Sharon's blog: Another day to remember, Mother's Day 2012

He was here again, my little guy, spending Mother's Day weekend with me.  He arrived at noon on Saturday and after our hugs and kisses he said he needed to check out his seeds.

So we went out back where his seeds are now about 2 inches tall.

"Wow, Nana, I sure musta planted a bunch of seeds. Wow!"

Told you. I think everything is growing except the solar light and that remains to be seen.

It was drizzly this weekend, not a good time to be in the gardens, so we had to choose Plan B. We never really make plans, they usually just present themselves to my little guy and me. While we waited for a plan, I asked him about school.

"Oh yeah. It's about humus and sand and clay, things like that. You got any clay, Nana? If you have clay, I can show you what to do. Oh, you were an art teacher, you already know, so do you have clay?"

Plan B had presented itself.

Of course I had clay and I dug a chunk out of its sealed container and offered it to him in a well used butter tub that would also seal easily. Surprisingly enough even after years of unuse, it had remained moist; easy for Ethan to use.

"What will you make?" I asked him.

"Balls and marbles for seeds, that's all I want to make," he said.

A memory hit me loud and clear:  Seed balls. Obviously it had ventured into his mind as well. He's almost 8 now. One time when he was almost 4, we made seed balls.  So I grabbed a cup of potting soil and rounded up some seeds to add to the clay and we made seed balls. He had forgotten the story I'd told him before, maybe he was too young to remember anything but the making. Our Native American ancestors made seed balls to take with them when they traveled to new territory, then once settled they placed the little balls wherever they wanted new plants to grow. So we made seed balls and talked about Indians and humus and roots and worms and wondered if the worms liked clay. He thought maybe they might like it better if it had straw mixed in. But I didn't have any straw.

"Did you ever eat humous (aka hummus)?" I asked him.

"You talk funny, Nana," said this grandson of mine who has grown up in Indianapolis while I remained in Kentucky. There is a sound difference between us, you know.  It usually doesn't matter.

"I don't eat the soil but I have eaten the food. Now, Nana, the difference is in how you say the 'u'. If you're talking about food it's a short 'u' sound, but if you are talking about soil, it's the long 'u'. Now which one are you talking about?

Who's the teacher here?

"You been Googlin' again, Ethan?"

"No, Nana, I read books too, you know."  His smiling eyes twinkle.

So we said our good byes a little while ago, no tears ever for us; we know we'll be together again soon.

"Happy Mother's Day, Nana, I'll be back when the seed balls are dry and we'll put them in our pockets and drop them wherever we go.  Promise."

Another little memory, another little promise, tucked away in my heart.

Happy Mother's Day.

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