Thursday, the play opens. Which means I’ve been gone from home nearly every evening for the last two weeks. I’ll be gone even more this week, my husband is about up to his eyeballs with my wacko schedule, and I’m about shot.

But right about now is when things start to get fun. For the first month of rehearsals, we met in a little church. The going was tedious: line memorization, getting accustomed to the other actors, interpreting the director’s directions, puzzling through the play’s nuances, etc.

Then last week we moved into the theater and added costumes, props, music, and lights.

Now the lines flow without thought (almost) and the focus is on nailing the transitions and getting comfortable in the new space. I have an actual desk to sit behind and a swivel chair with wheels from which I dispense sage medical advice while hoping I don’t roll backwards off the stage.

I like this play. It’s funny, poignant, and earthy. The characters have depth, the set is minimalistic, the dialogue is punchy (in other words, PG 13). The plot line is this: 1) a single woman finds herself pregnant and alone, 2) she becomes friends with an intellectually-challenged young man, 3) life happens. The first time we ran the whole play off-book, back in that little church, I cried (watching it, not acting—the doctor doesn’t cry). It’s good stuff.

Showtimes are Thursday – Saturday, August 7-9 at 8:00 pm; Thursday – Saturday, August 14-16 at 8:00 pm; and Sunday, August 10 and 17 at 3:00 pm at Court Square Theater in downtown Harrisonburg. Get your tickets here!

This same time, years previous: babies, boobs, boo-boos, and bye-byes, the end, a birthday present for my brother, gingerbread, dam good blackberry pie, caramelized cherry tomatoes, dimply plum cake, Indian-style corn, tomato bread pudding, down in the peach pits, hamming up Luke, and seasonal regret.  

My parents have been slogging away at finishing up their new house. They’re down to the floors, now. It’s slow-going, but the place is stunning. They show up on our doorstep every 24 hours or so to mooch off our internet, food, carpentry knowledge (my husband’s, not mine), but most of the time, they’re up at the property, their noses to the grindstone.

Now, as it turns out, their woods are full of blackberry bushes, so for a while there my mother turned her attention from oiling floors to picking berries. One day she invited my children to pick with her. I dropped them off with promises of blackberry pie ringing in their ears. The children returned with enough berries for a pie and a quart leftover for a cobbler: blueberry and raspberry, I think—my mother already dubbed my future creation “Black-and-Blue Cobbler.”

I was baking the promised pie on Saturday afternoon when Suburban Correspondent came to visit. It felt kinda cruel, baking a pie and not giving her any. But it would’ve still been hot and therefore too soupy. Besides, there was chocolate chip cookies and mint tea. Though—full disclosure—we ended up talking so long that the pie probably had plenty of time to set. But I kind of forgot about it by then. In fact, I kinda forgot about everything, so lost in conversation was I. I didn’t even think to feed them supper.

A word about meeting blogger-friends. Earlier this month, I met half of Mama Congo from, well…The Congo. Then, like I said, there was Suburban Correspondent from Suburbia. Mavis from out West pops in every now and then (last time she brought me a fifty-pound sack of potatoes from Lancaster). And this weekend we get to host the gang from Thrift At Home again. It’s so special—kind of magical, in a way—when virtual friendships cross the line to face-to-face ones. (I was going to say “real” ones but more and more, the line between virtual and real is looking pretty ragged.)

Anyway, the next afternoon I called up my parents and asked if we could come over with pie and milk. They said yes (because they are not dummies). Dad made coffee in their outdoor kitchen, and I got to have a tour of the place. Tours involve removing our shoes, standing on old rags, and then slishing across the floor, sopping up excess floor oil. It’s complicated. Mom showed off her dish-washing set-up (running water!) and I went around back to check out their outdoor sleeping quarters.

Then we ate the pie.
In ten minutes flat.
And that was that.
The end. Goodbye.

This same time, years previous: joy, blueberry torn-biscuit cobbler, and chocolate beet cake.

I’ve heard about strewing through a number of sources, but most recently through my reading in relation to unschooling (or self-directed learning). Simply put, parents scatter interesting materials around the house so the children (and adults, I suppose) have a wide variety of fascinating things to grab their attention. It’s a way of introducing ideas and information without being imposing. The decision to seize on it (or not) is up to the individual.

I am not adept at strewing. I often guess wrong at what might snag, and then I get discouraged when my carefully laid plans get ignored. It’s too much bother. Better to just send them outside to play with sticks.

But then two things happened. First, I read an article about how homes (the lived-in ones, anyway) are like museums: chock full of collections, stories, projects. Suddenly I saw my home through different eyes. Look at all the amazing stuff we have here to learn from! do! experience! explore! How can I make it even more interesting? Second, my younger children are playing more with the written word, and my older son begun to read the magazines and newspapers we have laying around—his interests are broadening and deepening.

A couple years ago, we inherited 30-plus years’ worth of National Geographics in mint condition. Lacking an immediate shelving solution, we stuffed them in the attic. Ever since then, we’ve been brainstorming where to put the collection. It drives me slightly crazy that the magazines aren’t sitting at the ready in the main area of the house. All those intriguing topics and issues, not to mention the incredible photography (fact: it takes an average of 20,000 photos for one National Geographic article) just hiding out in the dark.

Several weeks ago, the stars aligned (at least, the ones in my brain did) and I got the brilliant idea to strew them. I set an old plant stand by the toilet and on the stand I set three magazines. Each week, I switch them out for three new ones. Days go by when they don’t appear to be ruffled, but then one will walk off and show up in a different corner of the house, by a bed perhaps.

My strewing is extending beyond the National Geographics. At the thrift store, I happened upon a book of interesting facts. I bought it and set it on the throne’s stool. It disappeared almost immediately. (In fact, I don’t even know where it is anymore.) My son claims he’s read the entire thing. He’s been quoting random bits of weirdness ever since.

By no means am I an expert at this strewing business. Now, however, my antenna are up. Mind games and puzzles, casually placed on the art table, might be fun, as well as more fact books, I think. And maybe some magazines artfully opened to some human interest stories, yes? Some items I might buy new, others I can pick up at the thrift store, and still others I’ll lift from my own shelves and cupboards. It’s the same idea as rotating toys, just on a slightly more evolved level. And it feels like a game—one that involves observation and crafty, hush-hush maneuvers. It’s also one in which everyone wins.

Do you strew? What, from your experience, makes for good strewing?

This same time, years previous: heading north, the quotidian (7.30.12), a quick pop-in, shrimp, mango, and avocado salad, and summertime pizza.