Warmer than just warm. Skies bluer than the deepest blue. Bird whistles, the cicada buzz, and of course, the inevitable chirp of chipmunks. Summer.
It's pronounced si-KAY-dya, Nina. (This from Ed.)
No it's not. It's si-KAH-dah.
For my efforts at correcting Ed on this, I get a lecture on how people have variously pronounced this insect's name over the centuries. But however you say it (I'm sure it's si-KAH-dah, but I've also heard SI-kah-dah, which sounds weird, though I do have a soft spot for chi-KAH-dah, because everyone knows that and "i" after a "c" in mediterranean countries gives you a "chi"), the buzz is unmistakable. Like agitated power lines!
I explain the cicada buzz to Snowdrop toward evening as we sit on the porch taking in the sounds of the farmette. The little one is extremely attuned to noises in her environment, asking for explanations for anything from the ping ping ping of trucks going into reverse, to a distant siren of an ambulance. She wants to know what and why. But the insect world is still a great unknown to her. Bugs shaking in excitement to produce a buzz? Really?
It's that kind of a beautiful day.
It starts with more yard work. I say to Ed that it's a futile kind of work because no one will notice if I clip the spent monardas, phloxes and heliopsis.
I'll notice, he tells me. And I believe him. (But I would do it anyway, even if he didn't notice.)
Breakfast on the porch. Ed is a big fan of the ancient pear tree that abuts the driveway. He tries to convince me that the fruits are grand. That we should eat them for breakfast. I humor him by nodding my head.
We watch monarchs and wonder -- shouldn't they be heading south by now?
When I pick up Snowdrop, the topic of "heading south" comes up again. She wants to know why we no longer see cranes in the fields across the road.
Because they're heading south... because now it's fall and soon it will be winter...
At the farmhouse, we play intensely! Every toy is relevant. Every story is told with passion.
She napped in school today. She is in top form thereafter. Toppest of top form!
(I say something silly. She laughs to high heaven.)
Heading into fall, but ever so slowly. Today, it's pure summer.
It's pronounced si-KAY-dya, Nina. (This from Ed.)
No it's not. It's si-KAH-dah.
For my efforts at correcting Ed on this, I get a lecture on how people have variously pronounced this insect's name over the centuries. But however you say it (I'm sure it's si-KAH-dah, but I've also heard SI-kah-dah, which sounds weird, though I do have a soft spot for chi-KAH-dah, because everyone knows that and "i" after a "c" in mediterranean countries gives you a "chi"), the buzz is unmistakable. Like agitated power lines!
I explain the cicada buzz to Snowdrop toward evening as we sit on the porch taking in the sounds of the farmette. The little one is extremely attuned to noises in her environment, asking for explanations for anything from the ping ping ping of trucks going into reverse, to a distant siren of an ambulance. She wants to know what and why. But the insect world is still a great unknown to her. Bugs shaking in excitement to produce a buzz? Really?
It's that kind of a beautiful day.
It starts with more yard work. I say to Ed that it's a futile kind of work because no one will notice if I clip the spent monardas, phloxes and heliopsis.
I'll notice, he tells me. And I believe him. (But I would do it anyway, even if he didn't notice.)
Breakfast on the porch. Ed is a big fan of the ancient pear tree that abuts the driveway. He tries to convince me that the fruits are grand. That we should eat them for breakfast. I humor him by nodding my head.
We watch monarchs and wonder -- shouldn't they be heading south by now?
When I pick up Snowdrop, the topic of "heading south" comes up again. She wants to know why we no longer see cranes in the fields across the road.
Because they're heading south... because now it's fall and soon it will be winter...
At the farmhouse, we play intensely! Every toy is relevant. Every story is told with passion.
She napped in school today. She is in top form thereafter. Toppest of top form!
(I say something silly. She laughs to high heaven.)
Heading into fall, but ever so slowly. Today, it's pure summer.
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