I never had the honor of meeting Julie and Steve Kenan’s son Cameron, but I have a lifetime of images of his cherubic little face after attending the toddler’s funeral this morning.    Snapshots of Cameron and his family were mounted on boards and placed on easels throughout the church hall. As Julie once embraced her boy, the power of community and hope held us all in Skaneateles.

Cars filled all the streets surrounding the First Presbyterian Church on Genesee Street.  Yellow ribbons tied on every tree and lamppost, beginning at the church and winding through the business district and West Lake Street all the way to the Kenan home, rippled in the wind.   The lake sparkled warm and cold all at the same time.

That lake is the reason Skaneateles exists.  It draws tourists, receives high school graduates who junp in with their caps and gowns, and it provides the drinking supply for a city.  But because it also took Cameron from his family and into the arms of God, it was the giant topic no one seemed to want to touch until the Reverend wisely took it head on.

“Some parents say they’ll never allow their children near the water again”, he told the mourners. “People are saying they’ll never jump in that lake.  And that’s OK.  It’s normal to feel that right now”.

But he offered a lesson in faith and  hope.  Of course there will be joy in the water one day. Life will be different, he said, but we must all have faith that it will still be good.   Faith is what you hold onto when nothing that happened makes any sense.

Many of Julie’s colleagues in the TV news business were there today.  Among them was my friend Michael Benny who articulated at the reception what I was feeling too; everyone hugged their hellos and they hugged them hard.  I don’t know,   I can’t speak for anyone but myself, but it seems every person I saw today– some for the first time in years, means more to me now.  It’s all for coming together to grieve the loss of a golden little boy.

I remember when my parents died, in 1998 and 2000, as they were supposed to die following a long and happy life, I was ticked off to see people coming and going normally as I struggled through the most abnormal thing that had ever happened to me.  Traffic flowed, teachers taught and stores sold goods to shoppers.  It was out of sync with the way part of my world ended.  It bothered me to see everyone OK when I was not.

That’s not happening in Skaneateles.  On a picturesque Chamber of Commerce kind of summer day,  there are too many cars in the village for a Wednesday.  Sidewalks bear people in black.  And a hundred or more yellow ribbons strung from one end of the village to another, remind us that nothing is normal at all.

The first thing I notice year after year is, I do much less writing and reading now than I do in winter.  Much is made of “summer reading”, but who has the time?  There are trails to bike, weeds to pull and backyard barbecues to prepare.  College age children come home and leave laundry and dishes and that’s alright because they bring the fun too.  Even in heat and heavy air, summer speeds things up at my place, instead of slowing them down.

I’m having some victories in the garden this summer.  After nursing giant blue-green hostas through several seasons in critical condition, I believe I found the secret to repelling deer who liken these shade-loving show-stoppers to prime rib.  Though it’s aesthetically a little backward, a row of ever expanding mint placed in front of the hostas are keeping deer away.   The mint is taller than the hosta and would surely look better behind them, but heck, I’ll take it.  This is the first year they are actually getting to grow.

My German Shepherd loves echinacea, the two foot tall plant that features what look like pink daisies on top.  For some reason Eika goes straight to that one plant and snacks on it, so it’s my latest item in flora intensive care.   Gardens provide us with both worry and wonder.

I’m making liberal use of my clothes line in the backyard and I’ve had good success at pulling it all in just before it rains, which lately, has not been often.   The scent of clean laundry infused with hours of fresh air is one of those things that cannot be replicated, no matter how many candles and car fresheners attempt it.   It’s in a league all its own.  You can’t copy the flavor of the ocean you get in an oyster either.  That’s why they’re so special.

I’m loving the weather this summer.   One thing about Syracuse, just when the lawn gets dull and crispy, a burst of rain splashes water on it and brings it back to green.  I concede it is a tough growing year for the farmers who got too much rain in April when they couldn’t use it, and very little the last two months when they could.   Nature works to bring balance, but sometimes it occurs over years instead of months.  That’s tough when your livelihood comes out of the ground.

Call it global warming or just Maureen warming, but about five years ago I bit the bullet and installed air conditioning in the house.  I just couldn’t take successive days in the 90s anymore.  However, I consider it another victory when I don’t have to turn it on.  It’s expensive, but even worse, it’s another day without fresh air.  I much prefer open windows.

Speaking of open windows, this old house of mine does not include many screens and I’ve had no luck retrofitting them.  When you have windows made in 1926, options are limited.  So I throw open the casements and let the bugs and occasional bat come in.   I have a truce with the moths, mosquitoes and spiders around me.

It is also turning into a summer with sadness.  I was swimming off a friend’s dock on Skaneateles Lake on Saturday when I heard sirens and saw a State Police helicopter circling over the other side.  I did not have a good feeling about what was transpiring at the Kenan home.  My friend Julie Abbot-Kenan, formerly of WSYR-TV, lives there with her husband and four young boys.  We all learned the next day her 2 year old Cameron wandered off as dinner was being prepared and he drowned.

