Ah! Vacation!

Once in a while I stumble upon something I like to call a Day Off. One of these events is sometimes marked by my normally scheduled commitments being canceled or postponed, leaving the day open. At other times, though, it is marked not only by the removal of said commitments, but the addition of many others in their stead.
As a college student, I've come to realize that the sighting of a Day Off on the calendar will bring a sense of relief, followed soon after by one of dread.

"Oh, good! With no classes, coaching, lesson, and work, I'll finally be able to write those two essays and practice that concerto and schedule that rehearsal with my quartet and do laundry and e-mail that person about that thing and make cake!"

And then

"Where will I find the time to do all that?? I need a Day Off!!"

I'm on vacation now, which means I've been working instead of going to school. There are no 6:28AM trips to Boston and no homework due tomorrow, so even though I'm working and practicing and the beginning of classes in a couple weeks seems like a big deadline that has to be met somehow, it still sort of feels like vacation. That's good. I guess. Yes. It is.

Mom, Dad, Erin and I have all been very busy, but in the midst of our hectic schedules we found ourselves all home for dinner tonight. Ah, family meals! Thank You Lord for vacations!

Staples, Pop-Tarts, and Sundrops

Ah, Spring in New England!
There is a bush outside my school that has become home to multiple birds of a stout and fluffy sort. They've taken to energetically soaring from their home, passed the entrance of the building, and into the grassy area on the other side. It's gotten to the point where they will either fly over or into all who dare use the passageway, stopping only long enough to pick up stray Goldfish crackers.
I managed to staple my finger yesterday. The stapler was broken (sort of) and I fixed it (for the most part), but at the cost of impaling my left index finger with the very source of the problem.
Two boxes of Pop-Tarts sit next to me as I type. The main question is which do I open first, raspberry or blueberry?
Staplers are amazingly powerful devices. Perhaps that is why my finger throbbed for half an hour afterward. But I digress...
Today was a wonderful day for gardening. Mom weeded the thyme, apparently, and while motioning with her hands, explained to us the extent to which she thinned the sundrops. They tend to crowed each other, you know.
Dad recently heard of yet another Cottage Cheese & Something creation (exciting!), and has been juggling more often lately.
It is truly amazing how composed I remained as I realized I had a staple in my finger. Surely no one in the library would have know I was in severe pain... until I told them. But that is perhaps off topic...
Erin is getting ready for production week for Singin' in the Rain, and company is coming tomorrow.
Easter has come and gone, and the whole family has again been reminded of God's faithfulness. More stories about that another time.
"The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance."
Psalm 16:6

For the Attleboro Magoons,
Abby

April showers bring... trouble

Mom likes flowers. She has a very nice garden in front of the house, and a pretty one in back of the house too, and one over by the fence, and next to the driveway, and roses under her bedroom window, and hostes by the porch with stones around them. She knows about flowers, and sometimes reads about flowers, and takes good care of her flowers, and although Mom doesn't go away very often, when she does, a 'sitter' must be found.

I like flowers. I love "perusing the beautiful gardens of Mrs. Magoon". But unlike my mom, when it comes to knowing about, and reading about, and caring for flowers-- oh, how can I put this?-- I don't. I don't know, I don't read, I don't care.

Well, perhaps I'm exaggerating just a little bit.

Mom's away right now, and will be until Tuesday, so I feel it is my duty to 'sit'.
It was some time after her absence was made official that I realized I was indeed the proper, not to mention only, choice for the sitting job. This realization came to me quite suddenly, and in a somewhat unfavorable manner. After having been out, I returned to go in, and upon doing so I noticed a potted plant on the porch. Immediately my heart jumped into my throat which quickly became even drier than the despondent plant's leaves.

Again, I may be exaggerating just a little.

You wouldn't think that it would be possible to water plants incorrectly, but after having tried many times I know it's possible. Every columbine and holly bush seems to be saying, "She's got to be kidding!" or, "Here she comes again. I guess I'll humor her."

Actually, I'm beginning to enjoy this whole 'Keeper of the Garden' thing. It's sort of therapeutic, standing with watering can in hand, taking in the evening sun with the sound of swing sets in the background. Maybe I'll be a gardener some day. Or perhaps I'll just be a waterer.

Abby