Home again, home again, jiggity jig.

After much swearing and the unnecessary ordering of a new cable, I finally found the upload cable for our camera. While my next post will be slightly more informative and slightly less slideshow, I thought I’d share how the three-week family extravaganza went.

The Itinerary: Four days in Rogersville, PA, to visit my parents, including one jaunt into Waynesburg for Rain Day festivities (it rained! Huzzah!); 10 days in Cape May, NJ, to visit RocketMan’s mother (with my parents in tow); three days in Bethesda, MD, to visit RocketMan’s dad; and then back to Rogersville for four more days and a lovely party with some of my high school and college friends.

Here’s the lowdown.

First birthday party…

Can I just have one little lick of this piece right here?

First tractor ride with Pappy…

First beach visit…

The water is moving. Fast. WTF, Mom?

First visit to The National Gallery (if you haven’t been to the Rothko black exhibit, GO.)…

Big Calder, little baby.

All in all, it was nice, if long and a bit stressful, trip. Families are families, after all, and to quote The Breakfast Club, if our home lives were satisfying, we’d stay there forever, and it took only three days back in San Francisco to remind me why I love it here. (One, the weather; two, I walk to work; three, I saw four people I know on the street in the space of one hour, which goes to show what a small town it is.)

That said, there are some things I do miss about the homestead.

This willow tree, for example, which looms as large in my memory as it does in our front yard. I fear it’s not long for this world, though–my dad’s been complaining that it makes “a mess” after thunderstorms. I can’t exactly volunteer to fly out there and clean up willow branches, but I wish I could.

Second, these peppers. They’re just called “hot peppers” at the market, but they’re Hungarian peppers or Italian frying peppers to other folks. To me, they’re the essence of summer: sweet and hot enough to make your eyes water when you’re cutting them. My favorite preparation is sliced lengthwise and stewed in olive oil for 45 minutes; stuff that on buttered white bread and you’ve got the greatest sandwich in the world. And I’ve never found them in California.

They don't make 'em out here.

Lastly, these guys. That is, the kind of neighbors who, on a random Sunday afternoon, drive their truck into your backyard and say, “Want me to pull down that dead tree today?” Thanks, fellas, for providing a¬†good hour’s worth of entertainment during the magic hour of early twilight. Hope you get a good price for the wood.

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