blessed beyond measure

Baseball season is upon us. Since it has rained every three days since last August (and I ain't complaining) there has been no off-season work to speak of. That includes me, as the cleats remain covered in last year's final game dirt. So on Saturday we took full advantage of one of Brandon's perks as a VIP at his school and longtime friend of the varsity baseball coach, the four of us heading out to a fully-equipped indoor batting cage. Free BP, y'all. Can't beat it. Trey swung the bat a few times, Brandon relived his high school days, Mama ran the pitching machine and took a line drive to the leg, and Aden picked up right where he left off last year with solid hits and, when he chose to hustle, some sharp fielding. We needed a day of fun, just us, and it didn't disappoint. Now bring on baseball season!

In the absence of cute boy stories - because though Trey and Aden are still cute, they have become much more possessive of their stories - I thought I might fill the void with some spring talk. After all, they spread new mulch at work. It is the unmistakable aroma of being outside. Close your eyes, breathe it in, and the mind goes directly to sweat and grime, aching hamstrings, weathered gloves clutching a pitchfork handle. Never have minded spreading mulch. Maybe it's the rush I get from pushing the wheelbarrow. And after all, if you listen carefully in the dark, you can hear the tree frogs. Intoxicating sound. Welcome back, dear ones, you and your symphony of lazy evenings, rocking chairs, and a black sky overflowing with stars. There's nothing like the country, y'all. I took some close-up, wannabe-artistic pictures of daffodil and forsythia baby buds for effect. And in doing so, without even knowing it, carried on a tradition of pre-spring yellow blossom photo...