Oh! Hello There!

I didn't plan to quit blogging for the summer. It just sort of happened. Sorry to alarm you, those of you who were worried.

And thanks to those who emailed and wondered if I was ok.

It's been a busy summer with the normal stuff like harvest and hoeing and hosting, plus a few new things like hiking and . . . let's see, how can I make "travel" and "a few fun new projects" and "a writers conference" also start with H?

I was going to add "hexercise" but that sounds like witchcraft so we'll skip that.

So it's been a full and fun summer. Then the page turned to September and suddenly it smells like fall. 

I hope to blog more often and regularly again.

As always, thanks for reading!

Here's something I wrote yesterday:

When I was little we lived in an old house in Ohio that had a little unheated alcove under the stairs, and Mom let Rebecca and me play there with our dolls. We called it the kemmaly which means something like "little closet" in Pennsylvania German.
We would wash the dishes after meals as fast as we could, because we could hear our babies crying, and then when we were done we'd take off running through the dining room for the kemmaly.
But then we'd screech to a stop and remind each other, "Fraue du'n net shpringa!" [Ladies don't run!]
Then we'd walk as fast as we could, with long steps and swinging arms, because that was more ladylike I guess, and we'd find our crying babies and feed them.
When we were 6 and 7 years old, we got a new baby sister named Margaret, and when she was only a few weeks old we got the bright idea to play with her in the kemmaly like she was a doll.
Before long, Mom realized Margaret wasn't in her crib. I thought she didn't need to get THAT upset about us playing with her in that freezing kemmaly.
Margaret survived and so did we.
Now I'm thinking about that Fraue du'n net shpringa business.
I try to walk for half an hour 5 days a week, a good brisk walk, and sometimes I go to the warehouse and climb stairs. Also, when I have the road to myself and there are filbert trees between me and any inquiring neighbors, I jog until I can go no more, which is maybe a hundred feet.
Then I walk again until I catch my breath, then jog some more, even though it makes all my hinges squeak and feels like I am leaving loose nuts and bolts strewn behind me and also like those bad dreams where the bull is after you and you can barely get your legs to work.
But I'm getting stronger, which is the whole point.
Today at church, as we merged into the Sunday school crowd, my friend Rita whispered, "I heard you've started running! I think that's great!"
What I should have said: Thank you!
What I said: WHO SAW ME?!?
Seriously. I'm 56. I wear a 90s poof in my hair because I want to. I wear comfortable shoes. Every year I have less patience with ridiculous people and am less afraid to speak truth without shrouding it in disclaimers.
I think it's time for Fraue to shpring if they feel like it.