Ah, such family frolic yesterday at the Heritage Harvest Festival at Wilder Ranch State Park. We enjoyed living history demonstrations on a once working ranch and other harvest-time activities.
Including eating a ginormous steaming ear of corn on a stick, slathered in butter. That's what the pioneers did, isn't it? That and corn dogs and garlic fries and pizza, right?
Beatrice got to see many farm animals up close, like cows and chickens and goats and horses -- one of her favorite books come to life sans the pig (Piggy Wiglet and the Great Adventure).
Plopping her in the middle of a pumpkin patch was the highlight for me. So much life already. So much life ahead.
Then it was nap time -- for baby, not me. Later our babysitter arrived and Mama and I took an afternoon date at the Free Wheelin' Farm art show where a good friend gave us a Numerology reading while a DJ mixed and pumped smooth R&B club-esque tunes on the edge of an organic farm on the ocean.
We live in Santa Cruz. C'mon.
But with all the numbers and speculation of what Bea will be, and who we've become, it got me spiraling mentally around a million little time travel doorways of choice and risk.
The futures market of memory must be tethered to presence, otherwise return is worry, sadness, maybe even a little madness.
I've had enough of that in my life - the worry, sadness and madness. I prefer the here-and-now investments that rock my daddy/husband heart.
Bea safe. Bea now. That's risk enough for me.
Queue the club-esque mix...