I don’t know many woman with four children like Julie and I, so that right there is a sort of club.  When I was pregnant with my second child, I wondered how I could possibly love a new baby as much as the one I already had, but every parent knows the love just multiplies and multiplies with every baby until the heart takes over the whole body.   Just thinking about the loss of a child creates a hole in my heart big enough to drive a truck through it even with three kids leftover.   I will spend the rest of this summer and beyond praying a very loving Julie gets all the love back in the difficult journey ahead.

More than ever, I am reminded this summer of the beauty that surrounds us, of love’s expanse, and of luck that runs out in cruel and random fashion.   We stop to note the amber sunset, electric and closing out a day of fun on water that had diamonds on it, at the very moment darkness moved in forever.

Every time a baby goes to heaven, a measure of joy gets stolen from all women who ever bore a child.

There are many CSAs out there but to my knowledge, this is one of the few in the country to deliver rare varieties of pesticide-free produce right to your door.

CSA stands for Community Supported Agriculture.  It’s a growing trend intended to increase the local produce on your table and reduce carbon emission in the atmosphere.  By consuming items from nearby farms, we eliminate the need for tractor trailers to haul the stuff from distant places to the grocery store.

Join the farm as a member in the spring and simply await the weekly harvest throughout the approximate five-month long growing season before frost ends it all in the fall.  For about $35.00 per week, you receive an abundance of food.  It’s a wonderfully old-fashioned, pesticide-free way of feeding your family.

Schoolhouse Farms in Borodino near Skaneateles Lake, goes one step further than a traditional CSA.  Imagine, returning from a day at the office or errands with the kids and finding a bag of immediate farm fresh food just steps from the kitchen!

I have written about the Malcolm’s Schoolhouse Farms in the past and do not receive compensation.  I’m simply on a crusade to spread the joy of addiction to heirloom produce. I never tasted an heirloom tomato until I sampled theirs and now I will never be the same. It’s better than shoes or pre-owned Chanel on ebay.

Farmed with love, Schoolhouse Farms, Borodino, NY

You know how all the varieties of apple are very different but in the end you still know you’re eating an apple?  That’s what heirloom tomatoes are like.  Yum.  My mouth waters in anticipation of the harvest of these things later in the summer. Guess how many varieties they’re growing this year.  54 !!  Could you imagine there even exist 54 varieties of heirloom tomato?

The whole field is like that; names like cute fancy, odessa, Isar, Gold of Bacau, chioggia, dwarf gray, bloomsdate.  These are the “residents” who will sprout from the soil to become beens, beets, greens, melons, potatoes, carrots etc., etc., etc.  When the Malcolms grow zucchini it doesn’t even look like zucchini because they offer varieties you’ve never known existed.

Not sure what to do with it all?  Becky will include suggested recipes with the weekly delivery.  And because the Malcolms own and operate a food market in a renovated one-room schoolhouse on their property, Becky will include your purchase of  the unique ingredients from her store if you wish, so you don’t have to do additional shopping to start cooking. When it’s all too much to handle in a week, Becky will provide freezing and drying instructions so you can spread the goodness into the cold winter months.

The Malcolms welcome visitors to their farm and market, and you’ll find information and directions by clicking here. Membership to their CSA is now open, with free weekly delivery within the Skaneateles zip code.  They’ll deliver beyond that range for a small fee.

Don’t be intimidated by the initial membership cost.  You can make 3 “easy payments” and even divide it amongst your friends once you take it in.  A Mother’s Day gift for all the moms in your family or your neighborhood perhaps?  Hint. Hint.

I’ll even send a free Foley jar opener, my favorite kitchen gadget no longer in production, to the first person who signs up from the blog.  Spread the addiction!

Civility made headlines across the land today for the boorish outburst by Representative Joe Wilson during President Obama’s Address to Congress last night.  Responding to the statement by Mr. Obama that illegal immigrants would not receive health insurance under the President’s plan, Representative Wilson burst “You lie!”  Not since Claude Rains went berserk in Mr. Smith Goes To Washington in 1939, has there been such drama before a joint session of Congress.

There is no excuse for poor manners.  Ever.  Manners are a universal language that allow us to show off all we know about self-respect.   Much has been made on cable television about Wilson’s lack of respect for the President and for the setting, but they don’t get it.  In disrupting a dignified venue such as a Presidental Address to Congress, Wilson showed no respect for himself.

Now the attention turns to the people who actually think what Wilson did was great.  They’re lining up behind the guy and thanking him for saying in front of a national television audience of 21 million people what they had been saying to an audience the size of the water cooler or the dinner table.  They’re buying freshly minted t-shirts that state “You Lie” on the front.  This I think, is actually funny.  Some clever entrepreneur seized the most famous two words of the month, perhaps the year, put them on a 99 cent shirt and took orders for 16.99.  Admit it.  You wish you’d thought of it first.

