"There was the mother, a tall, delicately curved cruet of cider vinegar for the vegetables; the father, a squat redware molasses jug with a jaunty handle and a friendly chip on the rim; and between them, cradled in a china dish, the butter baby for Mama's rolls."In the second book, On Tide Mill Lane, the molasses jug (which broke) has been replaced:
"Charlotte crouched on her heels and stared at the pair in the sideboard cabinet, trying to get accustomed to the new father jug. He was bigger than the old one, sturdy, not so jolly. The glaze on his stout red-brown body was very shiny."
"He's a fop!" exclaimed Betsy indignantly.
We survived the hail storm on Saturday. I'm borrowing my friend's picture of the storm (as I forgot to take pictures, which is the story of my pictureless life):
Atticus has never had to shovel hail before.
Now he's done that. It's an experience we could have lived without but, all things considered, we were extremely fortunate. We had water running down the walls of our mud room (but again, it could have been so much worse.) Never. Happened. Before. It was one amazing rain/wind/hail storm.
We're watching caterpillars turn into butterflies. They are in their cocoons at the moment and so luckily missed being released in the distinctly un-butterfly-like weather on Saturday. Just a few more days, I think, and we should have some lovely painted ladies fluttering about.
Ramona is eagerly awaiting their arrival.