We’ve asked a few friends and fellow-bloggers to drop-in and share while we take some time to get to know this amazing little person, Hudson, whom we’ve just welcomed to the world. We’ll no doubt be dropping in here and on babymine.net from time to time, but we’re so grateful for these wonderful guest posts and hope you enjoy them as well.
Stephanie writes the always fascinating Even Cleveland, where she allows her curiosity to uncover a wealth of beautiful images and thoughts, generally following related tangents from week to week. You never know what she’ll land on next. Oh, and her imaginary outfits just happen to be drool-worthy.
It’s a lucky child that arrives in the season of blueberries and shooting stars. Pulled in the path of the Swift-Tuttle comet, the Perseids hit their peak each August. The blueberries do as well. Growing up in Ohio, my childhood summers were marked by berry-picking – June for strawberries, July for raspberries black and red, and August for blueberries. Unlike the other fruits, we never made our blueberries into jam or pies. A few found their way into pancakes and muffins, but the bulk lived in the freezer, kept in a big, snap-top bin. It was my mother’s gift to me. My favorite childhood snack was a cup of frozen blueberries, preferably eaten from a little, battered Swedish enamelware KER cup that had been hers as a baby. The blueberries we’d pick were fat and chalk-blue, the size of dimes and nickels, and frozen, they became impossibly sweet and almost creamy. The little tin cup would hold their cold until the very end. I’d lay on my stomach in front of the screen door, eating blueberries and reading paperbacks through the hot summer afternoons until my brain was buzzed and my lips and fingertips were blue as ink.
A few years ago, I turned up a set of the very same Swedish cups in a thrift store. I bought them, but I haven’t used them yet. Maybe this year.