Third Grade Homework and the Indian Maid

I had worked in the yard all day and had just settled in for a chat with my tweeps on Twitter when the phone rang. A small voice asked if she could come to my house to do her homework. She told me she needed a change in scenery. I have not helped with homework in years.
Deep breath. Alrighty then. Homework.

In addition to writing a book report, she had to create a poster reflecting the main character. As you can see, she was working on Pocahontas. We looked at the drawings in the book to get ideas, then scrounged around in the studio for yarn, beads, raffia, a feather, and some felt. The only thing she did not know how to do was braid hair. So I showed her how to do it.

I think the poster came out really cute.

I am now waiting for the next phone call.

1st Day of Summer

The French door stands open. A finger of flavor lurks just outside, beckoning, teasing. Stepping out onto the deck, I inhale the sweet summer scent of tomatoes and basil and meat sweeten with milk. La Nonna, who lives beyond the living screen, has been stirring sauce for hours; long enough that the aroma wafts through the neighborhood. Even the children stop their games to sniff the air before bouncing their basketballs again in the street. The tinkle of glasses and the rumbling bass drum of laughter filters through the hedge. Her boys must have come for Sunday dinner. I wander nonchalantly, hands behind my back, to examine the flowers in the backyard, stopping to peer through the thin spots in the evergreens. Long tables are set with white cloths, thick red crockery and small vases of Evening Primrose. Her family sits on folding lawn chairs; glasses of red wine in hand, nibbling on olives and slivers of cheese. The aroma tickles again, carried on the breeze. La Nonna stands at her backdoor looking out with a summer Sunday smile. I wander back to the house intent on thawing out some pesto for my own Sunday supper.

The Kindness of Strangers

Scraaaape.

Scraaaape.

My sister looked up. If you have ever shoveled snow, you know the
distinct sound and rhythm of a shovel scraping blacktop. The room
was dark except for the TV and the multicolored twinkling lights from
the tree in the corner.

Scraaaape.

Scraaaape.

Who is shoveling after dark? She looked at the clock. 8:30. She
pushed back the insulted drape and peering out in the darkness. She
saw a dark form shoveling the driveway at the old man's house next
door. Hmm. It must be his daughter. She looked over to her boyfriend.

"Wanna get cold?"

They both shrugged into their coats, grabbed 2 shovels and went
around the house.

"Want some help?"

The person shoveling stood up. It was not the daughter but a man
from up the street.

"Sure!"

My sister and her boyfriend started to shovel. The man up the street
continued to shovel. The snow was heavy and wet. The 6 inches had
turned into 4 with the rain. It was hard work.

"It is like shoveling cement." The comment hung there in the stillness.

A few minutes later a man from several houses down the street showed
up having heard the sound of shoveling in the darkness. He started
to shovel too. The four strangers worked for half an hour together
in the darkness. They finished the driveway and the walk leading
to the house. They also cleared the sidewalk in front of the house.

When the job was done, they all met at the end of the driveway and
introduced themselves. Strangers, neighbors, and now friends.

Kindness is still alive and well in the flatland.