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Posts Tagged ‘St. Martinville’

Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

Recently I listened to the podcast “We Can Do Hard Things” with Glennon Doyle. The theme was Fun. Their definition of fun came from Abby Wombach who said that fun is when you enter into an activity without knowing the outcome. That is the definition of every day for a toddler.

Monday was the first day of Camp Mamoo. (Thomas (21 months) calls me “Mamoo”) He and his mother, daughter Katherine, are visiting and cousin Leo, 2 1/2, spent the night. Leo has come to know that when Mamére takes him someplace, it will be fun. “Going to ‘nother fun place.”

“Today we are going to a farm.”

“Yay!”

When we passed a horse, Leo yelled, “I saw a horse. That’s great!”

The farm is in nearby St. Martinville. Belle Ècorce Farms sells goat cheese in a small portable using the honor system, a locked money box. A small town luxury.

When we got to the farm, we walked around to see some of the animals. The boys were mesmerized. Or scared.

The loose animals, rooster, chickens, and geese were particularly frightening. A billy goat in a fence came up and climbed onto the fence, expecting something good to eat.

“You don’t have to get close. Just watch.” The boys stood still as statues to watch the billy goat.

I haven’t decided yet if this was a fun experience. The boys were easy. They stayed close to us, no run and chase games. We talked on the way home.

“What did we see at the farm?”

“Moo,” says Thomas.

“Umm, rooster!” says Leo.

All I know for sure is that a day with toddlers is a day of Fun.

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Join the Poetry Friday round-up at Carol's Corner.

Join the Poetry Friday round-up at Carol’s Corner.

Bluenerry bush

Blueberry Picking
with a line from Mark Doty, Verge

Some things wear their becoming,
like this blueberry, for example,
plump and perfectly indigo
surrounded by pinky-red brothers and sisters,
it boasts to be chosen
falls easily into my palm
joyfully plinks the plastic bucket.

On this dewy June morning,
I wander from bush to bush
silent in my reverie
picking, picking, picking.

The berries do not wear a costume.
They linger here in this field
waiting for the juicing of the sun’s rays,
becoming all I need
to take summer in
to hold on to the gift of life.

–Margaret Simon, all rights reserved

Me picking

Blueberry house

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