House on Hillsboro

In Lieu of Snow.

Small Hand Made.

First Annual Handmade Ornament Day, Salt Dough Edition.  A Pictorial.

Sometime from now, in the far Christmas future, when Ava and Jack are off decorating their own trees, JD will haul a box down form the attic and on the side it will read:  Handmade Ornaments.  Then he will stoke the fire as I unwrap small bundles of tissue paper, all the way back to these, and remember.

Then I will blow my nose and tell JD to call them both and ask them to come by AND BRING THE GRANDKIDS.  Then I'll wash my hands and start the Monkey Bread.

 

Magic, Still.

Very few things have the ability to render Jack still AND quiet.  In fact, I can only think of one.

Until now.

What could possess such magical powers?

Ah, yes.

Move Over Ice Cream.

We are in the middle of our first hunting season here in Hillsboro and things have gone from Ghost Town to NOT Ghost Town.  This area along the Bayou De Loutre is known for it's deer hunting and folks all over the South know it.  The woods have come alive and now I can't check the mail in my nightgown or take an evening walk with the kids on the days my hair has dried by itself.

JD joined a club consisting of thousands of acres and had the good fortune of several hundred of those being a miles long, freshly laid pipeline, planted heavily with rye. 

Sweet.

If you have noticed fewer than usual deer in your area, it's because they are here.  On this grassy pipeline.  Day and night. 

Well, there are a few other places I have spotted them lately.

But I prefer the pipeline.

July 2007, Murray Pond.

Aaaaahhhhhh.

Finally, after a lifelong desire, I have a pond. 

And this pond is largely to blame for my blog absence as it caused me to spend an absurd amount of time digging the ELUSIVE Arkansas Earthworm and combing the grass for the even MORE ELUSIVE Arkansas Cricket, in an effort to feed the insatiable desire afflicted upon my first born to fish.

And fish we did, for hours, nearly every evening JD was away, despite the fact that it was 100 degrees or that my phone was ringing off the hook up at the house, or that you were faithfully checking in on us here only to find Jack and those post-hole diggers AGAIN and cussing my name. 

The routine went something like this:

1.  Mama (me) gets the worm cup and sharp shooter, digs for worms, and develops sweaty armpits permissible only to people who have NO neighbors.  Ava insists we do not have enough.  Jack lets me know it's hot. 

2.  Take 'the long way' (Ava calls it) to the pond.

3.  Do some of this.

4.  Then this.

5.  This.

6.  And then this.

That's right.  My girl don't play.  This impressive technique she learned from her Mama (right, Jessi?).  Now Jack, on the other hand, has some moves he must have picked up from JD.

7.  Then we catch a load of monsters.

Bream.

And, um..

Oops, you weren't supposed to see that.

And perch.

Oops, that either.

And carp.

And one big ole bass - and don't you forget it.

8.  Then, every evening about this time, Jack would sneak over and pour our worm cup in the pond, Ava would cry, and I would try to give him a serious lecture about how ugly that was but would usually get sidetracked by his guilty look which is so darn cute, see -

and end up saying, "Darn, your cute." instead.

9.  Then Ava would say, "Am I , Mama?" and I would snap a picture and say,

"Heavens, Yes." 

He was Dead Serious.

The room was completely dark.  We had been in bed long enough for Ava to be nearly asleep and Jack to have burrowed down around my feet, completely under the covers.  I hear a noise.  A noise from Jack's vicinity that under different circumstances could have made me laugh.  I am surprised no one has made mention.  Seconds later I hear Jack's muffled voice from deep under the covers.

"Ew.  Something smells bad."  He makes his way back up the covers, pokes his head out, and takes a deep whiff of the first thing he encounters.

"Mama.  Your arm STINKS." 

"MY ARM?  Oooohhh, No.  That was you, dude.  Under the covers.  You stink."  He flops down on his pillow, looking at the ceiling and for a moment there is silence.

"Oh.  I smell like a ....like a....dirty...... bicycle."

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Jack, today, at Ava's career day parade in which I got no good pictures of Ava.

Oh, and my camera's back!