Monday, August 20, 2012

the rubble of our feast

hoagies, potato salad, crudite, chocolate chip cookies

trying to get every last drop of summer.

one more day until school starts for me and the two small children.

tree climbing at huber grove.
looking at this list, i have yet to:  1) hike timp, 2) take a road trip to southern utah, 3) buy a new pioneer bonnet, and 4) serve a fancy italian backyard dinner with candles.

today we had a picnic.  i wanted to go to southfork, but christian suggested huber grove in midway, and i'm so glad we went.  we haven't been this summer, and i had forgotten how cool it is.

the creamery.  snake creek ran through the cellar, keeping the dairy cool.  it's built of pot rock, volcanic rock prevalent in midway.
huber grove is a homestead from the 1800's built by mormon swiss immigrants.  the homestead is filled with fruit trees, aspen trees, a cottage and a pot rock creamery, and snake creek runs through the property.

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best of all, the homestead is covered in little plaques with excerpts from huber's journals and poems he wrote.  and quotes like this, that casually suggest a dramatic and amazing lifetime: "when huber was in vienna, he spent evenings at the vienna opera, when he was not imprisoned for his faith."

or this:

moses and i walked the little trail near the creek, dense with horsetail, and read up on the flora and fauna of the homestead, courtesy of the wasatch state park.  moses asked me afterwards if i had enjoyed our "naturous" walk.  ingrid wrote down quotes from the plaques in her journal and read snippets of the poems in german to us.

moses' ninja pose on "naturous" walk.
lula climbed a tree.

we ate.  we showed anna from cambridge a beloved place of ours.  since my mom grew up in midway, it has a special pull for me, and for the kids, who've spent many summers and vacations there.

anna from cambridge.
every time we have a picnic, i think of c. thomas asplund's beautiful poem, seasonings.  christian's father was such an amazing poet, and he didn't have time to write nearly enough poems in his foreshortened life.


The smallness of it all makes one wonder;
the sitting on a smooth bank
in the river smell and sun
and ants and grass
tickling up the sleeve.
The dry kiss
and the moist kiss.
The baby reeling through the grass on reckless legs
and you
stretching, head back amid the rubble of our feast,
reaching beyond me for the tiny sun

                        you are gone with the flick of an eye

            gone are the empty cartons of a summer day

            gone is the shameless sun.
            Suddenly my child stands before the tiny sun
            a giant shadow before the tiny sun
            and I can see that in his reeling quest for age
                                    he has stolen my years
                                    and shatters in the prism of  my tears
                                    and with the tiny river I am young no more.

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