All week we had been waiting for our daughter Kate and her family to arrive. We knew they had been at her husband’s family reunion at a state park in NY, celebrating his parents 80th and 90th birthday – and their 60th wedding anniversary. I expected them to arrive mid-week, but there was no word. We called Kate’s cell phone. We sent emails. We sent Facebook messages. No word. No word. No word. Had they been carjacked? We did internet research and found phone numbers for two of Greg’s sisters.  We called. We left messages. Finally, we heard. They stayed in the park (no Internet in the park!) camping after the official Sunday party, visiting and enjoying the park and the family.  And learning that Greg’s very proper parents had more than a whirlwind courtship. They met on a group date, went out together twice more before they had to part to their respective, distant homes. They corresponded and arranged a wedding that took place six weeks later.  Those mad romantic fools!

Kate, Greg, Anthony and Drew finally arrived on the Fourth of July. A whirl to measure them on the door – and learn that Drew grew 7 inches in the last year and is now just a mite taller than his brother! Then off to a Mohawk Trails Concert with classical music, Broadway music – and Small Change joined by famous jazz French hornist (and Heathan) John Clark playing their special music. I don’t know how to classify it, but the boys, and we, had a great time!

Once home we sent the boys off to pick raspberries. Usually when they are here they pick blueberries, but the raspberries are early this year. You can see I really need to thin the raspberries better. Thinning and pruning sufficiently are two of my weaknesses. I find it so hard to cut back when the plants have been successful and grown vigorously. We had those raspberries on ice cream in the Cottage Ornee after supper. The evening was cooling down and the Cottage caught the breeze. The ice cream was still really good after a hot Fourth.

As we walked from the raspberry patch to the house the boys noticed a runaway rose.  This rose has not runaway into the field from it’s nearest neighbor, but from . . .  ?  It looks like one of the Farm Girls who grow some distance away. Did a bird spread the seed?

I used to think this was an apothecary rose, but now I am doubtful. Whatever it is, it is thriving in a very wet spot and spreading by root into the adjoining field.

The roses Terri Pettingill gave me from her mother’s house in Maine have never really thrived here, but this  one is sending roots out into the field as well.  Controlling roses is trickier than I ever thought it would be, and sometimes it requires a ruthlessness I have not been able to muster.