Petit jean state park wrap up...

The rest of our week...

Dad and I took the big boys on what was my favorite hike.

We played games,

Read books,

Burned things,

And whittled.

David and Jacob got poison ivy, but they must have been successfully distracted by the pocket knives and fire because they really weren't fussy about it. It was a great week.

 

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Petit jean state park, day 3...

Critters and grandparents.

At one point in our hike, the ground was crawling with miniature frogs.

Jacob found a copperhead.

Cooling off in the creek

My parents and grandmother joined us.

Gran rocked out her hike

Petit Jean State Park, Day Two...

When I started taking the boys to the woods for a week every summer, David was five, Jacob was three, Bryan was a year and a half, and Rand was a possibility.  On our hikes, once we got further than 100 yards, at any given moment, at least one child was crying, but a long as someone was having a good time, I considered the outing a success.  Now we can cover a lot more distance and my challenge is finding that parenting sweet spot where the boys can climb and explore and be the fierce, wild things The Lord made them, and yet not plunge to an early and grisly death.  With four boys, each with his own plan, it's nontrivial, but my theory is that if I let them get their adrenaline fix climbing rocks, they won't turn to base jumping or crack cocaine.

Everyone survived today's hikes.  We saw some spectacular stuff.

On the way home tonight, David told a scary story.  Then it was Rand's turn...

Rand:  My turn! My turn!  (serious voice). Once 'pon time, there was a boy.  He lost he mommy and daddy.  (dramatic pause). Then he not find he brothers.  (dramatic pause, then with great pride). I make that up my selse.

Cabin week 2013, day one...

I didn't know if we'd manage it this year, but we pulled it off.  The boys and I have spent a week at a cabin every year since 2008.  This year we're at Petit Jean State Park in Arkansas.

One of our cabin traditions is shameless sugar cereal.  For the week, I keep them supplied with candy masquerading as breakfast.

Today we did some rock scrambling,

Rubber band gun shooting,

Played Carcasonne and went for a night hike (which turned out to be awesome and not boooooorrrrrrring as some people feared).

Happy birthday to me...

Museum of Fine Arts

Backstreet Cafe

Happy birthday to me!

 

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Passive-aggressive driving

My stint as Chris' full-time driver has come to an end. While chemo will continue to lay him out every two to three weeks for the next nine months, his leg has improved a lot, and I'm just an intermittent chauffeur now. On one of my last full-time days...

Chris: Episode #11 - Changing lanes erratically.

Me: (eye roll)

Chris: Episode #17 - Indecisiveness causing us to miss the light.

Me: (eye roll)

Chris: Episode #29 - Exceeding the speed limit.

Me: (serious voice) Oh my goodness! You're right! I am speeding. Well I can fix that.

Do you have any idea how annoying it is to drive the actual speed limit on the freeway? Chris does.

(58mph on the freeway in very light traffic, cars flying past us)

Me: Oh! I almost passed someone. I need to slow down.

Chris: (laughing). Summer, come on. I have cancer.

Me: All you have to do is apologize for your rude comments and say, "Summer is a better driver than me."

Chris: I'm calling your mom. (Ring, ring). Judy, Summer's being mean.

Me: I'm just trying to be safe, and all he has to do is apologize.

Mom: Summer, you be nice to Chris.

Me: (still driving painfully slow, cars zooming past) Okay, Mom. I sure will. (Click). Wow. This is such a powerful weapon. I can't believe it's taken me 16 years to discover driving the speed limit as offense.

It took 15 minutes for him to capitulate. I'm still kind of dizzy from the power rush.

 

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Cemeteries...

I like cemeteries.  I don't know that I had an opinion for or against before we lost Caleb - I probably nothinged them.*  Caleb is buried in a beautiful, perfect spot under a dignified old tree on a hill next to the bayou.  It's one of my favorite places and one where I invariably find rest - deep, soul rest.

There's a swing close by where you can sit and think about stuff.  When I'm done thinking, I walk among the headstones.  The epitaphs catch my attention first.  

Somehow the brevity of these conveys the depth of what was lost...

"My Beloved" 

"Son"

This was someone's love, someone's son.

I love the character here.  

"Storms never last, baby"

Did a solemn tombstone salesman try to talk him (I don't know why, but I picture a man choosing this.) out of it?  I hope not.  It has style.

And these are just earnest and raw.

"They loved each other, their children and grandchildren with every fiber of their being.  They were awesome." 

"Loved by your mother and everybody"

Epitaphs can cast a kind of personality to a life story, but the names and dates whisper hints about the plot.  I like to puzzle over the details.  So many of them are fascinating.  This is for a three year old, and it's odd.  

The strangeness of it is a story.  The grandmother and aunt felt strongly enough about their relationship to this little guy to etch directions to their own burial spots.  Who were his parents?  Did they die first or abandon him?  Are they buried elsewhere?

The lack of information is its own story here.  

She's buried next to her husband who died a few years after her and has a standard military marker.  But her's has no date of birth and says simply, "Wife."  What?  There are so many possibilities.  Did she turn up on someone's doorstep as a baby, and no one knew her date of birth?  Was he a man of very, very few words?  Was she always such a pain about her birthday that he left it off her tombstone out of spite?  Was she sensitive about her age, so he left it off for love?  I kind of like the orphan story.

I wonder what people make of Caleb's marker?  There's personality and a story there...  

Once we found out Caleb was terminally ill, much of my struggle centered around the value of his life. I was pregnant with a child who would never speak, walk or smile.  Those facts were painful and brutal and waged war on my motherhood.  "Does he really count?"  "Does his life really matter?"  His marker was one of the ways we said, "Yes.  His life matters."  He was born on July 8, 2000 and he died the same day. There are two dates on his marker because that hour he lived was sacred time.  It was important.  "Our little angel" is from a song my brother wrote for him before he was born.  He was important enough for a song.  The setting is also significant.  Chris and I could not face the funeral arrangements when Caleb died, so our parents chose this beautiful, perfect spot with room for others.  I wonder, in 100 years, will anyone notice that the first family member buried in this little piece of ground was a baby who lived for only a day?  There's a story there.

* Remember that scene in Scrubs when J.D. asks Jordan why she hates him and she replies, "I don't hate you.  I nothing you."