"Popcorn" is the nickname we gave to our incredibly active son. If you spent 2 minutes with him, you will easily understand the meaning of the nickname. The Chinese Noodle is the affectionate nickname we chose for our hoped for Daughter-to-Be, who may one day come to us in the LORD's perfect time from China.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
|We LOVE riding together in the Country|
on the weekends!
"We do not remember days; we remember moments."
The Burning Brand
A bike ride is such a wonderful activity! In our family, it is intended to be a fun-filled, carefree adventure, while it also emphasizes riding safely and following the rules of the road.
We follow three major rules: ride your bike and have fun, treat the community with respect and assume personal responsibility. We are all three there, and everyone is together, that’s the best part. Memories are made of this!
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
|Black Eyed Susans |
from my front yard gardens
To AutumnSeason of mists and mellow fruitfulness
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.