If Wilson knows what’s best for him, he’ll take this mandate, go home to South Carolina, and develop a “You Lie” business plan.  If the owner of Doug’s Fish Fry can name a baloney sandwich after the First Family vacationing in his home town of Skaneateles, New York, Joe Wilson should be able to create an entire menu of sandwiches at the You Lie Deli. You Lie about Health Care, featuring steroid-fed beef and congealed gravy on a bed of freedom fries soaked in trans fats, You Lie about the Budget, a thin coating of peanut butter and store-brand jelly on two slabs of wonder bread for $16.99, and You Lie about Socialism, a free all-you-can-eat buffet until you get up to leave and then you are charged your entire paycheck.  And that’s before the tip.

As quickly as supporters of Wilson’s democratic challenger raised $400,000.00 in the wake of “You Lie”, websites popped up to pay homage to the new phrase destined to take it’s place among the annals of famous political and funny phrases such as “read my lips, no new taxes”, “I did not have sex with that woman”, “I am the decider”, “it depends on what the definition of ‘is’ is”; only “You Lie” will be famous not for being spoken by a President, but by a heckler.

It’s comforting to know that Representative Wilson telephoned to apologize to the President after being told to do so by the Republican leadership.  Now that’s contrition!  Imagine if he’d said no.  They could have pulled out the reliable old waterboard to get him to do it.  Or Dick Cheney could have suggested they go hunting this weekend.   Oops.  Like the side of the face of a lawyer,  you looked just like a deer.

Have any You Lie ideas that can make us some money?  Any sandwiches I neglected to put on the menu?  Now’s the time to send them in.  If we don’t, someone else will, and I need the cash to buy a t-shirt.

Anyone who wonders if there is hope for this world should look at a rose bush in Syracuse in March.  You never saw anything looking more terminally, fatally and permanently dead, a brown black green thing with gnarly gray thorns hooking downward that taunt  “go ahead and touch me, you deserve what you get”.

My friends Pat and Whitney Mills came to my house for lunch today.  Their drive from Skaneateles took them past the Rose Garden at Thornden Park and it was all Whitney could do not to cancel the lunch and just spend the cold afternoon there.  In fact, had Pat not grasped the wheel, I think Whitney would still be there in the dark.

To Pat and Whitney, those treacherous sticks hold the wonder of a new season of bloom and all it’s possibilities.  They know with just a few more sunny days, they’ll see what no one driving by can see; red-tipped green buds no bigger than the very tip of a pencil protruding everywhere from the stems.  The buds will become tender branches, the branches will hold clusters of color, all in just three month’s time.  Today they look as much like roses as I look like Barack Obama,  but the Mills can see where it’s all going.

Roses find it tough going in our climate.  I experimented with the hobby years ago when my yard had lots of sun.   But now I live in the shade of oak trees so I make use of the acidic leaves and grow rhododendrens, which themselves are challenging enough. The enemies of roses, like powdery mildew and Japanese beetles and aphids, are much happier in this environment than the flowers, so anyone who can produce a crop of roses in Skaneateles like Whitney, is as impressive to me as someone who can do math, which is big.

Throughout the summer Whitney places collections of his roses in bud vases on the kitchen table and countertops.  It’s still life worthy of an oil painting.  But rather than paint them, Whitney enters them in contests at the New York State Fair and is bashful about revealing he’s won more than one-hundred ribbons of various colors and roughly sixteen Queen of Court awards, the pinnacle of rose competition.

In all our conversations about roses there was only one piece of information I shared with Whitney that he didn’t already know.   Years ago we were talking about the most fragrant roses and in listing several names, I mentioned the Chrysler Imperial, a burgundy red rose with an abundant, classic rose fragrance.  People who like the scent of a Chrysler Imperial probably enjoy a glass of pinot noir, equally rich and red.

Perhaps it was one too many pinot noirs, but Whitney informed me a Chrysler Imperial is a car and not a rose.    I knew that, but I was sure it was a rose too, or was I?  Whitney’s encyclopedic knowledge of roses made me doubt my facts which could be scribbled in sum on a piece of paper.  Torn in half.    So we spent some time that evening going back to the Chrysler Imperial as a big joke on me.  And guess what?  Soon after, we learned the joke was on Whitney.   I don’t recall if he looked it up or just stumbled upon the information, but he learned the Chrysler Imperial was a rose and now he grows it and we laugh about it every time we talk about roses, which is every time we see each other.

When you look outside and see skies the color of stainless steel, and the first blade of green grass rests stubbornly beneath the thatch,  know that the clock is ticking on the roses.   Pat and Whitney can see beauty among those thorns. There must be hope for every dark corner of the world.