Today is the summer solstice and we are on vacation in Ashland, where we're renting a cottage. Unlike the other cottage that we've rented in this town, this one is obviously someone's well loved home and it is filled to the bursting point with brick-a-brak, much of it breakable. Outside there is a garden with fountains and a jacuzzi and various tables and chairs and a firepit and pot after pot of flowers and stone squirrels and "mom's garden" signs and ... you get the picture.

Halina claimed the flowery bedroom as hers, even though Chris has ended up sharing it with her. I'm in the other one with Luke. She loves the floral bedspread and curtains, the pretty wallpaper, the small desk with dial telephone, the wicker chest of drawers. She has been relatively neat and organized here, putting up her little treasures and unpacking her own suitcase with care, including her toiletries.

It's been interesting to see how this "proper" room has inspired her and makes me think of how she might benefit from a room of her own at home (her previous tiny room has morphed into a playroom and she sleeps in the family bed with us, which I relish for as long as it lasts).

There is a huge rope climbing structure at the gorgeous park here (stream in the center, a pond, trees everywhere, grass, meandering paths) and she climbed up nearly to the top, a great height and impressive feat, without fear. Today I got her a multi-colored pen and a mermaid journal and she wrote her first entry, with help. It's moving to see her independence and courage blossoming.

I've been thinking of what to write about with gratitude or in contemplation. There are many possibilities, including the excellent plays we've seen (Chekov's Seagull, Romeo & Juliet, Troilus and Cressida) and the sweet time spent with Chris's brother and his wife at their beautiful, rural home in Redding and the way they connected with the kids...

... or shopping, cooking, and playing with my mom and her partner, Dick, in Ashland.

But I thought I'd tell about the moment tonight when my Mom and Dick drove away after dinner. It was late, past the kids' bedtime, but still twilight -- this being the longest day of the year -- and Luke walked them out to the the edge of the brick front steps, where the crickets sang, and where he called with great gusto in his nearly-two-year-old voice, "Bye Gampa! Bye Gamma! Bye! Bye!" He was still waving and blowing kisses as their tail lights disappeared down the street and around the corner. "Bye!" he said again, louder, maybe to make sure they heard. After a while he added quietly, thoughtfully, "Gampa, Gamma." Just to himself.