space and time for a week. It was probably sweetest for me, since I am still a newcomer here and felt so loved and understood just by the presence of these maniacs – I mean, friends. Our kids are also growing as friends of one another and beloveds of ours. There were 5 children in the group, including our 2. They splashed, ate, colored, melted-down, sang, cried, giggled, defied, whined, and pottied together.

Erin, Siohan, and baby Xavy arrived early and were rewarded with a special treat, a field trip to “Beef n’ Beans” at the Grange. As you might imagine, they were one of very few lesbian couples, with their charming son, to attend this smokey event. The parking lot at the Hall was unprecedentedly full when we pulled up. After slinging up our babies, we purchased our bean and beef tickets and headed to the grub lines. Their lengthiness gave us the opportunity to notice that everyone but us had buckets, barrels, or stock pots in arm. Apparently, we were ill-prepared to receive our beef n’ beans. As the lines inched forward, a darkly carnivorous specter was revealed that forced us to steel our resolve. Men with pitchforks were leaning over a thigh-high concrete wall to jab pitchforks into a smoking inferno. With each jab, a mammal of singed flesh the size of a small goat was retrieved and slung onto a wooden slab. It was from this slab that we would gather our hulking, smoking lunch. Our anxiety simmered as we neared our turn at the slab without the appropriate vessel. How did everyone but us know to bring some kind of trough for their meat and legume heap? I would read the bulletin board twice in the future to avert such ill-preparedness and public shame. We arrived at the wooden slab as our meat trunk slammed down in front of us. When the smoke dissipated enough to show the human on the other end of the pitchfork, we confessed to him, “we don’t have a bucket”. “oh – try over at the beans, they had a few”. Blase’s quick response to this suggestion awarded us two plastic buckets, one for the beans and the other for Dante’s beef. When we sat to eat, we realized we had no utensils. An acquaintance at the end of the table interrupted our finger feeding to generously insist we use her set up – plates, silverware, AND a tablecloth. It really pays to know the right people.

On the fouth of July, we treated our guests to a Petrolia potluck. Potlucks are serious business around here with no slacker-syle chips and salsa, bread and cheese, or six-pack bringers. People COOK here. That’s our nightlife. A potluck is a night on the town. So, the Smith’s annual 4th party is always (I’ve been to two!?!) Petrolia at its most summer-festive. This is in contrast to Petrolia when it’s winter-festive like at Dick’s white elephant party or Ellen’s caroling shin-dig. Winter events are equally festive but in a more heavily clothed, more desperately needed sort of way. The Smith’s party featured a hip tapdancer improvising to live reggae slash mellow-groove rap music. The tap dancer looked EXACTLY like Chelsea Clinton which made her all the more mesmerizing.

Lots of folks  drive their trucks on the riverbed to watch and set off fireworks.  One such truck misjudged its course and wound up stuck in the river.  The fire chief pulled it out a couple of days later.  Made for good gossip in the meantime.. most things do.

The rest of our days were filled with less memorable foods, sassy conversations, kid naps, riverswims, beach visits, kiddie pool lounging, nick-naming, cocktailing, and balmy walks. Lovely, it was, and now they’re gone – leaving me to my real life with all its familiar mundane and miraculous concerns.