Sunday, May 22, 2011

How To Make An American Weekend

The stars aligned on Friday for the kids and I to head out on an impromptu, whirlwind trip to Ohio (aka "Home").

The weekend was supposed to go down much differently, and I was disappointed when things weren't going as planned. But life has a way of teaching me that busted-up plans can often make for some unexpected, rowdy fun.

My Aunts were rolling into town, from PA, NM and AZ.

It was not to be missed.

From left: Aunt Elieen (Miss Arizooona!), Aunt Jan (Miss Pennsylvaaaania!), Aunt Carol (Miss New Mexicoooo!) and Mama (Miss Ohioooo!).

My Mom is the youngest of 5, 4 girls and a boy. Twenty years span between her and the oldest, Aunt Eileen, but they talked non-stop about long, lost cousins, the way Aunt Jan used to braid my mom's hair too tightly and the fact that they all dreamed, at one time, of joining a convent. They reminisced about my grandma's sassy streak and somehow, they managed to learn something new about something old.

My mind kept rewinding to the classic movie, How to Make An American Quilt. I wanted to rush off in a hurry and gather up 3 sisters for Ruby. She might need 'em now, and she'll definitely need 'em when her hair is gray.

The grand moment, combined with the impending End of the World called for a good, old fashioned cook-out, with more desserts than main dishes, because that's just how these sisters roll.

I trudged around with that vaguely familiar stuffed-to-the-gills feeling that I remember so well from the summers of my childhood. I'd stagger away from the food table and wander to the front porch swing only to return an hour later, not because I was hungry, but because I was no longer so-full-I-could-puke.

My staples: Chips and salsa, watermelon, brownies and mini Heath bars. You can hardly blame me.

Interestingly enough, the Amish man who is currently putting a new roof on the barn arrived just for the hay of it on Saturday to help Dad with the windmill.

It comforted me, having an Amish man with us for the End of the World.

And in hindsight, I probably wasn't supposed to take his picture. But for the record, I was more interested in documenting the fact that my dad was up there in that thingamajig with him when he probably wasn't supposed to be, and the Amish man rolled in on a blingy new tractor, which he parked in a nearby field, and not a buggy.

I figure if he can bend the rules a little, so can I.

I didn't see my two big kids all day long, (except for when I accidentally ran into them at the food table). When we were finally reunited, they were spackled in mud and sweat. Black-bottomed feet. A summer night does not get better than cousins and black-bottomed feet.

We attended to various forms of important business for the rest of the weekend.

We also slept 5 to a room, but I'd rather forget that part.

Then, earlier today, it was confirmed.


Flowers are my Jimmy Choos.
They're my Coach handbags.

If I were a richer gal, I'da given a good home to all of these lonely blooms.

Give me liberty or give me dirt.

No, that's not right...

Give me dirt or give me death.

No, too morose.

Give me dirt. With flowers.

Just give them to me.

I walked out with $9 of happy and I have big plans to tackle my favorite local haunt tomorrow for tomatoes, peppers, cukes and zukes.

I just don't see a way around a garden.

I only see a way in.

By 1:30, I was back at the childhood home of my girl, Sarah. Ready to pack it in and head back to my Big Girl home.

By 2:30, well, we were zonked.

Happy Sunday night, friends.

Here's to the last week of May!