Dear Sunday Letter friends,
Guess what? Summer arrived yesterday just after lunchtime. That’s how it seemed to me anyway. The afternoon was warm and humid, and we even turned on our air-conditioner. What a great time of year, when blackberry winter thaws and spring fever truly takes root.
No longer concerning myself with late in-the-season frosts frees me up to scout for soon-to-arrive Japanese beetles. There’s always something, right?
When you were a kid, did you ever experience the magic of summer camp?
I never went to one of those super cool camps like the one on The Parent Trap, or my personal favorite, Little Darlings, you know the ones, six weeks of canoeing and archery and bunk-mates who become best friends 4-ever (or long lost twin sisters). But I did go to cheerleader camp at Arkansas State several summers in a row. (Oh, winning that elusive spirit stick was the pinnacle!) I also attended basketball camp at University of Central Arkansas where I learned something right off—basketball success lay in dribbling and shooting. And let’s not forget church camp at Ravenden Springs. If you read The Accidental Salvation of Gracie Lee, just know much of Gracie’s experience matched mine. In other words, there was lot’s of preaching and singing, and yes, Devil’s Bathtub is real.
It’s highly possible my parents sent my sister and me off on a dusty church bus to an un-air-conditioned cabin in the woods mainly to save their own souls. Back then, school didn’t resume until after Labor Day which must have seemed like forever away.
Well guess what? Tomorrow I’m sending myself to camp. And the best part—the camp I’m attending is limited to ten writers.
Even the name—Story Camp—is perfect for me.
I imagine there will be cheering (cheering for other writers is something we writers like to do). Full court suicides will be replaced with optional yoga on the beach. And if it takes a little singing and praying for my muse to join me there, you better believe I’ll sing Kumbayah at sunrise, quietly, as to not disturb the other storytellers.
Sun. Sea. Sand. Nature. Stories.
While I will soon be migrating south for a few days, millions of birds are currently migrating north. And lots of them are stopping over at our feeders. This week, in addition to our regular cardinals, finches, and wrens, we’ve greeted two of my favorites, Rose-Breasted Grosbeaks and American Goldfinches.
The monarch migration continues too. Our monarch caterpillars are getting fatter everyday as they feast on milkweed.
Spring is truly becoming my favorite season.
What’s Growing and Blooming This Week?
So, so much! The irises are still going strong. Salvia and coreopsis have exploded. Roses are budding out. My nasturtium is lush, and to quote my neighbor, county fair worthy.
You may not remember my Little Pipevine That Could, but he is in full bloom too. (And if you want to read his story, click HERE.)
With so much happening in the garden, going to camp is bittersweet for me. Yes, I will worry about my plants while I’m gone even though John will take good care of things. Bottom line, I hate to miss the opening of that first peony bloom after watching the buds grow to the size of large gumballs.
This is one of the curses of being a garden-loving homebody. Still, I remind myself of what’s coming.
Sun. Sea. Sand. Nature. Stories.
Picture me walking on this beach because that’s where I’ll be soon. Of course, I plan to be barefoot.
Things Momma Says:
I haven’t been feeling very funny lately.
One more thing before I sign off on today’s Sunday Letter. If you aren’t using the Merlin ID Application to identify the birds in your yard, you might want to give it a try. It’s easy to use. Download the app to your smart phone, record the bird sounds in your yard, and the application identifies those birds.
After recording five minutes yesterday, the app picked up the following thirteen birds in our backyard:
*Great Crested Flycatcher
It’s no wonder we go through birdseed so fast!
Later, Sunday Letter friends. I hope your week is fabulous.
Grace Grits and Gardening
Food. Farm. Garden. Life.