As a parent, you find yourself saying all kinds of bizarre things to your children. Things you never, ever dreamed you’d hear coming out of your own mouth. This morning’s entry, as I drove Sunny to school and we saw the same woman we had seen the previous day, being dragged out of her house in handcuffs by the police: “Sunny, don’t point at drug dealers!”
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I think I must have just about the only husband around who can dig ditches, split firewood, wear homemade dayglo tie-dye pants without embarrassment, analyze financial statements, build his own stereo speakers (that’s some of my favorite quilting fabric decoupaged to the sides of the speaker, by the way):
and write a poem like this, which he surprised me with at our 25th anniversary party:
25 Years… Half-Step Epic
Sunrise and sunset mixed up forever,
Fall, winter and spring confused,
I lost the calendar and measured time
by anticipation of our time together.
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My husband and I celebrated our 25th anniversary last weekend with a square dance party/marshmallow roast at our barn. We are grateful to all the friends and relatives who helped us end our first quarter-century with a hoot and a holler, especially my sisters, one of whom flew all the way from Boston with her daughter for our anniversary party, and our best man J.C., who came up from Los Angeles and swept floors, hauled firewood, and generally slaved to help us get everything ready.
It wouldn’t have been my kind of party without lots of food:
These people may just look confused, but they were actually a finely tuned square dance mechanism, executing the Virginia Reel:
The fiendish Left Hand Star almost destroyed our square in the second set:
And hey, who are those two old people?
(Thanks to our friend Mary W. for the photo and my sister Carol for the party hats.)
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Basketball Girl got Marcus this parka so he’d be able to battle the snows all the way from the front door to the car (at least 30 feet). It makes no difference to either of them that we never get any snow here in Northern California. Here’s the polar explorer, gearing up for a morning snooze. But wait! Is that a knock on the door? Danger! Danger! It’s the UPS man — Marcus’ most hated enemy except for the postman.
Keeping the world safe from delivery men.
Whew, that was exhausting.
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I’ve been living dangerously the last couple of days. First, went out to lunch in a downpour and my car almost got caught in a flood in the the restaurant parking lot, but someone warned me just in the nick of time. I dashed out to my car and drove it away from the rising waters. Then, had a very large piece of chocolate cake at my friend Pat’s birthday party last night, but no heart attack yet (whew!) This morning I was returning home from dropping Basketball Girl at school. It’s still raining very hard here. I was sitting at a stoplight, minding my own business, when there was a sudden gust of wind, followed by a huge bang on my car roof. A big tree had just fallen on top of me! I took stock for a few seconds and decided that I seemed to be okay, so I just backed out from under the tree and drove away. Luckily for me, the part that actually hit my car was the leafy end of the branches.
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First to the dentist, where I had a tooth that has been painfully sensitive drilled on without anesthetic (no time to get me numb), then off to the toxic waste dump, where I dumped three broken computers and assorted household waste. All the computers personally broken by me, I might add. Followed by an exciting hour of winding Christmas lights on old pieces of cardboard so they don’t get tangled before next Christmas, eating bad Chinese food leftovers for lunch, and now I’m ready to meet the plumber to fix our tenant’s broken dishwasher! Coming up this evening, driving 12-year-olds to a basketball game and back.
Oh, the glamor of it all!
My life in a nutshell.
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Hey, who tore the stuffing out of my bed and scattered it all around the room? What? You say it was me? Really? Oh well. Guess I’ll lie down and take a nap, then.
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One of my prize possessions is the recipe box that contains this card. This is my great-grandmother’s cinnamon bread recipe, hand-written by my mother, who died more than ten years ago. I make the cinnamon bread every year at Christmas and Easter. There are other cards in the box in my grandmother’s handwriting, and lots of old recipes that came from who knows where.
I didn’t find my mother easy to get along with, but one place we were always at home together was in the kitchen.
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Holidays may come and holidays may go, but my husband’s drainage project goes on forever.
Here he is repairing a washout that happened when we had a big rainstorm. Stay tuned for more exciting scenes of trench digging, dump trucks, and dirt.
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No, these aren’t my in-laws:
They visit the lobby of my mother-in-law’s retirement community every holiday season.
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