Today we took Zander to find some pumpkins for halloween. We chose a place that we had never been before. It was a a local farm that allows the public to come in and wander around hand picking the produce. Having discovered that the farm was also an apple orchard, we selected a sturdy looking basket and set out to explore this fantastic new world. Across one small field and over a creek, we found several rows of red delicious, then
golden delicious, then red again leapfrogging up a small rise. Turning from the main trail to the grassy void between the rows, we could smell the sweetness of the fermenting apples on the ground. My thoughts were of cider and applesauce, apple pie and apple butter. Faint memories of watching my father and grand father climbing an old rickety wood ladder while my mother and grand mother waited in the car below seemed to filter through my mind like the sunlight through the fluttering leaves. Watching Zander playing under the trees I wondered if I was passing on a legacy to my son, If he would remember this excursion with the same fondness that I felt at my memories.
Friday, October 10, 2008
I've been thinking for a while now about writing. The problem is that I can't seem to figure out what I should write about that I would want the whole world to see. Most of you would probably find this really boring but I decided, at least for today, to write about my son and some of our adventures together. My son, Zander (short for Alexander), is almost 18 months old. He is all boy and he definitely keeps me going. He is so active that I can't always keep up. The following is the beginning of what I hope will become a collection of writings about or inspired by him and our adventures (and sometimes misadventures) together.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.His house is in the village though;He will not see me stopping hereTo watch his woods fill up with snow.My little horse must think it queerTo stop without a farmhouse nearBetween the woods and frozen lakeThe darkest evening of the year.He gives his harness bells a shakeTo ask if there is some mistake.The only other sound's the sweepOf easy wind and downy flake.The woods are lovely, dark and deep.But I have promises to keep,And miles to go before I sleep,And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.His house is in the village though;He will not see me stopping hereTo watch his woods fill up with snow.My little horse must think it queerTo stop without a farmhouse nearBetween the woods and frozen lakeThe darkest evening of the year.He gives his harness bells a shakeTo ask if there is some mistake.The only other sound's the sweepOf easy wind and downy flake.The woods are lovely, dark and deep.But I have promises to keep,And miles to go before I sleep,And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost
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