Now that we live in bfe, we spend plenty of time on the road. (Thankyou Mary Pope Osbourne for creating two hundred billion Magic Treehouse audiobooks.)
First the Mustard flowers start popping up, then the Golden Poppy--which, according to Phin, my friend's son--is the California state flower. (Actually, I already knew that, but I didn't learn that valuable tidbit until I was in my thirties. He, on the other hand, is in his twos. He can also identify all of the states, unlike myself.)
I'm going to snag his copy of Fifty Nifty United States, so I can brush up on all of those pesky Eastern states. Not that the states, themselves are pesky. They just happened to be my personal, fifth-grader's geography nightmare. And the point where my brain gave up on learning geography.
Although my brain did write a stunning fifth-grade report on Native American Indians. Unfortunately, it didn't start writing the stunning report until the day before it was due (or was it the day after?) and my dear eldest sister had to "help" me finish it. Having spent an inordinate amount of time perfecting an intricate Crayola beadwork tapestry on the cover--including a snazzy construction paper fringe that echoed the handmade design of a Lakota Sioux dance shawl, I had very little time to focus on the five daunting paragraphs of the actual paper. But I digress.
Anyway, in celebration of the short window of time before it becomes so unbearably hot, I'll be wishing I lived in Siberia, we drove to St. helena to get some pics in the mustard fields. I don't know why looking at a field of yellow weeds makes me want to cry. They are just soooo pretty.